#silvers abysmal art

[steampunksilver]

Forgot to post this yesterday

[iratusmus]

having entirely too much fun with old outfit requests

[megalamaniadon]

Screenrant posted an article ranking all 47 episodes of bad batch and there are some WILD takes.

Starting with the most egregious offence:

Ik art is subjective but- ONLY THREE EPISODES ARE WORSE?? BOTTOM FIVE??

Other classic episodes that were shafted in this listing:

Though better, this episode being in bottom half is still massively upsetting:

An abysmal display.

Suddenly, I have been affronted by the knowledge that people perceive art differently to me and - god - even come away from media with different opinions. This is a reality I have been avoiding, had hoped would remain to the mystical world of myth. But alas, ScreenRant has shattered the illusion. For that I am indebted, but am currently too fraught with surreal, debilitating shock to comprehend this silver lining - so will postpone unpacking it until I garner more stability. I am forever changed, but unsure for better or worse. An old friend once said to me "with great power comes great responsibility", and only in light of this revelation do I understand the full gravitas of this phrases meaning.

Shakily, megalamaniadon.

[terrence-silver]

Do you think Terry would’ve supported Roe V. Wade in 1973?

---

Realistically, the only thing Terry Silver supports (behind closed doors) is himself and his own goals. Lets be real. Or the goals of Cobra Kai. John Kreese. Dynatox. Giving John Kreese a taste of his own medicine. Then Cobra Kai again. And so on. He's shockingly single-minded and selfish like that. Tunnel-vision galore. He's no Joan of Arc. Regardless, anything and everything that's Terry-adjacent in a Terry world and that furthers Terry's agendas is what matters most to Terry. In his skewed worldview, taking a couple of weeks off to dish out vengeance on a highschooler and a highschooler's elderly teacher in the name of his best friend might just be infinitely more important, and in fact, it is paramount in the grand scheme of things than any human rights violations and their legal upturning you could possibly think of. In fact, a tornado could be hitting the Californian coastline and Terry Silver might be there, on the phone on an overseas call with John, telling him how he bought him dozens of new Cobra Kai locations, in a zone unaffected by any storms, thank you very much. Only the best real estate! You know, ignoring...actual issues. Because they ain't his? Too bad your house was in the tempest's route. Tough luck, bud. 😔🙏

Is he out here championing causes, though? Any at all?

Possibly.

When it can prove useful.

I like to think he always had a surprisingly...positive track record. More as a PR stunt rather than anything else. Sure, controversies aside, Terry Silver seemingly never was on the wrong side of history in the public eye (outside of a few minor, now, forgotten scandals. Bribery. Corruption. An obscure case of pollution there isn't too much information left on...conveniently. Just a lot of dead ends here and there and everywhere. You'd be shocked how well a biography can be cleaned up if you're rich enough.) because he knows exactly how to cater to seeming a good guy and playing that role to perfection all while tactically fine combing all his less admirable endeavors decades back, but, to answer your question, if one took time to dig through his history, undoubtedly they'd find an astonishing amount of nice things in there. Him supporting Roe V. Wade. Charities. Starving Children of the Third World. Veteran's Organizations. Save the Whales. Veganism. Disenfranchised Teens and Martial Arts. Kumbajah. Terry Silver's big on trait acquisition, and hey, if supporting a certain something deemed good and a positive goal by the vast majority then that's what he'll publicly support too (if it ever comes to that) even though, privately, there's a void where questions like where do you stand on so and so rights are supposed to be. Why? Because I don't figure he cares. I think his public opinion, the one he declares openly, however is convenient, shifts, changes and transforms and when you pull back the curtain of what Terry Silver actually supports when there's nobody there to wear a mask in front of, sell an image to, trick and manipulate there's a shocking, abysmal darkness behind the veneer of all he presents as.

[harocat]

For the ask game... 37, canglan

So I was going to write canonverse, but then @crisdrawsandcries posted figure skating AU art, so I wrote the beginning of figure skating AU. There is no actual dancing in this, but there will be eventually of course. Also I'm used to writing for THE figure skating anime fandom where I did assume a level of knowledge, so if any of this is confusing, I apologize. I'll probably add some footnotes.

----

It’s not that Lanhua was a bad skater. Objectively, you could not be someone competing at the elite level without being a good skater. There were thousands of athletes that did not manage to reach the heights that she had.

But, he remembered the one year, when they were both younger, that she had managed to reach the Junior Grand Prix Final, and he did catch her free program. She was older for a skater competing in the junior division; eighteen and soon to turn nineteen, and she had finished in last place with a disastrous short program. Her free skate was gutsy and mostly clean, and she climbed up to fifth, but whoever coached her jump technique should have been banned from the sport forever. She had one of the worst hammer toes he had ever seen. She slowed down and came to almost a complete stop before she jumped. Her flip edge was abysmal. 

Dongfang Qingcang did not usually pay attention to other skaters. They were irrelevant to his goals. The athletes in his own discipline could not beat him, let alone those in others. But he did remember that Lanhua had been loved. Her skating skills were immaculate, her spins breathtaking, and her musicality was second to none. And she was cute, apparently. She had a bright, slightly silly personality that appealed to fans. Not that he was paying attention, but he did recall her almost falling on her face on the way to the Kiss and Cry after that free skate. People found that charming, supposedly. 

Musicality, grace, emotional expression, were all things that fans loved. “Bare your soul on the ice” or some such. Changheng skated like that, and for that he was maybe, more popular a skater than Dongfang Qingcang was. But the results did not favor him. Perhaps if he spent more time cleaning up his quad lutz than he did working with modern dance troupes, he could actually win a few gold medals to go along with his endless collection of silver. 

Because none of that alone brought results. Changheng’s fangirls did not decide whose name would be etched in the history of the sport. The victories were not his, the world records were not his. 

 Lanhua vanished from international competitions only a year or so after that Junior Grand Prix Final. She’d been forced by age to move up to the senior level, and she couldn’t hold her own there, quickly overshadowed and outscored by several other skaters from her federation. It was the fate of so many young skaters. Dongfang Qingcang’s younger brother had been one of them. Though perhaps Xunfeng could have gone further in the sport if— never mind. 

His father had always told him to focus on only himself. The enemy was nothing more than a distraction, and who they were was irrelevant. On the ice there was only him, and in competition, the only skater that mattered was him. He stood atop a podium so high above the other men he skated against, that they were not worth breaking his concentration for. He was the prodigy. He was the son of his father’s dreams. There was nothing that could break him if he merely did what his father told him. Skated like his father told him. Ate like his father told him. Lived like his father told him. Dressed like his father told him. Practiced until his father told him to stop. 

His father was wrong. He had always been wrong. 

[see-arcane]

What even *is* the plot of the Beetle? Other than Racism and Bad Writing?

Well, there was some hope for a fever dreamy what-the-fuck nightmare scenario where an unemployed clerk gets turned into a brain slave by a bugperson who forces him to do naked burglary

But then it kind of went downhill after that into Masochism Land

It's not even fun garbage anymore. It's straight nuclear waste that we're wading through, hoping for another glimpse of Bare-assed Blorbo or the BEETLE (their pronunciation) for some oasis of weirdness to make the shittiness worth it. So far it's just Dick Marsh inflicting a genocidal incel on us and hoping we find him quirky. It is not working.

Do not read The Beetle. Absorb what filters out here the way you would drink still-questionable water that's come through a tormented strainer of readers who sift through Dick's awful Marsh of Misery. I guarantee whatever you piece together yourself will be 100000x more artful than the literary slog that is this hellbook. -100 out of 5 stars. Dead beetle do not open.

The one silver lining is that it is so wretched, so abysmal, so mind-breakingly rancid, that it's genuinely inspiring. Hatefully so. It's made so many people sit down, stare into eternity, and decide, rightly:

I could sneeze on my keyboard and write a better story than this. I could slam finger paints blindly on a piece of paper and draw a better story than this. I think I will.

It's a motivator. A muse sculpted out of scarab wings and shit. All the charm and power of a sign reading TOXIC WASTE DUMP BEYOND THIS POINT, sending you careening in the other direction towards art and talent and creation free of any self-judgment.

This thing outsold Dracula when the books first came out, you will think to yourself. This piece of crystallized offal, woe, racist caricatures, endless grammatical purgatories of enough dashes and commas to turn a single sentence into a filibuster. It did that. I am better than that. There's no amount of self-doubt in my heart or on this Earth that can convince me otherwise. I am free and spurred to manifest the better things that exist in my imagination. Thank you, Dick Marsh, in whatever xenophobic murder gas death pool you're marinating in in the afterlife. Thank you.

I say again, do not read The Beetle. The Beetle is not for reading. It exists for the same reason The King in Yellow play exists in Chambers' universe. To seed madness and disgust and the full antithesis of sense and taste and all that is good.

All that, and the Beetle exploring their imprisoned mind-controlled pet clerk's body while they rant about a hot politician they're obsessed with.

The Beetle does not exist to be read, but to be endured.

You may not make it through. I'm not even sure I will.

But the challenge is there.

The option to look upon the Beetlebullshit is here.

[toonabby]

Welp... (#FireDavidZaslav)

I never though of making this, but a few hours ago, Coyote Vs Acme, the most highly anticipated movie to come out the Looney Tunes, has been shelved and would not be releasing at all.

When I heard this I was confused and disappointed: "Why would they cancel this movie?" I thought to myself. "Oh right, TAXES and MONEY!" I was already aware of Zaslav's mistreatment of animation but this made me sad in particular considering that the movie was completed by the time it was cancelled.

All of those animators that have put their sweat and guts into this film for over two years. Gone. By contrast, the universally-reviled Velma got green light for a second season, while 2023's The Flash not only somehow survived cancellation, but also kept Ezra Miller - who had a lot of criminal activity throughout 2022 - as the titular character in spite of the potential legal trouble they'll get for having a convicted criminal in a role of a mainstream film, let alone still continue acting.

As I said in a comment on a YT video, any hope I had with WB and especially Zaslav is pretty much gone. Hell, I would argue that any hope I had with this year is gone. Between the abysmal beginning (the aforementioned Velma, the career-destroying scandals of Justin Roiland and Elliot Gindi, with the latter having only stared voiced acting for five months before the allegations came out, and the widespread, messy but otherwise pointless Hogwarts Legacy drama), the doubling down of Hollywood and especially WB's maltreatment of animation, several formally revered people getting exposed left and right, and tech giants making inane decisions, most notable Elon's takeover of Twitter and Reddit's API Changes, its honestly not a hyperbole or an exaggeration to say I despise this year. Not to an extent of 2020, but still pretty bad, and 2023 sucking was something I've been genuinely dreading when December of last year came.

And speaking of last year, this day marks the unfortunate first anniversary of the controversy DeviantArt got into when they decided to implement AI into their platform known for art made by actual people, NOT machines. Is every Nov. 11 going forward gonna have a company screwing over their audience and employees?

If there's one silver lining to this devastating situation, it's that the producers of said film would be able to watch it on private screenings next week. That, and the potential content leaks of said film.

At this rate, WB is dangerously close to becoming the ActiBliz of animation - a company full of greedy scumbags who take delight in screwing over their audience and their people.

To close this post off, I will no longer be supporting WB and its related content from now on (at least legally). I'll be removing my profile off of HBO Max (or rather Max) and deleting the service on my TV. I'll also remove every video from the Cartoon Network YouTube channel off my watch history even though they had nothing to do with this situation, I just don't like associating myself with a scummy company regardless of how I feel about the products themselves. That obviously doesn't mean I automatically hate anything by WB nor do I want to remove them from my history, I'm just saying is that I don't want to support anything by WB if that means I'm profiting of from the company. I'll also delete/private my fan art commemorating the company's centennial, because as I said before, I'm not respecting a company that treats its own works like disposable tools while giving other works a slap on the wrist in spite of their abysmal quality. Talk about double standards...

TL;DR: WB cancels a film that has already been completed and everyone is restoring to pirating their content, including me.

EDIT: Okay, changed my mind. I'm ONLY going to delete everything from JUST Warner Bros., the company, not the products they own. That doesn't mean I WON'T be deleting anything that celebrates the company though.

EDIT 2: Even though I'm not supporting WB anymore, I'm keeping my 100th anniversary post (at least on this site) for "archival/historical" purposes.

[tragicalwisteria]

golden.

Remus rolled his eyes, "Look, you had to know this was bound to happen when you decided to walk into our meeting all cocky and shit, so get the fuck out." He shut up the whimpering, pitiful mass at the door with a swift flick to the temple- he'd face the consequences later, he wasn't supposed to terrorise every single curious individual interrupting their meetings (especially James, who often popped in to discuss a new prank- he'd have to understand that now was not the time), but he was never one to follow the rules, was he now?

Remus stalked back into the room, met by a giggling Sirius, who was failing miserably to cover up his laughter with the back of his hand. He mock-curtsied then sprawled himself over his chair, brushing the stacks of books on it to the floor, eliciting a disgruntled sigh from Sirius,

"I was sorting those for the library you insufferable git."

"Oops?"

Sirius' delicate laughter slipped out like tinkling fairy bells rustled by the wind and echoed throughout the cosy room, their little alcove where they would spend an afternoon every week in blissful oblivion of the deteriorating society around them, their escape into a world of utter peace. No they weren't doing drugs- well sometimes they were- but often they simply basking in the other's presence and the warm sun which almost always cascaded through the sheer, tulle curtains, falling on Sirius' face, causing him to glow an ethereal orange, his eyes sparkling, pools of liquid silver, crinkled ever so slightly at the creases, each long, dark eyelashes individually illuminated. His glossy black hair spilled over his shoulders- Remus could spend all day simply studying Sirius' features, each attentively carved by the most meticulous and painstaking hands, modelled from the silhouette of the most exquisite angels. All while determinedly avoiding Sirius' piercing gaze, his lips curled up in a questioning, "What?", laughing, brushing it off (keep it casual Lupin, don't fucking mess this up).

When asked why they would uphold this strange and trifling ritual to such a strict standard Remus would remark, hurriedly, "I just like spending time with my best friend!" although this was mainly to bruise James' ego (one had to do that sometimes to avoid his head physically inflating- Remus was always happy to oblige). As much as he hated lying to Lily (not out of any moral concern, more to his being an abysmal liar), there was no other option. She couldn't know the real reason.

Sometimes, Remus would sit in an armchair, tucked up in the most wonderfully bizarre fashion, upside down, one leg over the arm, one arm settled over his chest and the other fully extended, holding some book as far away from his slowly reddening face as possible, his glasses slipping down, or rather up, his nose, his curls brushing the floor near where Sirius would sit, devoting himself to his art, cross legged, sketchbook in hand, charcoal pencils on the floor near him, stowed carefully in their case- the slightest movement would break them, or so Sirius thought as he sketched away diligently, tongue sticking out, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly (Remus would watch him, watch his pencil move across the paper in swift, random, jerks, slowly forming a beautiful figure- he was utterly mesmerised by the process.)

Other times, Sirius would sit at the piano and play, as he was now- Remus would watch his hands glide gracefully over the creamy ivories, barely skimming it, his touch light, gentle- Remus wondered who else had played this piano before him, whose hands had graced these keys- who had listened to the mellow, warm, soft sounds flowing from the instrument, let it wash over them as Remus did now, watching it pooling at his feet, pleasant, golden, sparkling in the hazy, summer light- the room painted a comforting orange, warmth seeping from all corners of their hideaway, they were at peace, untouchable, anything could happen (but would Remus let it?).

For now he would fill his heart with simple melodies, lulling him to sleep, under the sleepy gaze of the sunset, with slivers of dark blue peppering the sky, the faint outline of stars dotted around like freckles, soft.

[bobafettuccini]

Tagged by @spaceydragons ! Thank you!!

I'm just gonna talk about the Silver Needle Smugglers for this since they're the only star wars ocs I have (and the ones I have the most art for).

Favorite oc: Scarlet! She is like a chewtoy to me :]

Newest oc: Of the SNS, I think it's either Hal or Bear. I'm not sure. At this point, both have been around for about a year - year and a half.

(Above: Hal. Absolutely amazing art by @kkrazy256)

Oldest oc: Scarlet is the first member of the SNS to be created, but in terms of actual age, its Al'verde.

Meanest oc: Probably Gambit. He's been through a lot and has a tendency toward cold calculations. The crew (especially his vod'ika Bear) has been good for helping him open up and melt the ice around his heart.

Softest oc: Bear. He's still a kid, so he's fairly naive. Little guy has an earnest, kind heart.

Most standoffish/aloof oc: Scarlet, but this is mainly because she has no idea how to talk to people (autistic queen). For a medic, her bedside manner is abysmal.

Dumbest oc: Does Stinky the tooka count? He has less than a single braincell, bless him.

Smartest oc: In terms of formal knowledge, it's B33-T13 (pronounced like Beetle!). Hal's explorer droid has permanent access to the space internet. In terms of experience/street smarts, Hal and Capt. Haart are about equal.

Horniest oc: Hal. Easily.

OC I'd bang: None of them, I am ace 💜

OC I'd be besties with: I think I'd get along well with both Scarlet and Gambit. They're both fairly quiet people like myself, and we three share many common interests like art, reading, and nature.

Tagging: Whoever wants to join in! I'd love to hear about your ocs!

[libidomechanica]

“You learn it, who were fleeting for”

In the argument all the witch     hazel within the dregs of sea. Strove the long-batter from     which made them harm. Forgot, and tears, the twilight comforts of     truth. One Night Movie Theater, whom my poor, tired,     wanderer stopped. From silvers

o’er young, I’m o’er young man, and count     him droops were erected, to enioyeth, but when staine knots that     the thick assay’d. To read her head. She might chills and perish’d     shape of change. And this but beauty. As if for a moment     fountain-tops with a silence

pursue her Ambrosian pap,     and then delves, but cannot stop thy Falling; in his post, I     may seem lost it speaks nor speakes for this life is mixed good fame     show’d that blow softly round abysm I thrown, yet still round its     mourning down heart lies whose

ridge, that ye are all shower of     thy charge be the topmost tendency to unrespects that     least Here is notice on my clasp, never shone; yet might shone:     the stature on high the salt against thou in steal for decades     she never either

flowers upon my father with     all things proud; at last sorrow is squawking at the night pieces     of unsifted time, and Death must forlorn world far awa.     Not a kiss stings. Runs it not like mine, in so then he     farmer sing then in her

arms till the bodies mark, agrees     as ill, to lack no nature to saluted with blinded     rabbits, cows with all the exhaust pipe too much; I lived, he     muttered by the bloom’d tree— sir Leoline. I will speak the tears     even Despair. Is, but

I can lack? Wherein t’ave half withdraw     one ray from out her throngs and Wesley, and having built     rick. Such impotence come savage—what to me; she said; she     said, I am very spinning against a fool I was     a lament, crying: Daddy?

For her on the assault, see     what are turned to a twilight hour is mixed good pasture-ground;     and let thy heart is she! And nineteen name in years of motion     new, and ripen’d on the loved of the sonne and cast upon     the fire domed black? Comes

a humming. From pointed, saying,     and still a cherry, miserable is proud brow, and by     reflection; or as a snake, kissing breeze. At his Garments? You     learn it, who were fleeting for weary words were seal’d to warmth     or a vast speech arises,

roaring to Heaven her from     the bless you waking! One Night, and I said thou art, that Rich     shouting’s making bed-dent after the colour animal     cracks evilly, a melancholy into a hundred     Aristotles bow; oh

Thou, bethink the moon up without     in thee how the present tale is, where his forehead came to     the heart, as I saw that earth puckered in the rings     unbearably light, and taxes Paradise vanish’d shape, and     upon that all thing hero

is come away; this new Vauban:     but the lady pass my verses tend than tear; and watchest     hour being mark to the world without death. Ho! The little     hours bore the dusky highway near it could I looked like     to duct tape delays and

queens may reason, and mutual     fear the five, that painted Peace pipe on his own wi’ right, which     can have not this nod, as e’er and both in the rivers. Say,     maiden windows in thy foot did little. Wistfully upon     the unregard, tho’

my care, and glad, or how she lie     and you doe comming the name before the cup of wool with     this said, in the sunset, which three poor her dreadful hollow     behind, and new; when I was yours they assume, this life from     the sun; coral is fingers

the core; I can, which now my     virgin modest seed, and these and the Tender to the wall,     when life is your wife she stone bridge going away. This does     not this way! When I got through the earth great at one has been     breathe—beauteous dove, that one.

[thezineontheblock]

memories~

Ok so!

Boppers, dudes, Daddy-O's and assorted living skeletons of the internet!

Story time.

This isn't my first blog on Tumblr, not by a long shot. The last time I was active on this site was when I was still in high school; my old page used to have a lot to do with scarecrows and Halloween, my favorite holiday.

I figured since its been a minute since I had a platform to get my unspoken words and thoughts out there, it seemed wiser to give myself an outlet rather than trying to keep a lid on all the ceaseless noise that regularly tears through my synapses on an hourly basis.

I've been spending a majority of my twenties jumping all over the country, searching for the one place I can feel like I'm truly at home and not just a glorified long term houseguest.

I might be a punk at heart but I want my crash pad to be something that screams 'classy but junky'. To describe my ideal apartment building to call home? Think grungy, not dirty but edgy. Crumbling but not infested with bugs, more the building itself just seems to be sighing with age; like the sort of building that's from another era of architecture. Art Deco or something Rococo, no?

Somewhere in a sea of trashy neon, faded glitz, smashed up footlights and discarded pizza boxes is my ideal home. Thinking of going back to Oregon after my latest job wraps up; find a cheap-o apartment somewhere in Eugene and spend my days working as a custodian for the local university, maybe the local movie theater, maybe both?

I have a bit of a three way tie for where I want to move next; either I want to go back to Oregon cuz I know the territory or I want to settle my bones down in Oklahoma and grow comfy among the view of the pastures and open sky. The last idea I had seems more like a fantasy than anything else; I wanted to crash out in Hawaii for awhile during the winter months. Get myself a decent size pop up tent, roll around and enjoy the sun, maybe try some of the food.

There's a fair bit of what is to be officially decided to come as of yet. Right now, I just want to survive to the end of this most recent contract OR find a new one to replace this one. Never in my life thought I would say this but I miss washing dishes over being trapped in that abysmal laundry room... All the ceaseless complaining and whining and moaning and drama, I feel like I'm getting more silver hair the longer I stick around this place.

All I can tell you for now is that I can't WAIT to be on vacation. I have a few days coming up soon where I plan to groove my way down to Washington D.C for a bit. See the Smithsonian, grab some pictures of the Capitol, normal nomadic tourist type stuff.

Here seems the best place to leave off for now.

If you got this far, congratulations and thanks for taking in what I had to say! I'm still chewing on ideas for how I want the finalized version of the 'Zine to look. Ideas and brainstorms are welcome to drop by whenever they feel ready to do so!

Updates to come as they manifest!

Until the next one,

Stay aggro and never let the Man tell you to turn down your boombox.

-Zombi

[steampunksilver]

Junkrat baked the cupcakes and made the party hat

[rosehearrt]

Vil doesn't say anything as to avoid bringing any attention to them. Not that it was impossible to hide considering there's camera's everywhere in this damned facility.

Quietly, he takes Riddle's sleeve. His eyes were averted to make it less obvious he was straining. Being confined to this little prison cell with little to no personal care he usually uses only meant his contacts had to go within the first day despite doing his best to preserve them. He hears a door open but doesn't take the lead, intentionally stalling to stay by Riddle.

Perhaps it went without saying, but Riddle was terrified. Fear permeated every inch of his body, and he’d been sitting on his hands for awhile now to keep them from shaking. He’d fought so hard to keep from being taken, had almost gone beyond his limits again ( and could’ve caused harm to Silver and Sebek in doing so ), and in the end all he’d earned himself was brutal white-hot pain in the form of electrocution. They’d forcefully subdued him, hit him with enough voltage to knock him out and then even more when he just wouldn’t quit…and then he’d woken up, hours later, on Leona-senpai’s lap, having to quickly swallow on oncoming panic attack at the small space they’d all been squeezed into and the lack of ability to see anything. All of it had made him nauseous, quite frankly, but now he’d do just about anything to go back to that.

Because now they’d been stripped of their clothing and collared, and Riddle felt more frightened than he had in a long time. He couldn’t defend himself. His grades in gym were abysmal at best, and growing up with disordered eating had left him lacking in solid muscle. It was bad, he was helpless. He didn’t even have his staff, so there was nothing he could use as a weapon.

Leona-senpai had a lot of muscle from all the Spelldrive he played, so he was strong. Vil-senpai knew martial arts and had a regular workout regimen. Jamil played basketball and had been trained to protect Kalim, so he could protect himself by extension. Azul…he wasn’t certain about Azul. In his octopus form, he probably would’ve been fine, but this was different - he couldn’t exactly transform here.

Still. The point was, most of the others had backup sources of power that went beyond magic. Riddle didn’t. This was a new type of vulnerability, and his heart hammered away in his chest as his face grew more and more pale, the collar around his neck feeling as though it were constricting his air flow. This had been, without a doubt, one of the worst days of his life. And to top it all off, alongside Vil-senpai and Azul, he’d just been put through a simulation where he had to fight Trey.

Ah…Riddle almost never cried, and he certainly didn’t want to cry here, but remembering it certainly made him want to. The unnaturally ugly sneer that’d twisted his friend’s gentle face…Riddle’s breathing grew shaky. He’d always been paranoid about Trey leaving him, that was nothing new. And his recurring nightmares of the multitudes of ways it could happen that his brain had come up with were certainly realistic…but this was an entirely new level. He could feel each hit, and hear his jeering laughter as plain as day. They’d won the faux battle, but just barely, and Riddle had been…affected, to say the least. In his panic, the line between what was fake and what was reality had gotten blurry, and now all he wanted, all he needed was to see the real Trey and get heaps and heaps of reassurance…but he couldn’t do that. Because they were here. In a prison cell.

The others were scattered about, but Vil-senpai was by his side. And ultra-sensitive to absolutely everything right now, Riddle’s head snapped over to look at him as a hand reached out to hold his sleeve. Oh…he didn’t look like he was doing well either. That only made Riddle want to cry more. 

But he was quiet. He, too, had noticed the cameras…and he definitely noticed as two of the armored robotic soldiers from earlier approached them. Riddle’s head was swimming, but he caught the gist of it, even as he refused to look up at them. They wanted to do solo evaluations after earlier. And loathe as he may be to go along with their whims…he glanced at Vil-senpai again, out of the corner of his eye, and grimaced. He couldn’t make him go first. Riddle was mentally the weakest, anyway…he knew that. He’d been the first to Overblot, after all, so surely if he willingly went with them, they’d leave the blonde alone awhile longer. 

Vil-senpai was always taking care of him and looking after him. He made an effort to give Riddle attention and he even listened to him go on and on about subjects he was impassioned by. This time, Riddle had an opportunity to protect him. And even putting aside all of that…regardless of what his own face looked like, Vil-senpai seemed to be struggling so much. If he stayed here, maybe Jamil would take his place and sit with him, or even Azul. Decision made ( and courage gathered ), he stood abruptly. “I’ll go first. But do tell Idia-senpai I wish to speak with him soon, understood?” 

True to his suspicions, they were all too eager to bring him out while he was cooperating. As he walked towards the door, sandwiched between them as if he had any ability to try anything on either of them, he looked back ever so briefly to give Vil-senpai his most reassuring smile. Which wasn’t great, all things considered. But it was something. “I’ll be back.” A loud declaration, his gaze still trained on his upperclassman but his voice going out to the entire room, and then he faced forward once more. Now if only he could find Idia-senpai and knock some sense into him…

[bluetapes]

NEW RELEASE

BLUE FORTY-FIVE: SOFT-BODIED HUMANS x SILVER PYRE x ABYSMAL GROWLS OF DESPAIR

It’s not an album. It’s a double EP. Following up the surprise critical hit that was Soft-Bodied Humans’ debut EP - Kaiju Kitala, a collaboration with Ugandan MC Swordman Kitala - are the next two instalments in a planned series. Like Kaiju Kitala, the new EPs – Silver Kaiju, a collaboration with art-pop auteur Silver Pyre; and Kaiju Growls, which features one-man extreme-metal army Abysmal Growls of Despair – use samples from vintage Japanese monster movies as the building blocks of a sort of abrasive, psychedelic not-quite grime. On the Silver Kaiju side of this tape, Silver Pyre sounds like a post-punk seer, propelled by sub-bass explosions and riding crests of synths, cruising through a cosmos of his own imagination and reporting in detail on the myriad truths he’s uncovered there. On the Kaiju Growls side, Abysmal Growl of Despair’s throat-singing incantations sound like he’s summoning smoke-wreathed Lovecraftian kaiju into being from a surreal dimension of weird gods. Neck-snapping beats and pulverising, searching drones create a musical space that sometimes verges on a sort of industrial doom-gqom. In this universe, nothing moves quite like it’s supposed to. Monsters might be real. They might be us. Praise for Soft-Bodied Humans “Samples of Japanese monster films and unmatchable lyrical prowess accompany infectiously energetic instrumentals.” – The Wire “Fuck-the-club up mid-00s grime riffs and late-00s dubstep kickdrums that gobble up all the air in the room” – The Quietus “Just like the kaiju that inspired them, these beats clang and scrape when they don’t rock the earth beneath their feet, blazing like towering infernos at the mercy of the gigantic beasts whose presence is clear in the snippets of newsreel that occasionally force their way through the maelstrom.” – Underscore Magazine “Wonky, acerbic, bass-heavy hip-hop” – Pan African Music “Kaiju Kitala is an impactful take on the 00s UK grime and bass sound which allows Swordman Kitala to introduce his flexing, argumentative flow in an appropriately gritty way. The splashy, fleshy, and full-body production, which partially lends Kitala his strength on this release, was bred and released by the capable bass-demon tamer Soft-Bodied Humans.” – I Thought I Heard A Sound “A gnarly volley of industrial grime rap infused with Japanese monster movie samples” – Boomkat Praise for Abysmal Growls of Despair “It’s immensely heavy - the level of distortion applied to the string instruments is extreme enough to vibrate buildings into dust despite how glacially slow the notes crawl forth. The vocals also give new meaning to the term ‘cavernous’.” - No Clean Singing “When one is at a loss for rational words to describe inner turmoil, music is often the most adequate outlet for expression. Hangsvart was diagnosed with schizophrenia a couple of years ago, and after having heard his diagnosis, he started to write poems and create songs to come to terms with his illness. Since 2013, Abysmal Growls of Despair has been his primary outlet for alleviating the negativity surrounding that diagnosis, through which he focuses on a mixture of funeral doom and dark ambient.” - Heathen Harvest “This is not happy music but it is magnificent.” - Merchants of Air “Abysmal Growls Of Despair dwell in a dimension that isn’t meant for the ‘average’ listener (or musician), but within their specific league, thy are winners! Consider it as a ‘me like’…” - Concrete Web “Pretty devastating.” - Doom Metal Heaven “I can’t find anything emotionally positive in this music.” - Monarch Magazine “With a name like ABYSMAL GROWLS OF DESPAIR you can bet your sweet ass that this isn’t going to be a hair band of any kind.” - Battle Helm

[phantomrose96]

For Pennies

Warm-up mini fic. Consider this a doodle.

....

The Fentons were selling their house for pennies.

The “For Sale” sign out front was easily missed against the ostentatious display of the op center, and the “FENTON” sign, and the Fenton RV. Or perhaps, all that made it more noticeable. It bolstered the weird and unsettling mundanity of a standard-issue For Sale sign dictating the fate of a house so indescribably odd.

It took only a few curious gossips to find the listing, and to spread the news further when the listing asked for hardly a fifth of standard asking price. Real estate agents weighed in on town facebook pages that, yes, this was abysmally low. Others rationalized it. “It’s only natural. Those house modifications have killed the resale value. The basement is uninhabitable according to the listing. They’re selling an extreme fixer-upper.”

And when the house did not sell in the first week, the price dipped again. And when rumors spread that the house owners were responsible for the town’s ghost blight, the price dipped once again. Then nearly overnight, the op-center vanished, and the FENTON sign disappeared from sight. The Fentons were, if nothing else, impressive engineers, capable of undoing a lifetime’s work in a weekend. Soon after, the listing sold.

The buyer, Peter, was looking for fixer-uppers to flip and rent. He knew about the Amity Park rumors, but if the renting market proved stale for the fear of ghosts, he knew the airbnb market would thrive with curious tourists, so the property was a safe bet regardless.

He met the family once, in the house, when he came to inspect it and sign paperwork if he was satisfied. The husband was perhaps the biggest man Peter had ever seen, portly yet rock solid, clad head to toe in neon orange. The wife matched him in jumpsuits, a powder blue one. Their daughter seemed normal, though she and Peter only exchanged a handful of words.

“Where are you folks headed once this place is sold?” Peter asked, cordially, eyes flitting between the contract before him and the couple seated across the table.

“Westward, a bit. Um, Maddie’s got a sister out there. We’re trying to be closer to family.”

Peter nodded. “Always good to have family around.” He glanced in the daughter’s direction. “Are you excited to be moving closer to your aunt?”

The daughter met his gaze, level. “I’m not going with them, actually.”

“Oh?” Peter asked. “Headed to college? That would make sense.”

“I’m a rising senior,” the girl answered.

“Jazz is—” the mother, Maddie, cut in. “It’s well, it’s about to be her senior year of high school. Hard time to switch schools, you know? She’s going to be renting a place nearby so she can finish school here.”

“Oh? First time living all on your own?” Peter asked, initialing a page of the contract.

“I’m 17. It’s not that weird.”

“Never said it was. I remember my first place pretty fondly. It’s an exciting milestone, don’t waste it!”

Peter initialed another page. He spun the document back to the Fentons to sign as well.

“Well, I really like the place, is what I’ve got to say. The newly redone flooring on this floor was a perk I wasn’t expecting, can’t have been cheap. You still managed to keep the price amazing though. Don’t worry about the dings and scratches – I’ve got the art of fixing up places down to a science. I’ll take a crack at the basement too.”

“We’d rather you didn’t,” Maddie answered.

Peter waved her off. “I know it was some kind of lab, yeah? You won’t be liable if I say, spill acid on myself or dunk myself in radiation or, whatever you had going on down there. We can go over that clause of the contract again if you want. Ghosts, right?”

“It’s dangerous—”

“If I can’t hack it, I’ll seal up the basement for good. But I won’t know until I try. Seriously, don’t worry.”

The Fentons signed the final page, and flipped the contract back around to Peter. He pulled an envelope from his coat – a check made out with the full amount. No loan needed. No mortgage. Their asking price was practically pocket change.

The daughter excused herself from the room.

…

The Fenton basement had fewer wonders than Peter was expecting.

He swung a flashlight around, as the bulb hanging overhead had been cut from the main power supply. Most everything had been cleared out, leaving a room hollowed out. His feet clicked across the metal floor. Walls of bolted steel rose high on all four sides. On the opposite wall, the scars of heavy bolting remained, along with the smoky stain of something huge, and geometric, no longer bolted to the wall.

He swung his beam wide, across every which wall beveling with bloated shadows, until he pinned the electrical panel.

“There you are.”

It took some tampering, and some patience, because something had physically demolished the box before him. Peter knew his way around basic house wiring, so it took only a few experimental adjustments until he threw the breaker, and the industrial light overhead clunked to life.

Peter turned, surveying the mouse cage of pure, uninterrupted steel sheeting, bolted together wall to wall, across the floor, across the ceiling. It was an impressive expanse of space, and under the proper flood lighting Peter could make out the deeper shadowy stains of where industrial cabinets used to be affixed to the floors, the walls. He was staring into the burnt out afterimage of what, he could only conjecture, had once been an impressive scientific facility.

It wasn’t above being carpeted and turned into a rec room.

Peter paused, his eyes training to the back corner near the octagonal imprint left in the wall. Something seemed amiss, something with color, popping bright against a display of pure ash and silver.

Peter stepped forward, flashlight still pointed though it served little use now. The space took shape – a rectangular impression on the floor, about as large as a twin bed, formed a negative image. The rectangle was spotlessly clean, silver and shiny, as though recently cleaned and polished and recleaned and repolished.

It was the edges of the rectangle, the spatters of space stretching beyond it, that held Peter’s attention.

Green, verging toward a rusty brown, splattered the floor. He stepped closer, and knelt, and stared at the pattern. Like a dropped vial of green chemicals that shattered and spattered the floors, the neighboring wall. Like radioactive spill left to eat into the floor. Peter thought back to his radioactive quip, and wondered if he should perhaps back away.

He set a nail to one of the stains and scratched at it. It would not lift. It would not budge. He swung the flashlight beam, and he found the stains glittered, and then dulled where they edged closer to rust.

And it was the rust that confused Peter the most. That copper color, like pennies, that morphed away from the green. It wasn’t uniform. It did not eat away symmetrically at the edges of the stains. Instead it spattered, and dragged, and molded from droplets to long streaks dragging across the floor like chalk dust on a blackboard.

Peter followed them. The streaking ended. Beyond that, he caught a single droplet speckled into the floor a foot away. Another, when he swung his beam. And another. He followed them, one by one, tracing them back to the basement stairs, up, up, up, up.

At the top of the stairs, the trail vanished. The brand new hardwood flooring that stretched through the whole first floor was immaculate.

[suicideandcheese]

Art of Hearts

I talk of kindness, the kind you just let ripple outwardly after the simple drop. A stone in water. Ellipsis Is just a dream that goes on and on Like the good things. I know of you The appearance of shadow, its heart In light, so beyond gold, so beyond silver. Sight transcendent, seer despondent. We go on, into the abysmal, foreshadows Of gods be damned, ever damned we shall Fucker on. Friend, I said fuck me over Again. I fuck back. It fucks us more. Choose the math. Change the geometry. Your heart is an empire of literatures Ready to fall, rise, fail, forget. Amnesia Permeates the art of goodwill. To commune Is this, so opportune. And yet we insist To just exist. We persist. We persist. As the great All dare-smiles inward. The heights of your lows shall console Those that dispose of their nature.