#soviet writings

[soviets-writing-shenanigans]

Prayer to the Fury

Just a little drabble with Shinomi before she left for Eorzea. Nothing too fancy.

It was a cold night on the steppe. The moon was high in the sky, surrounded by the sea of stars. Shinomi didn't see any of this. She knelt upon the ridge that rose above Reunion, staring off into the distance, lost in thought. Her hands were clasped together, holding the blue pendant her father had bought in Kugane years ago. Once, it had been a curious trinket of a faraway land. Now... now... She sighed, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. "Lady Halone," she said, the name still sounding strange. "Mighty Fury... I... am not one of Yours." "I am not from Ishgard... much less Eorzea. I am half the world away. I do not know much of either. But... I know of You." The words were slow. Hesitant. Shinomi had never been religious or spiritual. Prayer was unknown to her. "I know You are a great warrior. A fighter. Like me. Like the Xaela. I... think You would like us." She paused. Her hands began to shake. "I... I had a friend. His name was Kotawa. He... was a healer. But still a fighter. Still Xaela. He wanted to help people, protect them. No matter who they were, or where they were from. He was good, and kind, and he... he... I-i...." Her breathing grew louder, ragged, and sob racked her chest. She lowered her head to her clasped hands, and for what felt like a lifetime, quietly vented her grief. Shinomi had lost count of the times she cried since hearing the news. She wondered how she could have tears left. Once she had finished, still sniffling, she resumed her prayer. "I don't want You to smite what killed him," she whispered, "it's dead anyway. I don't want to be all powerful, or to have great fame and fortune. All I want... is to fulfill his dream. Our dream. To be a shield for those who cannot protect themselves. To stand between the innocent and whatever would do them harm." "Lady Halone, I only ask... for a little of Your strength and courage. To help me see that dream fulfilled." The moon and stars shone down upon the Au Ra as silence answered her.

[justablix]

WAIT wait I figured it out. the reason every single modern adaptation fucks up irene adler by giving her romantic feelings for holmes (and vice versa) even though SCAN is about her trying to live a quiet live with the (non-holmes) man she loves and acd basically put a giant NO HETERO HE ADMIRED HER SKILL HE DIDNT LOVE HER warning sign at the beginning of SCAN is that not a single male director could imagine a man respecting a woman for her intelligence and skill without having romantic feelings for her. In this essay I will SCREAM

[dontforgetukraine]

Ukrainian language and literature have been a target for Russia for many years. Today, they are the target for its missiles, drones, and bombs. In past centuries, they were the targets of imperialist persecutors who hunted down Ukrainian writers. —MFA of Ukraine

Russia targets printing houses like Faktor-Druk in Kharkiv, which only recently restored some of its printing capacity and began printing textbooks for the new school year.

The Ukrainian language is also suppressed in the occupied territories. You can be tortured and killed just for speaking it. Libraries are targeted and destroyed and there has been an immense loss in the number of Ukrainian books.

In Soviet times, the Ukrainian letter "ґ'" (sounds like the letter g in English) was banned by the Soviet government. Ukrainian spellings were changed to make it more similar to Russian. If Ukrainian words differed from their Russian counterparts, those words were banned and replaced with more phonetically similar words to Russian. Any separation of the Ukrainian language from Russian was seen as nationalistic.

Russian propagandists and useful idiots love to promote the narrative that Russian speakers are oppressed in Ukraine to justify their invasion, but Russia has a lengthy history of committing linguicide of Ukrainian that continues into the current war today.

[chellodello]

I’ve been thinking about a possible Invader Zim episode where Tak’s ship is out of fuel so Dib breaks into Zim’s base and siphons fuel out of the Voot. He thinks he’s gotten away with it but Mini Moose catches him when he’s trying to leave and Zim quickly discovers what’s happened. The two fight over the fuel and end up dropping it out over the lawn which immediately shrivels up and dies. The B-plot of this episode is Membrane using his one day off a year to clean the garage. 

Dib, unable to not be smug about Zim losing, even if he’s also lost, remarks that Zim’s stuck on earth and the only person who might be able to make more is his dad, but he would never tell alien scum like Zim. Zim thinks that Membrane would absolutely tell him if he asked nicely and bee-lines it to the Membrane house. 

Back at the garage Membrane is dusting the belt sander when Dib and Zim crash in and both try to get the recipe from him, speaking over each other and clambering at his knees like little puppies. “Kids, kids settle down. There’s no such thing as ‘alien space gas’. Although… When I was around your age I did go through an astronomy phase where I prototyped an advanced super fuel that could theoretically power alien space ships. But it was so long ago now, I’ve forgotten the recipe.” He goes back to dusting.

Zim quickly uses Mini Moose to open a portal to the past.  Mini Moose Nyahs that he can only keep the portal open for a few hours. Dib follows immediately. Membrane sighs and complains about kids always leaving a mess. He dusts the portal.

Dib and Zim track young Membrane, who looks exactly like Dib, at skool in a visibly not-younger-at-all Ms.Bitter’s class. Dib and Zim announce themselves as new exchange students. No one bats an eyelash at Zim but are sus of Dib. The two corner young Membrane (teasingly called Brain by his peers) at lunch and asks for the recipe. Brain admits that he has in fact just completed a prototype recipe for a super advanced space fuel, but he won’t just give it to anyone, especially two exchange students.

Both of them trip over themselves to make friends with Brain to convince him to help them instead of the other. Zim is infinitely more interesting than Dib and he seems to be having better luck because he actually knows things about Science. Cue a montage of Zim and Brain becoming friends: In the chem lab together, playing a recess, getting ice cream in the park, etc… Dib is super annoyed and just taking L’s left and right, he tries to butt in but it always fails. 

Dejected, Dib knows their time is almost up and he has to accept that maybe his dad will never like him in any timeline. Brain plops down on the bench next to him and hands him the recipe. “I don’t understand? I thought you and Zim were besties or whatever?” Membrane tells him that Zim is great, but he whispers that he thinks Zim is a secret spy sent by NASAplace to steal his fuel recipe. That there’s no way any kid could know that much about space otherwise.

It is physically painful for Dib not to tell him that Zim is an alien but a loud NYAH booms through the air; the portal opens up beside them and starts sucking everything in the park not nailed down into the portal. Dib hangs on to the park bench and in his flailing he knocks young Membrane out. Zim returns with their ice cream, which is immediately sucked through the portal. He whines that he needs more time to get the recipe but it’s too late Dib and Zim are sucked in and the portal closes. 

Back in the future, Zim and Dib, and all the garbage from the park are dropped back into the garage. Membrane grounds Dib for getting ice cream and debris all over the garage he just finished cleaning. Zim announces that getting Dib grounded was actually his plan all along and jets out of the garage on Mini Moose. 

Scene change to night: Dib has finished cleaning the garage but more importantly he’s putting the finishing touches on his dad’s space fuel recipe. “That all really sucked, but it'll be worth it if I have unlimited fuel and Zim doesn’t!” With a grin he turns on Tak’s ship and it immediately catches on fire. Membrane walks by with a cup of tea and shakes his head, lamenting that “When I was a boy I tried to make space fuel once, luckily I lost it in the park during a freak tornado before I could test it. Who knows how dangerous it could have been!” The ship blows up. End credit roll.

Nickelodeon please hire me to write for this show you canceled 20 years ago.

[ikarus-angel]

tell reich to get out of my autism brain (he got jammed into my brain like shrapnel and lives here now as a nuance to my sanity) also hmm you kinda scare me (positive)

Boy do I have bad news for you...

I don't think he's leaving

He, too, is a nuance to my sanity 👍

(Surprising, I know!)

Don't be scared, I'm really nice and sweet and cool and totally sane 🥺

go on.. 🧀

take the cheese.. .

nothing bad could ever happen.....

🧀 🧀 🧀 🧀 🧀 🧀 🪤

[xdextarx37x]

LITTLE STORY TIME

The Red-skinned boy and the Canary

once upon a time, there lived a little child, red-skinned, with his father named the Russian Empire..

This little kid didn't even know he had own name because they always just called him obscenities and so he didn't know his real name, and he didn't even know if they gave him one or if they just hated him so much that he didn't even deserve a name.

One day his father did him a favor and bought him a canary. He often said that they themselves live in a golden cage far from ordinary people who do not deserve a cage or any food and water in a cage, and that their only art is work. So it was singing for the canary.

But once, as usual, RE got angry and drunkenly locked the little red boy in a small room and threw the caged canary at him.

He left him here for a long time, and the little boy had no choice but to share his food with the canary. He shared every sunflower seed and thought about it;

"to live like this is not something I wish for, you too must suffer, my canary friend, you have little food and you have no freedom for the rest of your life here. You do not belong here, you deserve to live and not be a slave for your singing, for someone who feels power over you"

so he opened a small window and released the canary into the wild. He remained in the room alone, hungry, and thinking.

The words he heard from his father contradicted him and he contradicted them. He didn't like how his father looked at others and understood that HE allows his people as much freedom as a canary in a cage that has to earn its food and water.

On that day, resistance and solidarity towards other living beings was born in him and he realized that his father was cruel and ruled badly. Since then his red colored skin shone as brightly as his hatred for his father and his eyes shined as bright yellow as was the colour of the canary and the empathy for everyone who had to live like the canary, in cage with no escape, with no freedom and no choice.

[daftydill]

I actually can’t remember how many times he was seen actually writing an article…

[mel-0n-earth]

Thinking about how Durgetash-coded this scene is

Like, Gortash would absolutely say this to a post-memory loss Durge.

[allerod]

Lesson of a Dead Language

Join us this Sunday the 24th at 2pm EST | 8pm CET | 10pm MSK, as we embark into a sad, melancholic, maybe even nostalgic world of decay and rot. The year is 1918, and we are surviving the final days of the war in a tiny Galician town somewhere in the mountains, following in the footsteps of lieutenant Kiekeritz, an officer in the Austro-Hungarian army, sent out of the front due to his poor health.

The language is dead, the world is dying, and us, we feel also not so good. But what Is death? Can we touch it? Taste it? Live it? Be loyal to it?

Come to Hyperbeam to find out! I will reblog this post with a join link 15 minutes before we start

[sciderman]

How do you feel about the increase in really weird NSFW ads on here (advertising panels that look like sexual encounters, and AI art apps that pride themselves on porn) but will take down NSFW posts from their users, even if it isn't technically sexual.

i hate all social media and it's consistent prioritising the advertisers over the users and the internet simply was a better place before capitalism sunk its hooks into it

[lifenconcepts]

MY UTTERLY BELOVED TF2 OC!

I’m very proud of this, I’m not one to use digits art and so think this is actually applause worthy.

IVAN “VOLK” KATERZHNIK

LORE, DESCRIPTION, HISTORY, AND OTHER BELOW \/

A soviet pilot which crashed after flying through a storm and somehow ended up here rather that anywhere near Europe.

Pretty much godly when it comes to communications as he was the one to come to if you had technical problems or needed a message sent off through morse or radio. 

HISTORY / HIS STORY: I’ve done some good research on USSR in 1960s/1970s (about where the tf2 thing is set) to be able to comply somewhat with what tech and knowledge existed then. He flew a Tupolev Tu-95 plane (a fascinating beast, truly) which bares bombs and missiles and yet after a mistakenly taken dosage of amphetamine( after taking inspiration from British/American soldiers using it to boost moral and altertness), caused a buffer between logic/reality and delusional thinking of following orders, which allowed him to blindly fly from a runway in Khabarovski krai (beside the sea of Okhotsk), before being forced to crash land by a storm in New Mexico, where after taking a good 17 hour Power Nap, ventured the land with aloofness and nonchalantness and finding the RED base (TF2 ofcourse). There, he managed to recognise Ludwig as a medical personal and insisted he get treated for injuries, all the while speaking in the common broken English/Russian that many Eastern Europeans bare with phrases like “Amerika, da! Kennedy, Elvis Presley!” and has limited yet basic conversational knowledge on Czech, German, and polish. Greatly fluent in Russian.

His character in short:

Unattached, very limited family connections before he even flew, and laughs at the concept of a relationship that isn’t strictly professional. Aroace before the term even was coined. Very docile when it comes to being questioned and happily complied with initial allegations and requests despite a language barrier. Is surprisingly hyper aware of his surroundings and has a good grasp on the moral dilemma of war but also an insatiable appetite for confrontation and blood, and despite not liking violence, can handle a gun, blade, or explosives with a steady hand. Speaks a lot with hand gestures and isn’t afraid to be a bit strange, and most notable of a hobby is going out early dawn and late dusk to enjoy the rays of sun, take some fresh air, and at times go for a walk in the wilderness. Has disappeared without a trace multiple times before venturing his way back. Good relationship with most the REDs, albeit doesn’t take them seriously apart from Engineer and Medic - who he also sometimes helps with work. Doesn’t like to be limited with rules but respects the set basis of don’t be an asshole even if he makes harsh remarks at times without really noticing it. Can uphold a certain level of banter in English, but it is very bare bone and his knowledge of words is primarily based around technical terms so he could translate “Вам ни холодно?» (are you not cold?) into “Your system froze?” while gesturing to their body.

Physical appearance & taste:

Wears an aviator’s jacket with sheep wool lining, a watch by the brand “Kosmos”, has a busted up metal flask which he usually had a bit of whiskey in - in a (handmade by a long gone friend) leather casing with an intricate soviet symbol and pattern on it, some basic military brown/gray trousers, a dusty pecan coloured messenger bag, a muskrat ushanka (it fits his head properly I just like to draw it in a stylised manner), and some basic black soviet combat boots. He doesn’t really care for branding but knows random American things through cultural osmosis and exposure via his friend back in fatherland who is obsessed with ‘western’ media and food. Has seen a few American movies (don’t ask how his friend obtained it.. it wasn’t legal) and his favourite one is “North to Alaska”! He has zero interest in politics and a lack of understanding in certain aspects of life that may be important (for example battle tactics) but is ready to follow orders and make his own decisions based on prior experiences should he have to. Considers himself a patriot although knows very little about his own country, mainly the goings on in his hometown that shall stay unnamed. Loved the radio station Mayak and the song “Moscow Nights” practically runs through his veins.

Fascinated with snow, roads, and the sun like some eternally high schizoid (edit that out in tumblr entry). Likely has some underlying condition in his mind that hasn’t gotten traction in mass understanding yet so he just is overall chill, acts more or so like a child, yet understands and does things with the precision of a marksman.

Silly story & his plans for now: Has managed to tame a lynx cub once, well.. prior to it then mauling him. But his arm had a cool scar on it because of that! Within the lore though is more or less a helping hand towards the respawn machine and keeps the others company, as despite technically being able to return home, his superior ordered that he’d send out a message should he return from missions - and although this would be an emergency not a mission, he doesn’t want to risk being lost in Siberian wilderness should he go unguided or disrespect his fellow companion. Is trying to find his plane that he’d abandoned in some forest and scowered the place by foot for nearly a week, and once he managed to eventually find it, a good refuel and he’ll be sent off. That is.. if they manage to find it at all. And he is concrete and set about doing so and not just finding some other way about this because of a deep love and connection to the plane he so dearly piloted for nearly a decade.

Overall is a very laidback individual, physically and emotionally strong ‘n capable, loves music and often spends his free time listening to whatever the radio has to offer - and although he missed his usual Muslim Magomaev, Эдита Пьеха, or Я хожу по Москве, he still managed to enjoy the American tunes and sometimes hums Elvis Presley’s “it’s now or never”. Also adored all the various marches and anthems popular at the time. Favourite Russian song is Old maple/Старый Клён from the film Девчата (Girls).

PLEASE DO NOT use this a for your own ocs! I worked very hard :( you can take vague inspo but I’ll be heartbroken if you make harsh copies.

[soviets-writing-shenanigans]

Minoshi Drabble

Had an idea and went with it.

"Your Goddess is real... and She hates you." The priest shook his head in denial... but Minoshi could see the look in his eyes. He knew it was true. By the Void... was it delicious... She strode closer to the fallen Elezen, blood dripping from her armor and her greatsword. The rest of the fanatics were dead. None of them stood a chance. "She will strike you down!" The priest yelled at her, his voice shaking with doubt. "She will protect the r-righteous!" "The Fury has fought my better half, lost... and enjoyed it," Minoshi replied with a vindictive sneer. "How could you, a murderous fucking coward, ever compare to her?" "My life's work is in Her name!" "Your life's work... makes Her puke." The priest tried to crawl away... only for her sabaton to rest on his gut. The darkside took her blade in a two-handed grip, the tip aimed at his heart. "Halone despises everything you do... everything you have done," she continued, relishing the the despair filling his eyes. "All you stand for goes against what She believes in. And She hates you for it." She saw the moment his soul broke... and it was beautiful. "She will always hate you." Minoshi drove her blade down, piercing his heart.

[jeanclamence]

White Nights (1959) - Directed by Pyryev Ivan

[quatregats]

By the way, apropos of nothing, but when I say "heigho it'll go without these oddments" I am in fact referencing this panel in Tintin in the Land of the Soviets which 12-year-old me decided to adopt as a catchphrase before I knew what a meme was:

[super-ion]

Aug-UST Day 17 - From rival factions

Some original fiction of character ideas that have been rattling around in my brain for a while now, based on a prompt from @thepromptfoundry

---

I heave against the barn door and in a horrible cacophony, it grinds closed. It's still cold as hell, but at least we're out of the wind and snow.

I should probably place wards on the doors... and windows... and...

I glance up at the roof of the barn where wind whistles through more than a few holes that need patching. Yeah, no amount of warding is going to make this place defensible. Honestly, it's probably better not to use any magic at all, lest we give away our position.

That and I'm completely exhausted, I very much doubt I have any effort to spare for a half decent ward.

Getting eaten by zombies on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain was not how I imagined myself going out.

A hiss of a match brings my attention back to the here and now. Katerina is stooped over a glass lantern that shortly casts a sickly yellow light over the room. For a moment, I get that same brief impression of too many shadows around her. Spending a week with her has done little at temper the strangeness of her magic to my senses, that blend of traditional Eastern European craft and whatever the hell the Soviets have been dreaming up.

She straightens, bearing the lantern aloft and peering around the room as she carelessly brushes the curtain of her dark hair behind her ear. The flickering lamplight casts her bony features in sharp relief, and it really isn't that hard to imagine her as some witch living in a hut in the woods that walks around on chicken legs. There's something hard yet beautiful about her. She's...

"Elizabeth, you are bleeding," she says cutting through my thoughts.

I raise a hand to the wet spot on my temple.

"It's just a scratch," I reply. "It looks worse than it is."

She frowns and strides towards me.

"Let me see," she demands.

"It's nothing," I insist, probably sounding petulant, which is not at all my intent.

"It is not nothing if those beasts hunt by smell."

Damn, she's got me there.

She sets the lantern on the ground and takes my head in her hands. Her touch is surprisingly gentle as she makes her examination.

My heart speeds up at the touch.

Get it together Liz, I tell myself. She's the enemy.

Is she though?

Only a few months ago, our two nations were bearing down on one another in the waters between Cuba and Florida. Even the mundane world understood how close everything had come to all going to hell.

Right now though? Here in this barn in the East German countryside? We are just two witches, just two women united against a common enemy.

She murmurs something in a language I don't recognize and a blessed warmth flows through me, centering on the cut on my scalp.

Her eyes meet mine, those dark pools of intensity captivating me. The gaze lingers. The gentle touch of her fingers against my cheek linger. Her eyes flicker to my lips briefly, erasing any doubt that she hasn't felt the exact same feelings that had been haunting me.

Unbidden, my breath hitches. We are so close, it would be the easiest thing in the world to close that distance between us.

This is...

This is a terrible idea. At the end of the day, common enemy or no, we are still agents of rival governments.

I watch as the exact same thought plays out in her head. Something in her expression closes off and she jerks her hands away.

"We should get some rest," she mutters. "We will both need all our strength in the morning."

"Yeah..." I agree reluctantly.

[maribellablack]

"My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? How strange that although my life’s work is moving a pen over paper, I don’t know how to tell you how I love, how I desire you. Such agitation — and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine — mounds of happiness. And I am floating with you, in you, aflame and melting — and a whole life with you is like the movement of clouds, their airy, quiet falls, their lightness and smoothness, and the heavenly variety of outline and tint — my inexplicable love. I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations."

- Vladimir Nabokov's love letter to his wife, Véra ❤️