#that is exactly why I have little patience for the kind of idiocy in Tumblr ATLA fandom

[lightdancer1]

I keep noting that people who say 'Azula is the greatest evil in all of fiction' are too squeamish to get to the real nastiness:

If they think 'Today is the day I celebrate becoming an only child' is too mean, they'd really find Johnny Bates as disturbing as people in the 80s did when Marvelman was brand new.

The results of this guy going on a rampage to massacre London for fun and profit have yet to be matched in all of modern comic-dom's meaningless brutality and gore. The reason for this is by the time you get to this point and everything else he does in London, well....

You start with this. And it goes from the suave businessman of the first volumes to this guy:

So sure, kids. An eighth grader with a big mouth is your nadir of evil and horrific things you've seen and read in fiction because you are the cartoon equivalent of the person who's only read one book.

[cynthiyaayaana]

Bullets and Pollen.

Hey!! This is a story I had written long before but never had the courage to post until now. I came across this very interesting writing prompt on tumblr and just had to write something on it. Any kind of appreciation or constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy!! 

Ayanna found herself in a flower shop that was very conveniently located a few blocks away from the cemetery. It was more like a meadow enclosed in the tall glass windows that displayed a vibgyor of flowers. The odor of flowers was like a thick perfumed layer that engulfed everything in the shop. It was uncomfortably congested. She wondered how the fragile flowers were able to bear its immensity which was almost overpowering her.

The sunlight bounced off each petal reflecting its colors like a prism capturing light and releasing a rainbow. She was tempted to catch it but obviously they were intangible. She therefore reconciled with touching the soft velvety petals of the orchids that stood arrogantly in the confines of their plastic buckets. There long stalk upholding the delicate white blooms like the slender neck of a swan supporting a snappy mouth.

The clear ringing of the bells alerted the intrusion of another customer. She turned around to see the culprit who had disrupted the quaint solitude of the ambience. Her complaint disappeared as soon as she thought it. The man standing in front her stood out in his black attire like death in the Garden of Eden. Before she had time to register his appearance accurately he strode towards her with quick but calculated steps. She realized the answer to her question was hazel but now they appeared murky green because of the sun rays they took hostage.

 In one swift movement he took out his bulky wallet and slapped a few crumpled bills on the counter. She flinched as his hands dropped on the teak table’s sleek surface with a loud thud. He gritted his teeth and flexed his jaws agitatedly, emitting a sickening sound of bones cracking. Although his attempt to control his temper was admirable, she was afraid that he would pop a vein any minute now.

 “Excuse me…” She was rudely interrupted as he jeered at her for some unknown reason. She had to confess as terrifying and alarmingly red the visage of this stranger was, she was thoroughly entertained by his attempt to restrain his fury. She only hoped she didn’t offend him any further by losing her self-control. Unfortunately, she slipped when she heard the next sentence that he spoke.

“How do I passive aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?”

 Ayanna coughed to suppress her laughter. This was by far the most noteworthy conversation starter she had ever heard. Although she should have rectified his misunderstanding, she stood rooted in her spot, looking at this inhumanly tall and infuriated man who wanted flowers to translate an extremely hackneyed and handy insult like ‘fuck you’.

 Flowers!

She should have been cowering at the mere size of this man and also the way he had “bloody murder” written all over his rugged face. It didn’t require a keen observer to see how positively threatening he was in the way he carried himself. He radiated danger and not in the ‘what-you-read –in-a-dark-romance kind of way’. It was more like a ‘cross-me-and-I-will-not-hesitate-to-cut-you’ vibe he gave off. If they had been out in the streets or in some dingy warehouse, in this small proximity, she would definitely be fearful for her dear life.

 However, the fact that he had just entered a flower shop and asked for flowers to express his aversion for someone or something made it hard for her to feel intimidated by him. This was an interesting and obscure way of looking at flora. Like a blunt expression of disdain. It did trigger her imagination and help her writers block that had led her here in the first place.

Weren’t flowers and tacky bouquets used by unfaithful husbands to give their naïve wives to convince them of their deceitful affections? Isn’t it supposed to disguise the smell of musk cologne and infidelity?  And eventually end up in the trash the following week when the flowers were dead and smelt like decay?

 A bad habit instantaneously made her concoct how she could include this plot and this sample of character into the bulk of paper and fiction she was working on. It would make great material for a romance but that’s too predictable. Maybe a crime fiction. Where the antagonist leaves behind clues of his felony in a cryptic language of flowers. Perhaps something more brooding and introspective. The possibilities were endless. She must have zoned out because the facial expressions of her envisioned muse was getting more agitated and distorted with each passing second.

 “Nevermi…”

 Before he could wave his hand in dismissal, she stood to her full diminutive height, solemnly perched her black rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose and bustled around the shop collecting stalks of flowers and commenting in a very proper voice like she would if she actually was a florist.

 “What you need is a bouquet with geraniums signifying idiocy, foxgloves for dishonesty, meadowsweet for incompetence, yellow carnations meaning disappointment and finally orange lilies for unadulterated hatred. It would be quiet remarkable. And full of repugnance.”

 She bundled them together between her nimble thumb and forefingers, looked at the oppressively colorful bunch and brought it to him for scrutiny. He cocked his dark eyebrow and looked down at her scrawny stature and then at the chaotic assortment of flowers.  He had to admit it looked quiet hideous with its harsh dyes and mismatched contours. And totally unsuitable for the girl’s dainty hands.

Weren’t florist supposed to have arduous hands? Their nails short and their nailbeds caked with brown dirt and green stuff? These manicured hands looked like they couldn’t bear the weight of a coffee cup. They could barely keep the bouquet from falling apart. They were so small and fragile and looked so soft. He could hardly believe she did anything at all with those hands let alone cut and tame stems with rebellious thorns. The fact that she was dressed in a casual white shirt and black ripped jeans with a worn-out leather bag dangling from her frail shoulders and not a soiled apron confirmed his suspicion.

 “Here is your ‘bundle of loathing’.”  She handed it to him with extra caution. Obviously she wasn’t a professional florist. No professional florist talks like that.

 He looked at her and then at the unassembled flowers as confusion took over his dark features. Not because he had finally realized that he had made a mistake. No that bit was as clear as day to him.

 He was perplexed as to why she had helped him when she didn’t need to? Moreover, how did she know exactly what he wanted? Was she spying on him? Was she she sent for him?

 “You didn’t give me a chance to explain myself” She said in her soft voice as if she sensed his unspoken question.

 His unfaltering stare never left her. She squirmed self-consciously under his gaze and lowered her eyes to stare at her sensible flats. The change in her demeanor eased him a little. He wasn’t looking forward to conducting an interrogation in the middle of a god- forsaken flower-shop. He also didn’t want to go around terrorizing unassuming civilians, especially the pretty ones. Besides she had piqued his curiosity when she went about the shop cataloging flowers for his “bundle of loathing”.

 “You seem to know a lot about flowers.” His voice was in sharp contrast to the dreadful glare he was directing at her moments ago.

She looked at him with smile bordering between relief and wariness. Before he could here an answer they were interrupted by an aged voice of a woman. A tuff of grey hair emerged from the interiors of the shop.

 “Here is your bouquet, child.” The elderly owner finally came out with her flowers and Ayanna was grateful for the interruption. She nodded slightly at her, relieved for the intrusion.

 He vaguely entertained the idea of going after her as she scurried out of the modest store with hasty steps but decided against it. He was a busy man.  He had more important matters to take care of before thinking about enchanting some stranger who had impressed him with her off-handed knowledge in horticulture. The most urgent undertaking right now was to deliver the bouquet to the person who deserved it. Then, as per protocol, he had to notify them, with utmost patience, what they had done to deserve it. And consequently, give them a forewarning and a suitable penalty for their offensive conduct.

 “How can I help you, Sir?”. The elderly lady asked the man who was holding the green stalks of flowers in his hands tenderly. One would have never guessed these were lethal.

 “Please wrap these flowers for me” He politely asked the elderly shopkeeper. He didn’t mind her ignorance.

“Is it for someone special?” The lady smiled warmly like clueless old ladies often do.

 He could feel his lips forming a sick conniving smirk.

 “Very special.”