#the layers jerry the layers

[divinekangaroo]

...man I've really hit that stage of Old Womanhood where I seriously contemplate and long for novelisations of existing gaming / televised media? :/

[paper-possum-party-pal]

Guess Who?

It’s Timekeeper!!!

Timekeeper started off as an AI The Narrator made to keep track of settings and time after a failed attempt to create a protagonist. A form was built, but was scrapped. When TK gained sentience, he didn’t have the power to do much except mess with the clock and settings. She slowly expanded her power though through the powerful desire to fuck with The Narrator. They weren’t aware of much going on outside of their space until connecting with the computers of the parable where they became aware of Stanley. Xe gains access to the time and space between resets where Xe starts interacting with Stanley and the become partners in crime.

Stanley and TK are great buddies and their favorite activity is messing with The Narrator, made funnier by the fact The Narrator has no clue TK is even there. He does eventually find out though once TK manages to pull its scrapped form out of recycling and fix it and gets caught interacting with Stanley. Stanley and TK also often talk about their false memories and what kinds of lives they would lead in the real world. TK doesn’t really care if he gets to experience the real world, but does admit that it might be fun, and new things means new ideas means new ways to prank The Narrator.

The Narrator and TK have more of a rivalry, with TK thinking The Narrator as a stuck up buzzkill who puts too much value in perfection and meaning, while The Narrator thinks TK is annoying, irresponsible, and irreverent. They aren’t really friends, but they’re not enemies either, and will reluctantly admit when the other may have a point. They’re sort of like roommates and maybe siblings.

TK doesn’t interact with The Curator or Mariella as much, but they’re friends. TK knows how and when to bring the fun to them and they both appreciate it. They all hold more of a sibling dynamic. They all have tea together, chat, and play fight, especially TK and Mariella. The Curator is great at reigning in TK, which can be frustrating when a certain someone starts whining about someone else messing with his game.

More human form

It’s funny to me how many of us, at least initially (and even a little bit now), had a similar idea of how Timekeeper would look with a physical form. I found myself having a lot of difficulty deciding what I wanted them to look like exactly since there’s so many creative designs people have come up with. I was thinking of trying to design a very non-human form for it. One thing that does slightly bother me is that I have that last character for the proctor lineup that is very similar looking, but I’m hoping it’s just different enough so it doesn’t feel too much like I’m copy pasting the same character.

With white background

[ntrn3k]

[digitalmidnight]

Oh, right. I can draw

[lizbethborden]

Speaking of knives. My magnetic strip fell clean out the wall and my Shun knife got a ding in the blade 😞 ritual suicide not being an option until after Father's Day (I want to see my dad's face when he opens his gift), I found a local manual whetstone sharpening service and reached out to them. Honestly all my knives could do with a professional sharpen until I get my whetstone figured out, and it's a small nick so it shouldn't be hard to take care of it.

[honestlyjuice]

this damn troll cat is all that’s been circulating my brain

[notaplaceofhonour]

I know it’s an old adage that Jews are the canary in the coalmine and that antisemitism is a sign of a society turning towards bigotry, fascism, & authoritarianism, but I don’t often see people explaining how this works, so let me give you just a couple examples:

Peeling back the layers of this post about Shaq participating in the “Stand Up to All Hate” campaign, what do we have? We have a Jewish philanthropist donating to youth sports programs and organizations that provide assistance for minorities & underserved communities in Israel (including Arabs, Muslims, Palestinians, women in very conservative Jewish communities that may not otherwise have the opportunity, etc.) to enter STEM fields, who runs a series of ad campaigns to encourage people to stand up to not just antisemitism but ALL bigotry. All of this gets cast as being “pro-genocide” somehow.

In the course of casting all of this as sinister & evil, who is affected?

a high-profile Black man is slandered

giving aid to Palestinians in STEM demonized

same with aid to Orthodox Jewish women in STEM

as is giving to children’s sports programs

even THE most milquetoast “don’t sit by idly when people around you are racist, homophobic, exist, etc.” message gets smeared as sinister

Taking a closer look at the rhetoric around “contextualizing” & “explaining” rape as “resistance” in the October 7th attacks, what do we have? A structure for rapists to excuse their violence is created. Jewish & Israeli victims are disbelieved The Palestinians affected by Hamas & similar orgs’ normalization of sexual violence are erased. Palestinians are presented as if they just can’t help raping.

Who is affected:

any violence no matter how depraved against Jews & Israelis is softened & excused

the experience of Jews targeted for sexual violence are sidelined & treated as a “natural” (and thus less awful) consequence of Jews oppressing Palestinians (DARVO)

Palestinian men are subjected to the racism of being treated as rapists by default

Palestinian victims of sexual violence are erased & equated with their abusers; their well-being is further endangered as their perpetrators crimes are softened & denied

rapists in leftist spaces now have a “oh but I couldn’t help it” card in their back pocket they can whip out at any time to dodge responsibility & make leftist spaces even more dangerous for the most vulnerable people there

On top of all of this, you then also have the red yarn “logic” of conspiracism that underlies all of this. Conspiracy theories do not exist in a vacuum; there is an underlying dislogic to them that makes believers in one more likely to believe in another (and another and another). THE best predictor of whether a person will believe a conspiracy theory is that they believe another conspiracy theory.

maybe it’s that this or that is a zionist plot now. but maybe you’ll be more inclined to believe there’s something dangerous about the polio vaccine. to support your fringe position, you need to grab hold of more reasons to bolster your opposition, unspool more red yarn. maybe it causes autism. maybe it makes you gay. nevermind that you just brought polio back too, now you’re trading in bigoted conspiracy narrative about the vaccine.

Maybe it’s not that; maybe it’s something else. But this vacuum of logic demands to be filled, and more often than not it does so by sucking in more and more fringe (and more and more bigoted) conspiracy narratives.

Antisemitism is a backwards logic, a conclusion in search of a reason, that builds itself to accommodate the desire to harm Jews. And as those pathways are built, they are used for a dual purpose to hurt other groups too. They spread out further and further and get used to pop up wherever the illogic of bigotry demands to.

You see this web of dislogic being constructed in the above examples—a sort of impromptu network of tunnels and jerry-rigged offramps that let them go offroading when the normal freeways of logic don’t take them where they want to go. You want to believe Shaq is shifty or the 🟦 is a (((Zionist))) plot? Time to build the path that will get you there. You want to believe October 7th was justified, but it fundamentally opposes every one of your stated values; time to build a new way in.

The main target is still Jews, but the rest of you get the splash damage.

[cywhirlgates]

this is the funniest image in the world!!

[starlessea]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 1: Tally

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

There’s no space left on the walls.

The thought sickens you; bile backs up into your throat before you swallow it down. There has to be something, somewhere—a small patch of unmarked paint for you to draw your next tally line. Desperately searching, your hands shake with realisation. There’s no more space on the walls. Nowhere left for you to mark the day. 

How many had it been, again? Four-hundred—more?

You start counting the tallies in multiples of five, beginning with the wall nearest the door and working clockwise around your bedroom. It had been a supply cupboard initially, scarcely big enough for you to lie flat. Blankets were scrunched at your feet, the result of yet another restless night, and your few belongings sat tucked into built-in shelving. You had committed it all to memory—every inch, a map of your isolation.

Three-hundred-and-eighty-five… Three-hundred-and-ninety… Three-hundred-and-ninety-five—

A sound interrupts your counting. 

There’s a thunk in the distance, barely there. You pause mid-breath. Soon enough, another follows. It’s a distant, hollow thud that sends ripples of panic through your body. 

The response is immediate. The tremors start with your fingertips before spreading upwards. Every breath exacerbates them, and soon you find yourself violently shaking. Something is approaching. You know it before you hear the next noise, a clink some ways off that cuts through the stillness.

Instinct takes over. You’re on your feet before you can think it through. The hatchet under your pillow is cold, its handle familiar. It becomes an extension of your limbs as your fingers mold around it. Your voice, alarmed, races through your head:

How’d it get in—what entrance had you missed? How many? How many?

You find your footing. The supply door creaks as you toe it open; it needs greasing again. There’s a jerry can in the music room downstairs—you know—but you’d lacked the energy for the trip. The hunger pangs had been keeping you bedridden, and only when dark spots crept into your vision did you dare venture out. 

Now you have no choice. Something’s coming, and you need to deal with it.

As you creep through the door, the smell of decay hits you. Gore and innards have seeped into the floorboards, your bare feet squelching atop the ichor. Before you, the corridor is lined with undead, their bodies shoved up against the walls to form a pathway through the middle. 

At first, you’d made an effort to clean them away—burying and burning and scrubbing and praying. But as the days went on, they just kept piling up. There were only so many bodies one person could attend, and even that took its toll. Before you knew it, they were under your nails and in your hair, then sometimes your head.

It was pointless.

It didn’t matter if you locked them away in the auditorium; you were never truly rid of them. Eventually, you gave up altogether. They were just another fixture of your life. Another layer of filth that had come to define this world.

They’re watching you now. You feel them. Judging you, condemning you. Stop it, you think, fixing onto one—it’s face half-shredded, an eye hanging from the socket. Don’t look at me like that. But its gaze is unrelenting. You swallow hard, and continue past the corpse. He was a kind man, once. Back when he had been one.

Your hatchet is weighing you down. It’s far heavier than you remembered, and your body, more sluggish. Most of the food has perished by now—only a few cans left rolling about the cafeteria. You didn’t pick through them anymore. There were too many memories in there. Too many things left behind. 

Malnourishment had taken its toll on you. Despite covering all the mirrors, you couldn’t avoid the contours of your hands, skin stretched taut over boney fingers, topped by brittle nails. In certain lights, you were not dissimilar to the undead—slowly wasting away.

“Man, this place is god-awful.” 

You freeze. Voices slice through the cloying air. 

“I’m telling you, something ain’t right here,” one says, close enough to spit. “Bunch’a dead walkers and you don’t stop to think, why? We got the meds, food’s nothing but dust, so what are we sticking around for?” 

A second voice, lighter, and a bit strained rebuts, “I don’t remember making you in charge. Keep walking, and I’ll keep pretending like I didn’t see you stuff that bottle of pills down your pants.”

Pills? You blink, your mind struggling to piece the words together. There were pills in the sick-bay down the hall—yes. That was true. So these people… Were they real?

You deliberate for a moment. In your entire time here, you hadn’t seen another person since the outbreak. Not a real one at least—or living.

No, you decided. They were undead. They had to be.

The shuffling of footsteps grows louder. They’re close now. Too close. You’re shaking so viciously that your bones ache. It’s now or never. As the undead round the corner, you are decided.

You aim for the head when you swing.

Thwack. 

The impact is solid—satisfying. But beneath the hatchet, the wall crumbles. There is no corpse, no contact with flesh. Before you, a man stares wide-eyed, his jacket crumpled in the fist of his companion, who had pulled him backwards in the nick of time. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you ready yourself for another go. 

They won’t fool you. There’s space in the auditorium—you’ll make space.

“Jesus Christ, put the axe down!” yells the man.

Each word is raw, grating on your ears. You don’t move; you can’t move.

“Bob, stop,” snaps the first man. His hands are up now, palms flat as though facing off with a wild animal. “Look, we’re not going to do anything,” he says, punctuating each word. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Beside him, the other one reaches for his gun. Your mind flashes—weapon. They want to hurt you. They’re going to kill you. Your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes of its own volition. You know fear; you’re looking at it in his eyes. 

Was he… afraid of you?

“You’re alone, right?” he asks, unmoving. “We can take you back with us.”

No reply comes. Your head swims. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. But something in his tone—something warm and steady—pulls at you. You’re not sure why.

Something stirs inside of you. Back?

Despite your silence, your expression must have given you away. The man stands straighter, slowly letting his arms retract and settle in at his sides. 

His eyes flicker to your hatchet before he clears his throat, “We have a community. It’s not much yet but we’re making it into a home,” he says, gesturing between himself and the cautious man. “Us and a few others.”

Your body is screaming from exertion at this point. The hatchet trembles in your hands, but you don’t lower it.

“Th—there—” 

You pause; your voice isn’t coming out. It’s ragged and the stutter is a new development. 

All this time… had you forgotten how it felt to speak?

You force a swallow and try again. “There are o—others?” you eventually manage.

The man with the frightened eyes doesn’t respond, but his companion—Bob, you recall—crosses his arms over his chest. “How long’s it been since you seen someone, huh?” he asks brusquely.

Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days.

You shake your head. The action seems to irritate him. He dares an approach, and like a trigger pulled, your trembles evolve into full-blown convulsing. Your heel slides back on a pool of blood, the shift in balance unsettling you. 

“Hey, hey—” A voice breaks through, fixing your attention. “Look at me.” 

The man whose name you do not know crouches just enough to toss his gun to the floor. The weapon lands with a dull splatter. Bob’s follows—much to his dismay.

The action does little to ease your concerns.

What if these men weren’t real? 

Your mind has done this before—crafted strangers out of silence. It wouldn’t be the first time you mistook the undead for a familiar face. Worse thoughts suddenly cross you:

What if they are real? What did they want with you—what would they do to you?

Quick as a blink, you’re back on guard. 

The weaponless man sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through, or how you’ve managed to hide out here this long…” he says, pausing for a moment. “But you can’t stay. This place reeks of death.”

The word lingers in the air. He directs a grimace at the audience of blue-black corpses behind you.

“God, it smells so bad.”

Before you can reply, he's back looking at you—through you, almost—like he’s staring into the very foundation of your being.

“You don’t want to rot away here, do you?” 

You stand frozen, unable to respond. Your throat tightens as you search for words, but none come.

Bob’s impatience cuts through the moment. “Glenn, let’s get out of here already. You can’t save ‘em all. This one’s bat-shit,” 

The words don’t sting; they barely register. In this moment, your eyes are only trained on the man whose head you almost dislodged from his shoulders—Glenn. 

He’s waiting. You can discern no pity in his face, no judgment. Just an offer.

You say nothing. 

After a beat, Glenn gives you a small nod and concedes. Bob counters with a told-you-so sort of look before retrieving his pistol from the floor—wiping it over his jeans. 

They prepare to leave.

“W—wait.” 

It’s barely louder than a breath, but Glenn hears it. He stops, turning just enough to face you. 

Your chest is heaving now, the anxiety, palpable. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to stay locked in the little supply cupboard at the end of the hall.

“I’ll go,” you say instead.

Glenn doesn’t smile—there’s nothing triumphant about it—but his own fear seems to have left him. He keeps a good distance but beckons you with his hand; it’s clean. 

“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.” 

—

Bob is dry-heaving in the passenger seat. 

The heat of the truck only amplified the stench of death clinging to you. They were right; it is awful. Back at the college, you did your best to bathe somewhat, with whatever water you could scavenge. But it was never enough. The foul miasmas had seeped into everything: your clothes, your skin, your sweat. It would take some time to air out. 

Curling tighter to the door, you try to avoid Glenn’s strained expression in the rearview mirror.

“Told you it was bad,” he says. His tone is light, far too casual; it makes you want to sink into the seats. “Nothing a good shower won’t fix, though?”

You can’t bring yourself to nod. Perhaps you’d feel ashamed had it not been for the unadulterated panic ripping through you. Everything is too much: the thrum of the engine, the weight of the hatchet on your thigh, the sunlight—

How long had it been since you’d seen it? Four months?

That’s right. It had been four months since the generator had sputtered out, leaving you to exist in the dark for the remaining two-hundred-and-sixty-odd days. In truth, you’d grown used to it. Most windows you’d pasted with newspapers from the old art room, so even the sunniest days were reduced to a shadow. The open sky feels wrong to you now, like it’s exposing you to things you’d forgotten how to face.

You try not to blink. Each time the sun slices through the trees, it adds to the utter overstimulation. Your muscles are spasming, sapping the little energy you have left. The movement is making the smell worse. Glenn flicks the fans in a poor attempt to cycle the air, and almost immediately, you’re greeted by warm wafts of your own stench. 

Bob sticks his head further out the window. You cough wetly—trying not to vomit.

“Deep breaths,” Glenn reminds. You catch his eyes flicking between you and the road. “We’re almost there.”

You don’t answer; you can’t.

“Though I am going to warn you about something,” he adds. Hesitation lines his voice, doing nothing for your nerves. “I don’t want you to freak out, but… our community is, uh, in a prison.”

A prison?

The word ricochets in your head.

Your jaw slackens as you process the words. Glenn hurriedly continues. “Hey, it’s okay,” he blurts, “We’re not gonna lock you up or anything.”

His reassurance does little to stem the panic.

“We’re locked up now anyway,” Bob mutters from the passenger side. “Stuck in this hotbox with a raging loon.” 

Glenn smacks him. The truck veers as he forfeits the wheel, but he's quick to correct it. He finds your eyes in the mirror again. “I promise it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else we’ve found.”

You don’t believe him.

But before you can spiral any further, the truck slows, rolling to a stop in front of a chain-link fence. Beyond, a prison looms in the distance—a great hulking thing absent of any colour—and from it, a figure comes jogging to open the gates. You're here.

At the sight of another unfamiliar face, your doubts make themselves known.

Run. You have to get out. Run. Run. Run—

The door handle is in your hand before you realise it. The truck hasn’t fully stopped, but you shove it open anyway. The rush of motion tilts the vehicle, and Glenn curses as he hits the breaks.

The ground comes up fast. Your legs give out the moment they hit dirt. Above you, the sunlight is blinding. This time, you’re sure you’ll be sick.

“Whoa, hey, hold up!” 

A woman’s voice brings you back. Before you can react, there’s a pressure under your arm—hands, firm but steady. You instinctively jerk away but you’re too weak to pull free.

“Don’t struggle. It’s okay,” she soothes. Trembling, you force yourself to look up. 

Crouching before you is a woman with cropped hair, her features delicate yet hard. As her eyes sweep over your body, you catch a flicker of sadness in them.

“Goodness, you poor thing,” she murmurs. “Seems like Glenn’s brought home another stray.”

Her arm slips under yours again, and this time you let her help you up. There’s no fight left in you; it’s taking every morsel of strength to hug your hatchet to your chest. Each step is heavier than the last, but her encouragement—almost motherly—keeps you moving.

You try not to stare as she leads you toward the main building. People move around the yard. Real people. More than you’ve seen in months. Their voices blur together, too loud, too close, and you want nothing more than to shrink away from all of it.

As you make it inside, the air is cooler but no less stifling.

You're in a cell block. It's stark, structurally plain. Metal bars, concrete floors, and the faint scent of bleach that doesn’t quite mask something darker. In the center of the room is a makeshift cooking area, a hodgepodge of furniture surrounding a lunch table poached from the outer yard. A small group gathers there.

You do a quick count: Man. Man. Child. Woman. Baby—

Your brow furrows. Baby?

The woman cradling the infant has dark skin and neat locs, as opposed to the child, whose parents were probably another casualty of this world. She maintains her distance.

“Rick,” the woman at your side calls out, garnering the attention of everyone. 

A man responds to the name. He cuts through the group with measured steps. His stature is lean, his features weathered. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a tan button-down rolled to the elbows—but his stance, the set of his jaw, that air of gravitas… It all screams leader. 

You plant yourself firm into the floor. 

The man—Rick—scarcely spares you a glance. “Another one?” he asks Glenn from over your head. “Where d’you pick ‘em up this time?”

“Old community college,” Glenn answers.

Rick lets out a short, tired breath. “Okay,” he says, before directing his attention toward you. “Then answer me this: how many walkers—”

He stops mid-sentence. For the first time, he really sees you. His expression sours as he does a quick scan, taking in every detail from your bare feet to the stained-red hatchet embedded in your chest. You see his nose twitch as he inhales.

“Rick...” the short-haired woman interjects, placing a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she says firmly.

“Not now,” Rick echoes. The frown lines marring his brow soften slightly. “It’s okay,” he says instead. “You’re safe now.”

You blink once.

Safe? Why does everyone keep saying that—Like it’s some guarantee?

Something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe it either; like he’s said those words too many times before.

“It’s not much, but it’s a roof and four walls. It’s a place to raise our kids.” Rick nods his head at the child with his likeness, a brown-haired boy in a deputy hat, and then to the woman holding the baby. “We’ve got water here—food. Daryl’s a hunter, and a damn good one. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You’re only half-listening. At the mention of another name, your eyes drift past Rick, settling on the figure at the edge of the group.

That’s the hunter—Daryl. You can tell by the crossbow slung across his back, and the dirt stains on his skin, far greater in number than the rest of them. His stance was casual but guarded, his sleeveless shirt exposing corded muscle. You catch his eyes, pinned under a mop of tawny fringe. 

They’re the kind that don’t miss a thing. 

You can tell he’s studying you just as closely as you’re studying him. There’s a tension in his posture, like a rubber band ready to snap at a moment’s notice. It unsettles you.

It frightens you.

“She should lie down,” Glenn says, breaking the silence, “Let Hershel take a look at her when he’s back.”

Rick nods. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you as you sway on your feet. 

“I can walk,” you mutter, words barely audible. “I can walk.”

No one listens.

There’s an exchange of glances between Rick and the short-haired woman. Then, with a gesture so slow it feels deliberate, she steps in close again, threading your arm through hers. Her grip is firm but unobtrusive; you feel yourself leaning into her without meaning. 

Glenn attempts to relieve you of the hatchet, but you twist away, eyes flashing with warning. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. You can keep it,” he placates.

The next thing you know, you’re being led into the prison’s interior. The cell they bring you to is small, the cot inside neatly made. But the room feels too open, too exposed. You hesitate at the doorway.

“This one’s yours,” Rick states simply. As he points, a keychain jingles at his belt. 

You fixate on it. “The—The key?” you question.

Rick’s brow furrows. He hesitates, then thumbs through the chain until he finds the one he’s looking for—a long, slender thing with a dull shine. 

“Here,” he says. “Take it if it makes you feel better.”

It does.

You don’t mean to snatch it from him, but the warmth of his hand is unexpected, and you find yourself clawing for the key. Tucking it into your palm, you slide the gate shut. It latches with a clink, and a shaky breath escapes you.

“Right, well...” Rick steps back, giving you space. “Get some rest. We’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He lingers for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the bars like he’s deliberating prodding an animal at the zoo. When you don’t respond, he straightens and beckons Glenn to follow him out. The kind woman gives you one last reassuring nod before retreating, her boots echoing down the corridor.

Alone again.

Despite your fatigue, you don’t move to the cot. It’s far too clean. Instead, you yank the sheets from it, piling them onto the floor in the furthest corner of the room. They bunch at your feet, turning the colour of rust as dried blood flakes from your skin. Quietly, you sink down into your new bed.

For once your mind is empty. Your eyes, unblinking, stare at the expanse of wall. It feels wrong in some way you can’t quite place. Instinctively, your fingers find the loose match in your pocket—the one you kept for emergencies. You strike it and watch the flame quiver for a brief moment before blowing it out.

With the blackened end, you draw a tally mark on the stone before you:

One.

There’s plenty of space on these walls.

A/N And that's chapter one! It's been years since I've written anything like this, but I have big things planned. My style has definitely changed (hopefully for the better) and this series will be heavier than my previous stuff... But that hopefully means better payoff. I'd love to hear your thoughts. In all honesty, I was a little nervous about sharing this. I don't know if anyone still reads my stories, or even cares, so some feedback would be appreciated :) See you in the next one x

[chaotic-archaeologist]

Remember that Ben and Jerry's ice cream can be a great enrichment for your archaeologist after they have to go indoors because the field season is over. Watching them scraping the ice cream down layer by layer and then piece plot every fudge brownie including is so cute.

Feel free to share other care and keeping tips for archaeologists!!!

[eyesfullofsttars]

୨୧° 🎄 °୨୧

Let’s start with Ellie being sensitive to the cold. Her freckles turn red as soon as the snowflakes start falling around her, but of course, she acts like it doesn’t bother her at all. That is, until she ends up stealing Abby’s jacket or accepting a pair of gloves as a gift—not because she’s cold, but because they have stars on them!

Abby, on the other hand, isn’t as bothered by the cold. Her body naturally stays warm, so she doesn’t struggle as much. She dresses warmly enough—sometimes even a bit too much, knowing Ellie will probably need the extra layer later. But her favorite winter accessory? Beanies. Abby loves them and always wears one during the winter months.

This was their first Christmas together in their own home. Neither of them is particularly obsessed with Christmas, and neither gets overly excited about decorating, but they still made it work. They both have mixed feelings about the holiday. Ellie was orphaned until she was fourteen, so by the time she had a family, she was too old to really believe in Santa. Abby lost her mother when she was young, so celebrating Christmas without her has always been a bit confusing.

But there was one thing that couldn’t be skipped: the Christmas tree. Abs, along with Lev and Yara, decorated it with ornaments that had everyone’s name on them. It did turn into a bit of a competition about who would carry the tree to the living room, but in the end, it was a team effort between Ellie and Abby, neither willing to back down.

During the holidays, Ellie had some free time and decided to learn how to knit. With not much work to do and having already learned a bunch of cheesy Christmas songs on her guitar, she thought it would be a fun new skill. Her efforts culminated in her gifting hand-knitted sweaters to everyone, along with a special Christmas stocking for Abigail. Els thought it was a small, silly gesture, but trust me—Abby cherished it more than anything.

They spent Christmas with everyone, even though the mixed group made things a bit awkward. Luckily, Abby’s homemade food helped ease the atmosphere. By the end of the night, Ellie was telling terrible jokes with Joel, who was sipping on whiskey and humming an old Christmas song. Meanwhile, Jerry was helping Abby in the kitchen.

When it came to gifts, Abby went all out for Ellie: brand-new strings for her guitar, watercolor paints, and a star projector for their bedroom. Ellie’s gifts for Abby were heartfelt and practical: a hand-thrown ceramic mug for Abby’s morning coffee, a gray knitted beanie she made herself, and some new gym equipment (not sure exactly what, but maybe resistance bands or weights?)

– From Ellie and Abby, and from me: Merry Christmas Eve & Happy Holidays to those who celebrate!! ♡

[huffy-the-bicycle-slayer]

It's time to stop acting like Ben&Jerry's is our friend. They're a corporation and they're out for money just like all the others. Their greed has led to the creation of a highly addictive product that anyone, regardless of age, can aquire on any street corner. You've all know exactly what I'm talking about, how could you not at this point? I'm talking of course about Ben&Jerry's flavor "Stephen Colbert's: Americone Dream".

Now what makes it so addictive you may ask? Well before we examine the sultry texture of the vanilla base, we have to of course look at the grouping patterns of the Fudge-Covered Waffle Cone Pieces. These pieces are not evenly distributed in the pint mixture like you may expect of a mint chip. No, infact they're distributed in tight clusters, leaving vast pockets of Vanilla Ice Cream/Caramel Swirl. And don't expect to get caramel in every bite either, its forking tendrils writhe through the Ice Cream, without a hint of uniform distribution. This sometimes geological concoction has created an eating experience so varied and exploratory that it boggles the mild.

They're putting this product on shelves in every city in America, and it'll be in your home before you know it. And believe me when I tell you: It's not love at first bite, no. With each progressive layer you'll fall deeper into its grasp. It squeezes you until you are gasping for air, only to discover you've eaten the whole pint. I say it's time bring attention to Ben&Jerry's, its time to wake up from their Americone Dream.

[darkbluekies]

17:38

Mafia!female!yandere OC x reader

Warnings: knives, blood

Jerry sits by the kitchen island with her phone in her hand. You've asked to cook and usually, she doesn't let you, but today she's feeling bold. What could go wrong when she's supervising?

"What are you making?" she asks without looking up from her phone.

"Kimchi."

Jerry puts down her phone and smiles. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans over the table.

"No way, my mom used to make that for me when I was a kid", she smiles sadly.

"I thought that I wanted to try to make it for you", you say.

"You're so sweet, baby. Go wild. Let's see how good of a housewife you are." She tilts her head. "You'd be a pretty cute housewife, wouldn't you?"

"Why are you asking me that? Shouldn't you know?"

Jerry grins slightly. "I think you'd be a very cute housewife."

You pick up the cabbage and wash it thoroughly. Jerry let you come with her to the store to buy it, surprisingly enough. She was very stiff, always glancing around to make sure no one was looking at you weirdly.

You pick up a knife and position it over the cabbage. There's no way you can ferment the entire thing in one piece.

"So that's why you wanted to buy so many spices", Jerry thinks out loud.

"It wasn't too expensive, right?" you ask over your shoulder. "We bought quite a lot."

"Nah, and even if it was, I can get money easily. Don't worry. You should have gotten yourself that ice machine you saw."

"It was too expensive."

"But you'd have ice right now, wouldn't you?"

Jerry raises her eyebrows teasingly. You shake your head disapproving and turn back to your cutting. The wet cabbage becomes an ice rink and the knife slips, cutting your ring finger just over the final rinkle. You gasp in pain.

"What?" Jerry asks quickly, all hints of amusement gone. "Did you cut yourself?"

"Yes", you hiss, holding your hurt hand in your free one. "I'm bleeding."

Jerry shoots up from her chair quick enough for it to tumble back, down on the floor. She hurries over to you and inspects the hurt area.

"Shit, baby, you have to be careful!" she exclaims and pulls your hand over to the sink.

The cold water rinses the wound, causing you to hiss again. Jerry's heart is thumping in her chest. How could she ever think that this was a good idea?

"Stand still", she tells you. "I'll go get a bandaid for you."

She runs into the bathroom and comes back a minute later with a beige band aid in her hands. She removes the plastic layer and wraps it gently around your ring finger. Carefully, she lifts your fingers to her plump lips and kisses it softly.

You look at the cabbage.

"Don't think about it", Jerry tells you. "You're not going to continue. This was a stupid idea. Why did I ever think it was okay for you to use a knife? I trust you too much. Fuck sake. You hurt yourself. Get out of the kitchen."

"It's just a little cut …", you say. "I wanted to make something special for you. I had it all planned …"

She cups your cheeks between her hands.

"I know, baby", she says comfortingly. "And I'm very grateful that you wanted to do something for me, but what kind of girlfriend am I if I let you get hurt, hm? My number one priority is to protect you."

"I know, but …"

"I'll continue this. Go sit down in the living room. People like you shouldn't be allowed into kitchens."

You sigh and leave for the living room. The very second you round the corner, Jerry bites down on her hand, grunting. She feels so bad.

Nonetheless, she finishes what you've started. She looks at the prepared kimchi with a sigh. You're too good for her. You wanted to make one of her childhood side dishes … for what? To make her happy? Why do you care about her happiness after what she's done to you? Jerry shuts her eyes to stop whatever tears want to escape.

"Stop it", she hisses for herself, pressing her palms to her eyes. "Stop fucking crying, you piece of shit."

She gathers herself and cleans up. You look up when she enters the living room.

"I don't want you in the kitchen again", she says monotonously. "Do you get that?"

"It was just an accident, Jerry", you sigh. "The knife slipped. The cabbage was wet and slippery. There will be accidents while cooking … you know that."

She shakes her head firmly. "Not in my house. You're not allowed anywhere near anything sharp. You're too clumsy."

You're about to talk back, but keep your mouth shut, knowing better than to argue with her when she's angry.

[uwmspeccoll]

Chinese Ceremonial Papers

Many hundreds of varieties of prayer sheets used to be produced by specialist ma-chang printers all over China. Many of the limited range made today are the cheapest offset-litho jobs on the cheapest machine-made papers, but the designs still imitate the original woodblock prints.

Modern Taiwanese sheets of cash, made from recycled paper, sold very cheaply by weight in Taipei.

Mock money and other ceremonial papers for religious ceremonies will be gathered in "bowls" of crude papers, usually made of a mixture of rice-straw and bamboo fibers.

The simplest form of mock money is made traditionally with thin layers of tinfoil affixed to the center of a small piece of bamboo paper, although in contemporary production the cheapest grades of machine-made paper will be used instead, and in Taiwan and Malaysia metallic inks may be used instead of tinfoil.

Here's a piece of mock money in traditional colors with auspicious designs, and tinfoil brushed over with a dye from the pagoda tree to make it resemble gold.

Contemporary Taiwanese ceremonial paper.

Another variety of gold mock money, with inscriptions and symbols for good fortune building up the design, usually still quite well printed from woodblocks on fairly good quality paper, but sometimes now mass-produced by offset lithography.

Contemporary ceremonial paper printed letterpress on a stout machine-made paper in Hong Kong. The yellow coloring might have been brushed on by hand, but otherwise production of these attractive sheets has been mechanized completely.

At the Feast of Hungry Ghosts many large sheets of paper with pictures of all the clothes one's ancestor could need are burned. Although images of the paraphernalia of modern life like cell phones and computers might be printed on these papers, the clothing is always of traditional style.

Red paper envelopes with good luck symbols have been used for many years to enclose gifts of money made at New Year. They may be found wherever any ceremonial papers are sold; today usually with elaborate and eye-catching gold-stamping.

Decorative Sunday

The examples shown here are original paper samples included in Roderick Cave's (1935-2019) two-part article on "Ceremonial Papers of the Chinese" published in Matrix 12 (Winter 1992, pp. 51-66) and Matrix 13 (Winter 1993, pp. 161-177), printed at the John and Rosalind Randle’s Whittington Press in Risbury, Herefordshire, England.

In these articles, Cave, a noted print historian, librarian, and educator, discusses the history, manufacturing, printing, distribution, and uses of Chinese ceremonial papers used in rituals, celebrations, and festivals associated with the gods and the ancestors.

Our copies of Matrix are a donation from our friend Jerry Buff.

View more posts on Chinese papers.

View other posts associated with Roderick Cave.

View more Decorative Sunday posts.

[soarrenbluejay]

Can’t remember where I’ve seen the idea first but I’ve had this idea of Regular Clowns taking offense to joker’s bullshit for a while now and exacting Vengeance. The man doesn’t even has an egg! His ass never been to clown school! He’s a disgrace to them all!

So four buddies leaving the traveling circus business decide as people who have loved every second of this and are Deeply Insulted by this wanker to Do Something About It.

Three of them are showmen- an acrobat, a juggler, a fire fanatic, the works.

The last one, Jerry, is a stage hand. He is their most powerful member- not only does he have the superpower of self care, but he’s a meta! Minor telekinesis is actually really useful when shuttling stuff around in a stage in a hurry! (And that whole thing of our idea of ninjas coming from stage hands in all black being ‘invisible’ yeah. Cryptid vibes, except it’s just Jerry)

So. A clown car pulls up in Gotham, in the middle of a Joker attack, presumably despite ever Gothamite on the road who saw it making their best effort to take one for the team and mow them down. This is a no good awful sign for Gotham.

But it gets better.

Because out does not step a bunch of goon reinforcements in masks, or some jokerified poor soul, but instead someone in one of those historical jester costumes, bells and dramatic ass sleeves and all. Also, they’re bright orange. It is slightly eye searing. In one hand is the end to a long line of tied together handkerchiefs in clashing neon colors which appears to be infinite bc it just keeps coming. In the other is a comedically oversized hammer with a squeaky sound effect installed but no spring to soften the blow- it in fact has spikes with little Mayfair banners hanging off.

They immediately attempt to strangle/bash Joker to death with a winning smile firmly in place, and actually survive the attempt of which by apparent virtue of being made of rubber or something. And out slides our fire master, in all teal for contrast, who promptly throws smoke bombs at the crowd of goons around and starts all but boa staffing them down with his fire wand, paired with a dramatic speech about how Joker is in insult to the idea of circus and also the most unfunny bitch to ever walk the earth.

Lastly, the juggler. They have come armed. With glitter and hackysacks. A dramatic beatdown ensues, with much shrieking and yelling on all sides. A gif is made of Joker being bonked right through a concrete wall with a move right out of a video game. Several goons get concussions a la bowling pins. It’s all being live streamed by someone through their apartment window and is rapidly going viral. It’s a good time mostly because this attempt at vengeance against the Clown Bitch Gotham did not immediately involve some one getting very anticlimacticly shot.

No really takes note of the guy in all black and ski mask, calmly standing in the middle of the flaming chaos. He occasionally holds out a new set of props for the juggler, an oversized great sword for our acrobat jester, some nitroglycerin for blowy uppy efforts, the works. Until he starts calmly putting together a three story set of scaffolding for the gang to use for the purpose of beating the crime king’s skull in in even more ridiculous ways and also so jester can showcase their absolute lack of a spine.

And Jerry goes back to standing in the middle of this chaos, apparently unaffected by Literally Everything going on. His friends are fucking crazy, he’s used to it.

Meanwhile, Ghost King Danny gets a new urgent appeal at his ghostly royal desk- someone is attempting to enact vengeance against the joker and move approximately 46363883 souls along doing it, except it’s not the Red Hood this time! It’s Some Random Guys that a minor mischief god is now attempting to fast track layering with blessings! Said minor god is officially appealing for the Ghost Monarch’s support. Danny is conflicted- on one hand, he Fucking Hates Clowns. And has a major hero worship thing going on for Red Hood, a fellow supernatural hero (in the dead’s eyes) much his senior. However, the idea of a bunch of nobody’s beating the joker to death at the same time as declaring how shit of a clown he is IS pretty hilarious.

He gives it the stamp of Yes, provided others seeking vengeance (aka red hood, the thousands of joker victims in Gotham, anyone who wants to go spectacular viral) can still intervene to catch some own hands, a minor merriment/will of the people god does a jig on the spot, and back with the Justice Circus Brigade, ghouls and Spectors alike start popping up to join in on the fun! Which our beloved ren faire rejects are actually pretty okay with- big enough circus events in the DC universe have a bad habit of becoming possessed/very obviously haunted/Ooky Spooky like, every few months. And these guys look much friendlier than whatever the hell has been in the house of mirrors these last few months!

Red Hood isn’t sure how he’s suddenly in the middle of upper Gotham when he’s was decidedly Nowhere Near three seconds ago, but that’s a problem for later when the Bitch Ass Clown Extraordinaire is Right There!! So he tables it to be very paranoid about later, shrugs, and starts shooting. Jester starts shouting out points for accuracy/comedy, Jerry calmly asks if he wants some of their backup silver bullets just in case The Target really is an unholy being of some sort. (They have taken Precautions. For Everythinf. Or at least Jerry did.) Jason can’t say no to free extra ammunition and also That’s Hilarious, man he has to hire these guys!

Then fire juggler molotov’s the joker, and he decides these idiots are ABSOLUTELY worth saving from the big bad bat. Fuck it, this morons are the BEST.

[skitariiposting]

Skit's Mini Painting Journey Pt. 3

The Admech one.

C'mon, you all saw this one coming.

Back when I was painting my nurgles purple, I wanted to do a similar color scheme for my Admech army. I slowly moved away from it however, as I didn't quite like the way it turned out. The green and purple look took to Nurgle well, but purple Admech on desert planets didn't make a whole lot of sense. Didn't stop me from trying though, and while they certainly didn't look bad, I'm glad I didn't stick with it.

The Mars Pattern Family

This little fella may look familiar! Here was my first attempt at a more traditional mars pattern skit, and a jawa-esque one to boot! This was a kitbash of a proper galvanic rifle and backpack being added to The Makers Cult's Lil' Recruit.

I mean, Jawa admech is so amazing, but I had to have my little guy properly equipped!

Continuing the Mars linage is a technopriest and engiseer, both TMC printed minis. I love the way these two look. The face-shield on the technopriest looks amazing, and I'm incredibly proud of the reflection on it. The OSL on the hand isn't very visible in the picture, but it also looks really good.

This Thallax bot was supposed to be a Kastellan Bot for @elnubnub, however I got the two mixed up and picked the smaller one. I'm going to eventually remedy that, but he still looks good nonetheless.

This is by and large one of my best pieces in my opinion. Back when @cannibalcaprine had a bird face, this model was more applicable. Dominus Hera has so much soul and time put into her I don't know if I'll ever be able to replicate the state of mind I was in that let me get this mini to look this good. The cloth effects are fantastic, the OSL from the gun is fantastic, the molten axe is fantastic, the color choices and layout is fantastic, the cables are fantastic; I don't know who painted this mini, but it certainly wasn't me. It couldn't have been.

And the most important member of the Mars Pattern Family, the fan favorite: Goober. A kitbash gone wrong gone right. A broken mini finally becoming whole. The legend himself. What more is there to say?

Finally: The Submechanicum

Penelope, the Ocean Queen. My first model I painted for the Submechanicus. I'd love to say that this is my magnum opus, considering I made a whole video about her and everything...

However, I must rip the band aid off and say that this is the first version of Penelope...

Because what immediately followed her was this beast. This is the Krabaphron, another contender for one of my best models. This sucker was so genre defining, that it set a new standard for the rest of my Submechanicus army and would cause me to re-do my color-scheme and paint job planning going forward.

I based all of my future Submechanicus models off of it, using it as a template. The Skits and Techpriest both got the same treatment and I've got to say, I'm in love with the way it looks. I've continued using this style so far and I haven't had to make many modifications.

As such, Penelope... didn't quite fit the bill anymore. She stood out from the rest of the models.

So... after a livestream of planning and base layering...

She was finally given the paint job she deserved.

And that's just were our story begins fair traveler... With the rise of the Depth Guard, a proper protector of the Submechanicus will be needed to combat the forces of Nurgle... And coming late April, there will be such a machine surfacing, with a video to present it.

Of course, this is quite an older photo. It's far more painted than that. I've teased photos of it so far, however I'm saving the proper display of it for the video, so be on the look out if you want to see the completed product!

And that's about it! Hope you've enjoyed this little walk down memory lane and gallery of my mini painting endeavors! I'll be making a website for easier viewing once I've gone through and gotten some more professional looking pictures done. Thank you for reading and viewing!

-Jerry