#the worst year zine

[schaafdraws]

yearbook

[teleport-warning]

[aotoreiki]

please send me drawing power to get this Got Damn picture done

[roger-paladino]

Feeling so normal about Roger before I passed out I started writing a full timeline for his life

[northcountrymaid]

the only future of art for people who didnt go to 50k a year private school in the hollywood hills with their wikipedia bluecheck parents' money is in small scenes in small cities and i really do believe that. if you want to make art and be well known and beloved move to like cincinnati not los angeles or new york and be content with having a day job. unfortunately there are a lot of really boring people in those scenes who regurgitate trends from nyc five years too late and have bad tattoos and narrow minds and don't read books but there are also a lot of people like that in major cities and there are also a lot of really cool people in lame midsized cities. stop trying to make it in hollywood hollywood is a bleak wasteland stop trying to be a lower east side dimes square ingenue all of those people are boring and stupid make art in your community and be thankful that the worst people in your scene are cringe people making embarrassing zines instead of evil billionaires. this isnt me being defeatist its me being realist and also kind of optimistic bc i wish i hadnt taken for granted the small and slightly lame scenes i thought i was too good for back home.

[safety-pin-punk]

Punk History Resources: Vol 2

This is a compilation of resources found and recommended by various alternative bloggers, each of whom are credited for their contributions. This started because I was getting SO MANY asks about resources such as videos, books, and websites to use to learn about punk history. Admittedly, my own list wasn't that long, so I thought it was best to reach out to some others and share their knowledge with everyone. Now, I'm hoping to make this an annual occurrence, where we all share our knowledge with each other. So thank you again to everyone who helped out with this!!

Link to Volume 1

@whatamibutabutteredcroissant @unfriendlybat @ghost--in-a-machine @mushroomjar

YOUTUBE:

Part 1 of The Decline of Western Civilization (It recieved mixed reception from people in the scene) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Part 3 of The Decline of Western Civilization (Focuses on the gutter-punks of 90s LA) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

BOOKS:

Some Wear Leather Some Wear Lace by Andi Harriman and Marloes Bontje (It's mostly goth/horror rock/post punk/deathrock but I feel like it's adjacent enough for it to merit a read) (unfriendlybat)

Spray Paint the Walls: The Story of Black Flag by Stevie Chick (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Kids of the Black Hole: Punk Rock in Postsuburban California by Dewar Macleod (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

We Got the Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk by Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Left of The Dial: Conversations with Punk Icons by David Ensminger (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

The Art of Darkness: The History of Goth by John Robb (A comprehensive history of Goth) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Punk Zines by Eddie Piller and Steve Rowland (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

The High Desert by James Spooner ( A graphic novel memoir of how the authro came into the scene) (ghost--in-a-machine)

Let Fury Have The Hour by Antonio D'Ambrosio (About the band The Clash) (anonymous submission)

MOVIES / DOCUMENTARIES:

Masque (A 10 minute doc about the Masque club in LA) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

ARTICLES:

History of Anarcho-Punk and Peace Punk (mushroomjar)

Late 80s and Early 90s Puerto Rico Hardcore Punk (mushroomjar)

The Jewish History of Punk (mushroomjar)

Japan's Impact on Punk Culture (mushroomjar)

The Forgotten Story of Pure Hell, America's First Black Punk Band (mushroomjar)

The Black Punk Pioneers Who Made Music History (mushroomjar)

Why Poly Styrene is Punk's Great Lost Icon (mushroomjar)

Alternative to Alternatives: The Black Grrrls Riot Ignored (mushroomjar)

Abandoning The Ear? Punk and Deaf Convergences Part II (mushroomjar)

Race, Anarchy, and Punk Rock: The Impact of Cultural Boundaries Within The Anarchist Movement (mushroomjar)

Street Medic Handbook (safety-pin-punk)

ZINES:

Sticking To It (safety-pin-punk)

So You Say You Want An Insurrection (safety-pin-punk)

All Power To The People (safety-pin-punk)

How to Survive a Felony Trial: Keeping Your Head up through the Worst of It (safety-pin-punk)

Collectives: Anarchy Against The Mass (safety-pin-punk)

Social War on Stolen Native Land: Anarchist Contributions (safety-pin-punk)

A Civilian's Guide to Direct Action (safety-pin-punk)

Critical Thinking as Anarchist Weapon (safety-pin-punk)

Security Culture: A Handbook for Activists (safety-pin-punk)

Betrayal: A Critical Analysis of Rape Culture in Anarchist Subcultures (safety-pin-punk)

ETC:

The Anarcho-Stencilism Subreddit (people upload stencils for others to use for free) (mushroomjar)

I would love to make a Vol. 3 post next year, so if you have resources and want to share, PLEASE message me!! (Preferably DMs)

[richarlotte]

Someone else you admire?

My good friend Twilly went to uni at 16 for PoliSci, Philosophy, and French, faithfully saved to be able to attend PFW every year for four years and to take the Eurail around Europe, and she’s graduating and moving to Europe to start grad school next year. I visited her at McGill when we were both around 19, and I was blown away by how much she’d been able to accomplish in the six months since I’d last seen her.

 

Twill is chic, totally carefree, cool, Congolese, and never too much. She’s found ways to study internationally for most of her life; she wrote a fashion magazine in high school; her music taste and humor are impeccable; and she’s got the bookshelf of my daydreams. T ran a small style, fashion, and lifestyle zine called “The Ambassador’s Wife” for the longest time, and the yearly zine perfectly captured the life I want to lead one day. She has such an eye for detail and has studied aesthetics and art in such depth.

 

She’s a chef, she jokes that she’s a bit of a literary dilettante but she’s far from it, she’s an artist, and she’s a dancer and actress. Twilly is the definition of a cool girl; it comes naturally to her. She’s adventurous and exotic without ever seeming like she’s trying too hard; she’s intelligent, cosmopolitan, inquisitive, and really extraordinary. She’s always told me that there’s something to be said about living life without the need for constant approval, and she’s right—there is.

 

People don’t just want to know Twilly; they want to be around her and have her in their lives. She’s magnetic and can make the worst of times seem like the best. She’d toss her hair over her shoulder and joke about spending too much time watching Anthony Bourdain, but she’s the sort of person who strays off the beaten track, comes back with stories, and has experiences that make you want to follow her the next time she goes. It’s hard to be the queen of the Irish goodbye when everyone wants you to stay, but she manages. 

 

There was a summer where she broke her phone and had to make do with a flip phone and her digital camera, so as she traveled, she’d write her address on the back of a spare photo she’d printed and distribute them to anyone she wanted to stay in contact with. She returned home to dozens of her photos mailed back to her and had to send off hundreds of texts and emails to get back in contact with everyone she’d met.

 

I admire her immensely and believe her to be one of the most consistent people in my life. We’ve known each other for years, watched each other grow, and leaned on each other. I faithfully send updates and advice, and she keeps me up to date with the major fashion houses she follows. It can be difficult to make high quality friends that mature with you as you grow up, so I think I'm especially lucky to have someone so likeminded and understanding in my life as one of my closest girls.

[counterintuitivecomics]

Some colorized bits from my recent free printable zine WHY WE MASK: It's Not "Just A Cold"! I purposefully made the whole thing b&w to make printing as cheap as possible, but it's fun to add color especially to the snot-splosions.

HEY COMICS FRIENDS going to SPX or other cons this weekend - MASK UP, EAT OUTDOORS, and REST if you start feeling run down. COVID-19 levels are BAD bad right now (it's currently the worst September out of the whole pandemic) and the government does not have our backs. This virus causes YEARS worth of horrible vascular, neurological, and immune system damage, and each infection raises your chances of gaining fun new disabilities that could prevent you ever making comics again.

I strongly advice cancelling festivals, cons, indoor dining, anything involving crowds indoors OR outdoors, etc. But I know people depend on income from cons, so: PACK MASKS, NASAL SPRAY, and CPC MOUTHWASH and actually use them! If you develop any COVID-19 symptoms (headaches, dizziness, nausea, stomach pain, diarrhea, sore throat, sore joints, etc) don't assume it's "just a cold". Stay in your dang hotel room and REST! You can TRY to "push through" to keep tabling but you are NOT gonna like the long-term results (aka Long COVID).

I care about all you comics people and I want you to enjoy many more decades of making and sharing and reading comics with each other. If you're feeling sick at a show this weekend and don't know what to do, drop me a line! No judgements. Take care of yourself and each other out there and remember, no one can rest your body for you but you.

(Image Descriptions are in the Alt Text. Also please feel free to print my zine and hand it out if you do go)co

[theminecraftbee]

so, first, accountability statement: I plan on trying to finish the “zedaph steals a baby” fic by the end of the month and god is that one-line summary no longer accurate but we’re sticking to it, said here publicly so now I have to do it. obviously I also have recursive exchange and the writing I have for hotguy comics zine, but I am not SUPER worried about either of those time/inspiration-wise at the moment and also for Reasons I know it won’t be long until I have more free writing time after that, SO.

various items that are on my potential writing docket, I am curious which of these appeal most:

I dust off the supervillain support group au. two ways this could go: I chip away at the second arc of my original outline and acknowledge this will be like a 300k fic I’m not ready to feel “done” with or “ready to post” with for ages, or I re-work it into something a little more doable and less ambitious keeping the same premise (ren runs a support group for supervillains, doc pov as he starts to heal and redeem himself). this MAY honestly be a target for “if I don’t hate the first 50k on re-reading it and I can actually make my brain write the second arc, do a slower release schedule and then start releasing chapters before I’m done writing”? but this ALSO runs the risk of “I stopped writing it, which is often a sign I was having trouble writing it”.

pearl monster au, which has been cooking in my head for a long while. the basic premise is “one day, pearl, with no memory of how or why this happened, wakes up in a facility as a monster and must try to figure out how she got there, escape, and find her way home, even knowing she may be irrevocably changed”. now with bonus season 10 fish flavor to add to this creature design I’ve been iterating on in my head for forever! this one is ALSO an experiment for me in “can I write a fic where I can’t write dialogue for basically the entire first act”, which would be interesting to see from me, you know?

the related “bigb folklore au”, where after secret life bigb is woken up by Cat and Dog by the tracks of the King Snake, which bigb can recognize as the railroad track, and decides to journey down the railroad to see if he can figure out what the fuck is going on. I need to do video review of life series bigb for this one. this is my excuse to get Weird and Metaphorical and also assign everyone to various animals for no reason, along with using some very specific aesthetic I have wanted to use for some worldbuilding but hadn’t gotten around to yet in any of my stuff. man walks through the desert with animal, confronts train that might be the watchers, might be death, and might just be a train. also, realizes that “confront” is the operative word there and has to deal with that. you know how it is.

““office au””, in air quotes because it’s not REALLY what anyone going to an office au is looking for so much as an excuse to write weird horror. iskall, normal-ish software developer man in a boring office job who does game jams in his free time, goes to work one day to work in his boring downtown office on a payment system for a client. and then things, uh, Take A Turn. this would be a LITTLE me going “what if I wrote an au with a guy who works in tech but like, the boring side of tech I’m in. like, banks and consulting and manufacturing and shit. where you sit in meetings all day and tweak java 8 code even though that language is ten years out of date. but THEN. something exciting happens in the worst way possible.” I’m doing to iskall what I did to mumbo stuffed bird is what I’m saying. it’d be fun.

DO ANY OF THESE PARTICULARLY INTEREST ANYONE. your input will be valued. like 50% chance i get hit with a strong bolt of inspiration then IGNORE that input but it’ll be valued all the same,

[mamamittens]

Every Fold a Wish

This is my piece from the Marco Zine, not related to Spooktober, I promise! For the rest of the fics--and even artwork!--just click the link provided above!

Also, I swear I didn't mean for it to be so sad--the original plan was goofy shenanigans and maybe ending with Marco trying to throttle Thatch when he cracks a joke about his little paper cranes but then...

well, this happened!

Oh, and here's a link to the fic specific artwork for it by @luna-orix, it's a wonderful take on the Big Scene in lovely color and style!

Word Count: 2,757

Under much pressure, Marco would have to confess this all started a very long time ago.

Back when he was still a deckhand sorting through musty maps littered with ink blots that barely passed as navigation tools. Their contents were downright illegible at best, but did well enough as teaching tools for what not to do. Over time, as they were passed from hand to unsteady hand, the parchment became worn. Rips becoming tears and holes until the only thing keeping them in one piece was hopes and dreams.

What to do with such a well loved piece of parchment?

Tossing them seemed almost an insult. And making them into paper again, while an interesting task, was usually not worth the effort. The ink bleeding and dying the usable parts darker and darker. Until it was good for little else but tissues. Marco had done it a few times just for something to do between tasks. The paper drying in the press able to be left for hours if needed. And he did hold a fondness for the old parchment made new again. But it was still not terribly useful. The ink needed to be even darker, or chalk but it smeared something terrible at the slightest touch.

In all fairness, he didn’t start with the worst off pieces.

A kind, older nurse with weathered hands and a gentle smile showing him the way. Every crisp fold building up to a new, enchanting shape. Even money could be manipulated. A cute way to leave a tip, if he was so wanting. And something to do with his hands.

And he kept doing it too. Starting with his clumsy, childish fingers. Baby fat clinging to his digits as he used his bitten nails to scrape the edges clean. Until they started to even out, habit and hard work turning them into slender, calloused tools of his trade. A little treat for himself as he learned the medical trade. It was good, to know that his hands could create even if he could not heal the hurts in others. A small comfort for himself after his patients fell asleep holding his hand, yearning to not be alone with their sickness.

He got some flak for it over the years. Always teasing remarks about how cute he was being. Little flowers and fortune tellers a popular demand when a particularly mischievous brother or sister was bedbound. And Marco would sigh. Teasingly remarking on their ungrateful attitudes even as he was plied with gifts of decorative paper for his little hobby.

They decorated his office shelves. Tucked in corners and atop the spines of medical texts. Peeking behind picture frames or marching along the windowsill of Oyaji’s room. A cavalcade of shapes in a rainbow of colors and prints. Every so often one would be found covered in layers of dust somewhere forgotten and returned to him with a wide grin. Laughter echoing down the halls as Marco racked his brain to remember when he made it.

Officially, he had no favorite paper craft. No beloved origami he had mastered over the years. Just as he had no favorite sibling.

But, if his family had the wherewithal to gather every one of his little treasures from over the years and fill up a room or four with them, there would certainly be an obvious contender.

Starting with the very first one he made with a crooked wing, crumpled lightly from the very hand that had taught him so long ago.

“I saved this one for last, boyo. Hope is… so dangerous to have on the high seas. Without it, you’ll never truly live. But too much and you’ll be too drunk to survive. And this little fella? This is what he’s all about, in a way. They say a thousand paper cranes, each folded with love and care, can grant you a single wish.” She whispered to him softly, guiding his hands over the worn map of some distant island lost to time. “Make as many as you want, it’s important to remember what it means to live—to wish. But never forget the work that goes into them. Wishing—wanting—that’s not even half the journey. Admitting you want something bad enough to dream is but the first step. After that, you still need to fold the paper. And fold it over and over again until it’s fit to fly. And then? And then, little Marco, you need to do it again. Until you have a flock a thousand strong. It can’t be done in a single day. Most won’t have the patience to do it in a lifetime. But one little crane at a time…”

She never finished that sentence.

She sighed, leaning against the pillows of her bed as Marco finished his first little bird in the palm of her hand. His own cradling the bird between their palms and she squeezed gently. Bending the worn paper a little in the cramped space.

Then she let go.

And Marco hadn’t stopped making them since.

Even as he gained his devil fruit. Grew from a boy to a man. They were his little indulgence, the fuzzy memory of a weathered hand clasped in his, paper crinkling between them never far from his mind. It hurt in a good way. A way that his fruit never gave him. A sense of release. A long sigh after a hard day. Sea breeze wrapping around his bare ankles in the hot sun. Endless blue before him with heavy storm clouds littering the horizon behind him.

His office door slammed open.

A boisterous voice practically singing out as Thatch sauntered into his office with a hot meal. It was late. Later than Marco realized. The bubbly, cool fire running thick in his veins. He’d been pushing it as of late, Marco acknowledged reluctantly.

“I come, O’ Great One! With the gift of food~!” Thatch sang, squinting into the dim candlelight of Marco’s office. Free hand hovering ominously over the light switch.

“Do it and I’ll kick you into the sea.” Marco warned. His fruit offering little reprieve from eye strain at this point. Bigger fish to fry, he supposed.

Thatch pouted, nudging the paperwork on his desk aside. Rather than setting down the food, Thatch instead placed his ass there. Wafting about the food Marco still couldn’t quite identify temptingly.

“C’mon, Coco! You’ve been in here for hours! It’s time to eat up and get some rest!” Thatch huffed.

“Stop calling me that.” Marco was ignored, as usual. The nickname a little rare but typically whipped out when Thatch thought he was being an idiot about himself.

“What could possibly be more important than enjoying some good food and even better shut eye? C’mon, I’ll even give you breakfast in bed! Doesn’t that sound scrum-didily-upmtious? This handsome man personally serving you up a hot plate of food in the morning?”

Marco imagined—not Thatch ‘handsomely’ serving anything—but sputtering as seawater ruined his hair. The woeful cries for mercy as he drowned, just a little while, he swears Namur. He deserves it!

Familiar with Thatch’s everything by this point, Marco doubted many would argue that Thatch didn’t deserve just a little waterboarding.

As a treat.

“Sounds like my sleep paralysis demon talking.” Marco drawled, fixing Thatch with a dry stare.

Thatch arched back as though struck, his dramatics nearly sending the food and himself to the floor.

“My own brother! After all the hard work I put into this? Every ounce of love I put into it?” Thatch emphasized, finally lowering the plate enough for Marco to see it was flayed sea king, glazed with honeyed pineapple and served with stuffed potatoes, a hot roll, and a slice of upside-down pineapple cake. A cup of what could be anything from tea to booze to wash it down with.

It looked fucking good. But just for being obnoxious, Marco rolled his eyes.

“Gross.”

That earned him a sharp gasp and playful tears as Thatch attempted to clamber into his lap for apology cuddles. Pressing obnoxious kisses to his face like Thatch was trying to console him from some terrible tragedy that had occurred.

“G-Get the hell off of me, you ass!” Marco sputtered, reeling back as Thatch smashed Marco’s face into his chest with petulant cries of forlorn love.

“—Oh, my poor, stalwart brother! You’ve worked so hard and can’t even accept crumbs of affection! It doesn’t make you any less of a man to cuddle!” Thatch reassured him as any protest was muffled into his shirt. “I promise I won’t think any l-LE—ES--! SHIT! ACK! M-MARCO—NO!”

Marco dug his fingers into Thatch’s unprotected sides, trapping his idiot brother in place for the deserved payback.

“Marco, yes!”

Thatch wriggled fiercely, yelping with every poke and prod as they laughed, eventually knocking back the chair and ending it with Marco wheezing under Thatch’s weight.

Finally, Marco shoved Thatch off into the floor, face aching from the smile they both shared.

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll eat and go to bed, you prick!” Marco huffed, Thatch still giggling beside him.

“Great! I’ll be sure to deliver breakfast to you, as promised~!” Thatch tittered cheekily, dodging the swipe of Marco’s hand.

“The fuck you will!” his fingertips grazing the fabric of Thatch’s sleeves. Still warm with laughter and affection.

Thatch was cold now.

Somehow colder than Marco’s veins as he desperately lifted up the other man into his arms. So much heavier than before, faint breaths wheezing with blood on his lips. Cool blue fire danced over his pale face, sinking in deep with a desperation Marco hadn’t felt in a long time. Hands slick with blood, skin blossoming with feathers and scales. Teetering between bird and man so violently his words were more akin to bird cries.

There were hands pulling him away. Trying to tug his trembling body from curling over Thatch’s cooling corpse. Hot, burning hands ripping him away.

A large hand, firm and steady. A rock in the ocean that beached him with such violence.

A deep, rumbling voice.

“We’ve got it from here, my son. We’ll save him, my boy. Come back to me. Come back to us. We love you.” Those words followed him into the dark. The world shaking as his lungs rattled with sobs.

“We love you…”

There was a beeping.

That was all Marco could think about.

All he could handle.

His hands were wrong. Almost incandescent. The bones vague shadows flickering in gossamer blue light. Gold licking his fingertips as he stroked… something. Lips stiff. Twisting with difficulty out of the pointed beak they were trying to form. Every ragged breath licking across his tongue with a heady weight to it.

There was something in his hands, Marco knew.

It was… thick. A little tepid. Some give until stiff scaffolding within protested. Thin threads slipping beneath a strange, upper layer. A steady, weak thrum beneath his touch.

His eyes burned. He wanted to rip into it, whatever it was. Until it was hot and thrashing and alive—

But a keen slipped from his lips as a rhythmic beeping finally registered properly.

He was at someone’s bedside.

Again.

He was a little deckhand tending to a dying nurse.

No.

He was a man at a bedside.

A friend?

A brother?

He loved them fiercely. Whoever they were.

Marco wanted whoever it was to wake up already. Tease him for losing control like this. Obnoxiously cry about the display of affection that was cutting into Marco’s chest. Turning his lungs to ribbons. Hooking into the arteries of his heart until every thump made him ache for release.

There was a blanket over his shoulders, Marco realized.

How long had he been here? He shifted in the chair and heard paper crinkle.

Fresh, patterned sheets. Traditional ocean waves with little fish peeking here and there. Tiny boats fighting even, arching waves. All in soft blues that transitioned to richer hues, imbuing the artwork with depth and emotion.

It was instinct to reach for the paper. But the weight of a whole person stopped him. Marco looked.

Both his hands were grasping a limp wrist with a faint pulse.

Letting go felt like ripping away his flesh. Piece by piece.

Fold it over and over again.

Marco’s hands were steady despite everything. And it felt like betrayal.

He shouldn’t be able to do anything right now.

Not even breathe.

But his heart kept going. Lungs expanding with the scent of cold antiseptic.

The paper was smooth. Flawless despite the neglect he’d shown it for… however long he’d been sitting at…

Here.

Without it, you’ll never truly live.

She meant this, didn’t she? His family?

Even without a smooth surface, Marco’s hands knew the way. Folding and pinching the edges clean.

No, Marco remembered.

She meant dreams. She meant hope.

Marco knew, deep down, that eventually there would always be a goodbye at the end of their stories. Said or avoided like the plague.

But he expected it…

Marco never wanted to expect it.

He’d rather drown than look forward at a time he’d say goodbye with any one of his precious family members.

The little crane perched between his fingers. Perfect after years of practice.

Marco choked up as he placed it in Thatch’s hand. Gently curling those limp fingers around it’s delicate shape. Calloused hands cradling the bird in a loose cage.

Marco retreated. Shuffling into his dark room. No one stopped him, their gazed burning his hunched shoulders.

In the bottom desk drawer, so rarely opened it almost got stuck, was a single item.

A lopsided paper crane with a bent wing. Stained with faded ink and weathered with age.

Like he was scooping up a live bird, Marco lifted it to his chest. Careful even as he collapsed to the floor.

He cried. Wept like he’d been cut in two with sea stone. Tears gushing out instead of blood. His fire, confused at the agony he was experiencing, danced in the air. Casting dizzying shadows across the space battered with open sobs.

Marco couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fill his lungs enough between his cries that ached down to his bones and the fire filling his lips with faux heat.

Everything hurt.

Nothing could heal.

He was a little boy again in his father’s arms. Weeping and certain he was dying from grief. Every wail a benediction. A plea against the inevitable. What was already past.

A wish burning in his veins even as shame filled him.

Death was natural. A long sigh at the end of a hard day.

But Marco wanted to hold his breath until he burst. Stop in the middle of a hurricane just to keep feeling the rain.

Parchment protested in his grasp and Marco shot up like he’d been burned.

Opening his palms to find the paper crane bent even further. Flickers of light cast across the ragged edges of ink—no?

Burns.

The bird was smoldering. Fueled by the open air of his shaking hands, it burst into golden fire. Marco wailed, shaken and confused as it lit up. Flying into the air with a trail of burning embers. Dancing in an unseen wind until, before Marco’s blurry eyes, it was gone. As though it was Thatch’s vivre card.

Time stopped. Stuttering as his heel stamped into the ground.

His shoulder nearly slamming into someone.

A door bashing into a wall.

That damn beeping so like Thatch. Annoying and reassuring in its consistent presence.

Nurses crowded Thatch’s bed, arguing over each other as familiar hair rose over them. Wide eyes looking around, face flush with warmth again.

He smiled, that crooked, familiar smile that tugged Marco’s lips into a similar shape.

“Hey, Coco, look! I got a little hospital buddy!” Thatch crowed, voice a soft rasp as he gently held up a small, blue paper crane. Gold catching the light as fire flickered over it’s wingspan. Every cresting wave lined with unnatural color that had not been there before. It seemed as alive as Thatch.

Thatch let out a creaking rush of air as Marco hugged him. Body awkwardly half in his lap as he buried his face into Thatch’s neck. Careful and weak, Thatch curled his arms around Marco’s chest. He smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and spice.

The storm was behind them now, but there was still time for rain. One breath after another.

Little paper cranes littered across a pirate ship.

Every fold a wish.

Every step hope.

[garou-art]

My worst kept secret is that I've been trying to work on a long form webcomic for years ✍️

Script, thumbnails and roughs for several 160+ page stories have been shelved indefinitely. This time, I'm working with my ADHD instead of against it, in a way that I'm hoping will stop me from burning out. It's the furthest thing from perfect, and I've got a long way to go, but I'm doing this project for me. I'm cutting every corner, I'm self-indulging, and I'm having fun.

I hope to eventually release my passion project, but until then please enjoy my ramblings via zine form

[enarei]

( this is a response to this zine [link]. the intent of this is not to offer some prescriptivist counter-position for only using "transgender", I don't personally have an issue with people using "transsexual" either way, and use it for myself occasionally, I just think the way in which that message is being conveyed is, like, incredibly misleading and reductive at best, and seems like a fantastical rewriting of history to justify transmisogyny at worst )

Focusing on the fact "transsexualism" was coined by Magnus Hirschfeld to argue against it being shunned by parts of the trans community, at least as an umbrella term (in contrast to "transgender"), does a disservice to the history of how the term "transsexual" was actually used in English for most its existence. We can't attribute the decades old controversy surrounding these terms exclusively to the individuals who coined them (neither of which were trans themselves), and ignore the context in which they were actually introduced and applied to the trans community, what relationship they fostered with the people they were trying to describe, and which segments of the population were discouraged from using them.

"Transsexual" emerged, in the English language, as a strongly pathologized term. The concept of the "transvestite" (cross-dresser), which the zine also references, was used in contrast to it, to highlight the difference between patients deemed "trans" enough to be allowed to access hormones and medically transition, and those whose "transness" was deemed merely a temporary ailment, or one deemed not serious enough to intervene. This wasn't a proactive distinction, emerging internally from the community itself, but rather from doctors who started to gatekeep access to the newly created field of medical transition based on arbitrary characteristics, with very little input from the patients they were supposed to be helping

The concept of the "true transsexual", which was simultaneously defined and reified in various typologies over the years, was fundamentally exclusionary in nature. Irrespective of who coined it, the reason "transgender" largely replaced transsexual in scope is because of this, because the category of people it was intended to describe was impossibly insular and stratified in terms of race, class, and sexuality, "transsexual" as a medical label was afforded on the basis of one being allowed to, rather than having a desire to undergo some form of medical transition. To those with the authority to actually prescribe hormones, it was never remotely as inclusive as it is being suggested here, and it should be immediately clear to anyone who has been denied access to any form of trans healthcare in the past.

It's extremely misleading to pretend the reason it is a less common term nowadays is just because it's perceived as "outdated". The very reason "transsexual" is undergoing a revival today is because the original basis for the exclusionary way in which it was employed has lost some significance due to the mechanisms used to enforce it losing relevance in the part of the world where it originated: informed consent practices have become increasingly common in the United States, despite all the setbacks in conservative states, a growing number of trans* people have only known an environment where medical gatekeeping is not as extreme; to most people a medical diagnosis of gender dysphoria is no longer seen as a requirement for someone to describe themselves as trans or be addressed with their preferred identity, because transness is no longer seen as an exclusively medical phenomenon, both by medical institutions, and society at large. Therefore, in the English language, in 2023, "transsexual" can ostensibly be used by anyone, regardless of conforming to a medical diagnosis, and regardless of strict conformance to gender roles.

However, this is a very, very recent phenomenon. It's important to remember easy/informed consent to hormones is far from being the norm in the majority of the world, even the English speaking one (or the US for that matter?), and a majority of trans people still have to grapple with performing "true transsexuality" as a fact of life to access trans healthcare, while dealing with incredibly shit doctors who believe all trans people are straight, hate their genitals—and particularly of transfeminine people—that they must pass to begin with to be allowed to transition. None of the examples cited here would be eligible for a diagnosis of gender dysphoria under existing criteria in the vast majority of practices, be allowed to medically transition, and be considered "transsexual" in the sense OP is implying, and this is more pertinent as to why the term has waned in use relative to "transgender" or just "trans" than what the individual who coined it may have originally intended—Magnus Hirschfeld, despite his contributions to trans people in Germany, did not have much influence in how the concept of "transsexuality" continued to be employed after his death, David Oliver Cauldwell, in reintroducing it to English as a "psychopathy", did; Harry Benjamin, Kenneth Zucker and Ray Blanchard, those who contributed to the WPATH, DSM and other bodies used to categorize transness and which types of bodies should be allowed to access gender affirming healthcare, had far more influence in trans people's actual experience of the term.

What many people seem to miss about the term becoming popular again, is that its very use by people who obviously do not conform to its original meaning in medical institutions & academia is "cool" today because it is somewhat ironic in nature: the trannies who top and exclusively fuck other trans women, would never, ever, be allowed to call themselves "transsexual" by any respected sexologist involved in the dissemination of the term in medical journals and across the world, we would be labelled autogynephiles, transvestites, and faggots instead. It's very telling how easy it is for CAFABs to argue people weren't victimized by its use and they only remember it as something "comforting", given they were generally never subjected to the same stringent criteria to be allowed to transition.

Omitting this, to argue instead that "transsexual" was never employed in a harmful way, that people dislike it simply because it's old, imo does a huge disservice to trans people who actually have had to put up with being told they aren't "transsexual" enough to have agency over their bodies.

[hwsforeignrelations]

A Fogged Up Plan

Summary: For three weeks, the Kingdom of Spades’ royals have been held captive in Diamond’s Fort Shellac. After one weevily meal too many, they hatch a plan to escape.

Made for @usuknetwork's USUKUSTwicePer zine: Cards, With Spades to Start. Read the full collection here (hehe I also designed the cover, please show everyone some love!!)

AO3 Link // Words: 3,812

Five moons before Queen Arthur Kirkland’s coronation, the isolated swamps of Southern Spades were inhabited by an insect known as PB Cup. 

Previously known but unstudied, a small population found itself in the hold of a cargo ship en route towards the Kingdom of Diamonds. 

Once docked, it is rumored that a seawoman unloading barrels and crates of imports carried the insects to her town on the outskirts of the port, where the red buzzers settled onto a Camellia sinensis farm. There, the small population decimated the crops. When customers purchased the expensive processed leaves in tea, it tasted of woody, bitter peanuts. 

Diamond’s PB Cup population quickly spiraled into millions and one of the kingdom’s primary exports, tea, crashed. 

With it, Diamond’s economic influence sank to match the impoverished Kingdom of Clubs. 

 Through no fault of his own, Queen Arthur inherited one of the world’s worst foreign affair conflicts in history as the Diamond government demanded compensation for their introduction of the bug to their crops, and Spades denied any responsibility for the lack of preparedness on the part of Diamond’s farming protection or economic infrastructure. 

Thus a war broke out between the two kingdoms. Luckily, the Queen of Diamonds, Francis Bonnefoy, and Queen Arthur Kirkland had fluttered in similar social circles on opposing navy forces, during earlier military careers, before Oracle selected them for positions of royalty.

Due to their previously-held relationship, the conflicting countries maintained (albeit strained) contact.

However, twenty years later, the strung out conflict saw no resolution in sight. Neither party would budge. In the last two decades, Diamonds had mostly recovered, converting and subsidizing previously small industries to make up greater lumps of their exports. 

Diamond GDP had mostly recovered, and the occasional skirmishes along the Spades-Diamond borders had lost their impact to both sides' citizens.

Mentions often paralleled this tone:

“Hey mom, Junior’s little league game’s canceled. Queen Arthur just announced Diamond shots fired near the field.”

“Gee, I’m in absolute shock. Let’s order a Continental basket for the other team. I know those sweet kids were looking forward to a Spadian roast but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Our government should really step off their high horse- it’s practically a soap opera! ‘You sent our kingdom into a depression!’, ‘No, your lack of planning sunk your economy!’ Honestly. Time for Gen. Jones to call it cuts… bring the phone while you're up, let’s reserve that basket before we forget.”

“Yes, ma.”

And so you see, neither kingdom withheld reservations to mock the ongoing conflict. So far in, it was nothing more than a contest of resolve between two too-proud kingdoms.

Bi-annual tea shortages, sport game cancellations, flight and ship delays, internal division among governments… but neither party appeared to be dismounting their positions, and as the conflict neared its twentieth anniversary Spades-Diamond tension surged.

Unbeknownst to regular citizens, the jack, queen, and king of Spades had disappeared from the castle three weeks prior. 

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Drop-drop-drop sounded a mysteriously originating source of water, droplets plopping onto a moist stone ground. 

The Jack of Spades, dressed in creased gold, purple, and blue fabrics cast his eyes towards his hands where he organized a cheap deck of playing cards. 

The action demonstrated disinterest to anyone unattuned to Yao’s discreet mannerisms, but the way his fingers twitched to swipe brown hair behind his ear was telling.

“...I beg your pardon?”

Drop-drop-drop.

Army General Alfred Jones raised thin eyebrows above round glasses in a look that read “everyone in this dungeon heard me loud and clear”, but continued in a patronizingly careful tone. 

“You need a command like brown bananas to banana bread, or day-old rice to fried rice. Something that suits your past-prime station, y’know?”

Drop.

Arthur Kirkland’s forehead actually twitched but his expression remained unaffected. “Well done, dear. I’ll be the first to admit, never in a million years would I imagine you capable of something so complicated as a simile”.

“Har har, Your Majesty,” Alfred reached across the cramped cell to knock his knuckles against the wrought iron bars.

Drop-drip.

“When I met you, 200-odd years ago, those magic bones would have no problemo melting, or-or slicing through these bars like butter.”

“-OH be silent for once, blathering-”

“And now look at you!” Alfred flung his hand in the general direction of his husband, himself  melted on the floor, head balanced on a rock. “A washed-up seadog, no good for nothing but a semi-ok fuck. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to bring dragons to their knees. Now some Diamond-fired metal’s too much? Y’all know their quality’s shit,” he yawned.

“Retirement might be on the horizon, sweetheart. But no offense.”

Drop-drip-drop. Drip. 

Yao didn’t even blink when hands lept for King Alfred’s throat.

“Gah-!” Vague choking escaped Alfred’s mouth while his oily hair tossed wildly and his cheeks went red from the loss of air.

Drop-drop-drip.

“Worthless excuse for a leader, I’d sew your thin lips shut before these stinking walls hear another lie from them. Seadog I am- and proud, too!” Arthur gave one last throttle before throwing Alfred aside in disgust. 

It could have been his breath, too. They hadn’t exactly been given a toothbrush. Three weeks into captivity and their last frigid bucket shower was over four days ago.

At least they had a toilet, even if it was awfully cold when you sat. Stars above, Alfred wanted out. 

Patience, Alfred reminded himself. That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a certain magical queen, and the king ignored his own internal voice which insisted self-restraint would never be his specialty.

Drop-drop-drop. 

The queen had retreated to the opposite wall to collect his composure, Alfred’s own ragged breathing filling the chamber and he coughed, once, before resuming his idle splay on the floor.

 Arthur ascertained the damage choking his spouse had cost his nails. 

“As for the jab at my sexual performance, love, I think everyone in this room can deny that claim with absolute confidence. Isn’t that right, Edison?”

Drop-drop-drop.

“H-huh?” Their guard startled at his post, not expecting to be addressed by name. His feet kicked at the ground, “Um. I-I guess rumors do get around.” Arthur turned smugly towards the army general and received a playful scoff for his troubles.

The jack spoke up, unimpressed by the exchange, “Do be mindful of others nearby who may not be so invested in his co-workers’ thrilling sexual escapades, please and thank yo-”

“Chow time!” Interrupted another guard, sliding three portions of beige sludge through a small slit in the bars, accompanied by biscuit. 

All three groaned.

“C’mon! I get the prisoner thing, but is this,” the queen knocked his biscuit against the bars and three weevils fell out, “really necessary?” said Alfred.

The guards shrugged with indifference and Yao dipped the corner of his flour ball in their water, softening it enough to break off a piece and chew. He paused, fiddled the bite with his tongue, then pulled a long, curled hair out from his teeth.

Both guards had left for a smoke break. 

With stony resolve, Yao declared, “We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Fiunwwy!” said the king through his porridge. 

“Ditto,” Arthur scowled. “And, these meals aren’t so bad. Navy ships serve far worse.”

“Ugg. That doesn’t make you look good, Admiral.” Alfred took a small handful of his food and fed it to a cluster of shadows in the corner of their chamber.

Gotta keep his slimy friend nourished, Alfred smiled as the shadows accepted the grub.

Meal finished, Arthur tossed his tray through the bars and sat against the wall, joining Yao where the jack dealt out three piles of playing cards. His technique was quick and clean, and Arthur would never admit to admiring the show. 

Not even magic could put on that performance.

 Envy forced him to deign his husband with a response. “Do us all a favor and shut your trap.” 

Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and Arthur smirked. “And finish your plate. Besides, army rations hardly pass as food, General Jones.”

Cramming the rest into his mouth with hardly a gag, Alfred discarded the plate and crawled towards the pair. He added an ass wiggle while Yao’s attention was elsewhere. The queen’s ears glowed red and he sneered at Alfred, disapproving of his husband dangling treats with no ability to give in the confined space.

Alfred laughed to himself. The queen was afflicted with an unfortunately high libido. Something which Alfred eagerly satisfied, even if his own needs paled in comparison. However…

Restricted to the meager dimensions of their cell with the observant jack… well, all jokes aside, the king looked with a mixture of trepidation and delight at the demolishment of his ass the moment they found a private space. 

They were lucky enough to acquire the deck of cards and spent their time playing every game under the sun- and some new. With Arthur’s unmet sexual needs and most forms of exercise impossible, stir-crazy was an insufficient descriptor for the kinetic energy burning through them. 

Cards helped starve off frustration, and offered an iota of normalcy.

Their favorite guard, Edison, returned from his break and all three royals exchanged glances. Alfred straightened up and humm-ed, “Did I ever tell y’all ‘bout that time Major Maisie single-handedly rallied the marines through Norbrandy?”

Yao and Arthur, having heard Alfred’s stories a million times, shook their heads. Alfred laid down a Four of Clubs and dove into his narrative, smiling behind his cards as Edison’s head tilted to hear their conversation better.

“Soulda heard from the boys direct-like. Said she flew in like a cannon. Fort Potomac was occupied by Hearts. Maisie rode in under the shield of fog, took one look at the opaque path ‘round the hill, and led her advance in the dead of night. Bombarded out of nowhere, King Kiku’s soldiers resisted heroically. But,” 

“Potomac was conquered by dawn, with only five Spadian casualties.” 

Arthur inspected his nails, ignoring the swell of power growing in his breast. “Impressive, I’m sure. What were the odds?”

As an ex-citizen of Spades (likely hired by Diamond forces for better wages than Spades’ less impressive salary), Edison’s vague admiration for his home-kingdom’s success fed the royals’ power. Having been away from the appraisal of most Spadian citizens for a month now, the ignorant guard was their only supplyant.

“Four Hearts soldiers to every one of ours.”

Alfred shivered in excitement when that number reached Edison’s ears and their unknowingly-benevolent guard emitted a burst of patriotism.

“Capital.” The queen spun a card onto the pile.

Yao delivered Arthur a sharp look. Sarcasm was fine, but not when a deaf person could hear it.

“500 points”, Yao announced in a tone which attempted neutrality but failed, tossing the last trick towards himself.

Arthur and Alfred groaned in unison, scratching one more check to the scoreboard on the stone wall. The box under “姚” had comically more checks than the “Al” and “K” beside it.

Alfred thought dreamily of their own castle’s gameroom, which displayed a point board of less comparatively devastating results. 

The king’s husband stared hard at their score board, then exchanged with Alfred a look he recognized as offense. Eyebrows drawn to etch little wrinkles above his nose and the tiniest sneer curling the right side of his mouth. 

The admiral’s tisk made Alfred break out into pearls of laughter and Yao allowed his own expression to revel in the satisfaction of besting his co-workers.

It was these shared moments which reminded Alfred of Oracle’s excellent match-making.

Drip.

Behind them, soldiers shuffled their shoes into the floor and small movements clinked metal armor. 

Probably jealous they weren’t in on the joke, heh.

Yao caught his eye, subtly jutted his chin towards their window. A few miles off an oncoming fog made itself known. Alfred nodded, canines flashing in his grin.

It was go time.

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That night, all men finished their trays of food, persevering through the mealy texture. 

Finally, after three weeks of drawing on Edison’s flaky Spadian patriotism, Yao, Arthur, and Alfred felt strong enough to fuel their escape. 

But that had been true for three nights now. There was something else they needed to ensure a successful breakout from Fort Shellac. They knew it was only a matter of time, in Diamond’s chilly forest climate, for moisture to collect in the air. All they had to do was intensify the natural way of things.

 In the ancient and clammy foundation of their prison, fog poured in through the bars and it only took slight encouragement from Arthur for a Féth fíada to emerge.

“Maisie’s a mage as well as a scientist, no?” asked Yao as the mist grew thicker.

Alfred nodded proudly, cupping something close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose it in his blindness. “Made her own fog machine and bribed some fairies to superpower it- resourceful as always.”

Their security was starting to notice the clouds curling at their metal feet and muttered in distress while their prisoners whispered and waited.

Moonlight cast its reflection on the fog, and as the minutes passed the damp room filled with blue hues.

Drop.

“H-hey!” Edison finally addressed them, kicking spastically at the vapor as though it could be intimidated by violence. He pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, who played a game of Patience against the tilted wall, “You’ve something to do with this, necromancer?”

Drop-drop-drop.

The Queen of Spades didn’t respond, pulling an ace from the stockpile and whipping it at his captor. 

It bounced off Edison’s helmet.

“What on Earth?” The guards watched in horror as the fog swallowed up their legs and began on their chests. “Find the director,” one snapped. Edison didn’t waste a moment, keys clanging in his grip as he scrambled to the exit. 

His hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway while silence enveloped the prison. Yao could smell anxiety pouring from the invisible guards, the gentle clinking of their metal armor interrupting an otherwise soundless environment.

Suddenly the cast iron bars screamed, brute force bending and tearing through the metalwork. “Merde!” cursed a Diamond accent.

“That’s a lad,” complemented Arthur, patting his husband’s back while the King of Spades huffed another breath before finishing the job, ripping the door out of its hole with one last ear-splitting jerk. 

With inhuman speed Alfred was gone in the fog. Before the unfortunate Diamond soldiers realized, their prisoner smashed them apart so they couldn’t see the other. 

“Heh- happy to help.” Alfred smothered the unnamed guard’s mouth, delivering a fist into the armored abdomen. The force was enough to penetrate the protective metal and padded fabric and the body slumped instantly, held up by Alfred’s hand gripping his face. 

Yao stepped over the raw metal of their prison door and into the face of Alfred’s catch. The Jack of Spades reached into the guard’s fauld and produced a string, on which he pulled and produced a small sheet of inscribed metal. In complete blindness Yao skimmed his finger beds along the sheet, memorizing the meaning of the indents, before stepping back and handling it the the Queen, who confirmed his interpretation with a hum.

“Thank Oracle for y’all’s Diamindortic, couldn’t read it even if I could see an inch from my face,” Alfred said, dropping the unconscious body and listening with satisfaction as it crashed into the floor.

Dusting off his hands, the cluster of shadows from their cell made itself known against Alfred’s prosthetic leg, oozing up the complicated gears and bolts. It chirped.

“Butters would like some gravity, Arthur,” Alfred said, taking “Butters” from his thigh and flailing in the air before locating the queen’s outstretched hand.

Butters slid the languid journey onto Arthur’s palm and waited patiently for the kiss which Arthur pressed to its head. “Erg. Revulsion doesn’t scratch the surface of your pet’s chosen skin.”

“Yeah, I know. But the mucus keeps ‘im healthy!

A large silhouette, barely discernible in the air, expanded before the three Spadian royals. It stopped growing at around six feet tall and sneezed when Yao touched its nose, approximately the size of a bocce ball.

“What a fine boy,” the jack complimented Butters’ chosen form, petting what felt like an enormous panda.

Yao felt the round ears under his hands and the strength behind the bones of its face. The doublecoat swallowed his fingers when the jack adoringly brushed them under Alfred’s pet’s ears. Beneath Butters’ muzzle were thick canines, and from the animals’ stomping Yao sensed hoofs rather than paws.

“Excellent form, bao.”

Butters wiggled at the praise.

With reluctance Yao released Butters from his coddling and stepped back, allowing the king’s approach towards his service animal. 

Steps hurried down the staircase towards them, the sound bouncing off the walls like a stampede of metal-wearing bison. 

“Time to go,” Arthur said, dragging a sword off an unconscious guard and advancing towards the stairwell, blade tip forward-facing. Yao chose a barbed mace from his own casualty and wasted no time in singing it through the air.

Alfred cringed against Butters’ neck after mounting, listening with unwanted familiarity to the shrieks and groans of wounded men and women. He had blown off many faces in his long career, but avoided violence when he could. 

Right now they could not, and Alfred didn’t bother looking away when he held out two fingers and punctured a soldier through the neck as he and Butters rounded the last turn. 

Ignoring any pain emitting from the base of his amputated leg, Alfred ushered Butters onward, the overgrown puppy smashing a recovering enemy back into the stone as they ascended the stairs behind his queen and jack. 

Arthur’s weapon, guided under the experienced swordsmanship of a centuries-old navy admiral, sliced through Diamond flesh like butter. The queen was momentarily distracted by Yao’s comment and jammed the mental length through a ribcage up to the hilt. 

The soldier’s scream was cut off as blood pooled up her throat and over her teeth, and when yanking went nowhere Arthur pressed one foot against the woman’s side and pushed, orange blood spurting all over him as the body crashed, limp and lifeless. 

“Somehow,” panted Yao mid-run, “I didn’t expect so much blood.”

“We didn’t correctly anticipate enemy numbers,” Arthur nodded. “Either our previous estimations of Fort Shellac were off by hundreds, or Diamonds has since fortified its defense.”

“Fucking Francis,” Arthur grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down from his hairline and mixing with the Diamond blood on his cheek.

In Alfred’s marital opinion, his husband looked actually terrifying- and handsome as heck.

“You better not be,” Alfred laughed. In front of him, Yao groaned in a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“Spare me,” the jack pleaded.

Two pairs of feet and one set of hoofs ran along the fort’s main floor, evading who they could and decommissioning any who they couldn’t with little regard for the permanentness of the blow.

With poor Edison’s admiration for Spades to blame, amassed over weeks of captivity, the three royals utilized their inhumane strength without restraint, bulldozing through room after room, leaving behind a trail of massacred soldiers, heads and limbs and organs soaking the stone floor with orange and yellow blood. Like a line of sheets hung out to dry whipped up by a hurricane, screams tore and ripped themselves out from the throats of the wounded and dying. 

“And that’s why we don’t wear white to the wedding,” Alfred joked at a guard’s white armor soaked through with orange “wine”. General Jones maintained a light mood with breathless chatter and the queen and jack responded in kind.

Anyone watching might express disgust at their attitude, might expect more from such experienced political figures. 

The seasoned monarchs had no reason for suppressing resentment, for the trust broken and their own time wasted and negligent treatment, and did not benefit by acknowledging the graveness of their actions in the moment.

Kidnapping a suit’s royalty was a serious crime, war or no war. It would spell out a dreadful escalation back home. The Spadian monarchs were no wet-behind-the-ear politicians- they were representatives of an empire, with a responsibility to their kingdom above all else.

King Rajesh and Queen Francis would regret their decision, and the first part of Spades’ retribution began with the public condemnation which would befall Diamond royalty when the media caught wind of Fort Shellac’s heavy casualties.

Finally, Yao caught sight of sunlight streaming in through the squares of the portcullis. "सृष्टि डायमंड्स के साम्राज्य और इसे बनाए रख��े वाले सभी लोगों को अच्छे अवसर प्रदान करे।, “ said the jack without much relish, quoting from the metal sheet’s engravings. 

Only four women stood guard and they jumped in surprise at the correct spell, frozen with disbelief as the gate lifted.

The moment they advanced, the three royals were gone. Beneath them Butters galloped past, encouraged by Arhur’s remaining strength. They rode mile after mile, thoroughly exhausted by their massive expense of magical energy in so short a time.

The Clock gave them inhumane tolerance, but it would never be enough to keep the strain off their bodies in a fight like that. 

Eventually, Butters’ pace petered until he came to a complete stop on a road.

Arthur and Alfred had passed out against the soft fur off Butters’ back, too exhausted to stay awake.

The weight of Yao’s eyelids threatened him with the same fate, but sleep wasn’t an option until they were with Spadian authorities. 

Thankfully, Spades and Diamonds shared a long boarder and Yao only had to encourage Butters for another hour before a Spadian soldier’s blue armor could be spotted up the road.

She saw them immediately and grabbed her sidearm as she walked up. “Identify yourselves,” she demanded.

Without the energy to even speak, Yao peeled Alfred’s head from between Butters’ ears and used his sleeve to wipe the grime and caked blood from his face.

She recognized her army general immediately, even beneath the thickly remaining dirt, and dropped her weapon to fall to attention.

“Y-your majesties! My deepest, sincerest apologies, I didn’t recognize-,” She stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to find the next course of action.

“It’s fine,” waved aside the jack, feeling himself losing against consciousness. The woman before him might be a fresh recruit but he could care less. The sparkling spade over her breast was all that mattered.

“Just lead him to the nearest lookout,” Yao pointed to Butters. “Don’t bother waking us up,” Yao said before he slumped like a deck of cards with his king and queen, dead to the world.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I posted my art from a zine early?

I (23nb) joined a zine for a semi obscure 2000s manga/anime as a page artist with two of my friends. I enjoy this media but I don't really consider myself in the fandom, I only joined because one of my aforementioned friends is a huge fan of it and the other friend is also a casual enjoyer and we thought it would be fun if we all did a zine together.

However.

Most zines have a timeline of around 9-10 months from beginning to publishing but this one's been in production for almost 2 years. I've been in a few zines and this one has the worst organization I've ever seen in any project. The timeline on the discord only covered the first 5 months and had no estimate for how long the production would be, but a year and a half for publishing is pretty unheard of. The only check-in for progress that I remember didn't even require sending in your piece, you just had to say if you were finished or not and only a handful of the 30ish people on the discord responded lmao. Both of my friends ghosted at this point and the Singular mod (there might be two mods. I can't really tell) didn't dm them to see if they still wanted to participate or anything. Since there is only one person doing everything me and a few others have asked if they need any help and every time the mod(s) say that they're fine. every month or two someone will ask how the production is going and the mod will answer, and then another month goes by and the cycle repeats. I think the zine has finally gone into its “preorder interest check” stage (so not the actual preorder) but judging by how long everything takes i estimate that it'll be another 2 months at least before it actually goes into preorder. Its also never been clear if this is a free zine or if the sales will be donated to charity or distributed among the contributors. Since there's Allegedly going to be a physical copy it's gotta at least use the sales money to pay for production and shipping costs, but I have no idea if I'll be compensated with a physical copy or any money, especially if I do the thing that I might be TA for.

So here's my actual question. WIBTA if I posted the art I made for the zine before the mod says it's ok to do so? A big part of zine etiquette is that you do not post the final piece until the zine is finished, and the repercussions for someone who does range from a mod dming them to take it down or being kicked out of the zine entirely or in the absolute worst case, called out and blacklisted in the fandom and zine circles (I don't think anything that serious will happen to me but I have anxiety so I'm always imagining the worst thing) Most of the people on Tumblr in this fandom are kind of annoying fandom mom millennial types so I don't really want to deal with any possible backlash from them lol. If I just posted my art on Instagram idk if any of them would see it, but they Definitely would if I posted on Tumblr since the zine originated on there and it's such a small tag. I'm also so frustrated with the experience I kind of want to write something cunty in the description about how it's a zine piece for a zine that probably will never come out but I know that's just being petty and would probably invite drama. Also since I drew this thing a year and a half ago it's a little busted looking so I might redraw parts of it, so posting it would still be kinda shitty but it would technically be a different piece from the original one I submitted to the zine.

What are these acronyms?

[showroomcertifiedzine]

So, what's the deal with Showroom Certified?

When we started this project, we estimated finishing in “Q2 2024”- we’re now in Q4 2024, with no updates on pre-orders beginning for a while now. So, what happened? Is the project dead? What’s going on?

I’m not going to beat around the bush– we fucked up! I (Juno) and the other mods have never run a zine before, and there’s been a bit of “we bit off more than we could chew” as we move into post-art production. All three of us also unfortunately happened to fall into our own respective IRL crises that drew our attention away from the project for a stretch of time. These are explanations, not excuses, and on behalf of the mod team I’d like to apologize– both to our contributors, and to spectators who’ve been waiting for the zine to finally be available.

However, I am not about to leave everyone who’s been waiting on this zine in the dust. Showroom Certified will be completed, and will be available before the end of the year! (Or at the worst, very early next year.) We’re currently discussing the financial situation (i.e. taxes, manufacturing costs, etc.), and we’re also finally settling on manufacturers for the merch.

Our main obstacle at this point is the money– since this is such a small project (compared to other zines, at least), we’re trying to figure out a way to produce everything with the smallest out-of-pocket costs on the mods’ part, since we’re all broke 20-somethings lol. We’re considering how best to approach pre-orders when the time comes, and we think we’ve come up with something that will keep things relatively easy on our end while also keeping all our promises! Stay tuned for more details (once we have the details actually solidified).

We haven’t been the best at communicating updates to you guys, so going forward, I’ll be typing up updates like this for you all on a weekly basis! We’re aware of how long the radio silence has been, so hopefully these will work to regain some of your trust and interest in the project.

TL;DR: All the art for the zine has been completed, and despite issues on the mod side of things, we're slowly but surely gearing up to get preorders open! Thank you for being so patient with us- we'll keep updating you like this through the rest of production! See you next week!

[bi-bats]

Got baited into making zines for zinetober by @koddlet after seeing their "worst thing I've ever folded" zine!

(all of the green ones in this first zine are things in my breakroom at work)

Also while I was on the phone with my mom yesterday I folded like. 20 blank mini zines in this size by accident. I just looked down and they were there??

Anyways, I've talked a little bit about this but I haven't like. Made art in a really long time until this year bc I was so caught up in whether or not it would be good when other people looked at it that I stopped making it for me. And then I was reminded by a friend that making art isn't about that, it should be about creating, and I feel like I just got a limb back now that I'm making art again.

So yeah, I wasn't going to share this zine but then I thought, hey, if I ever inspired someone to make something, I'd want to know. Plus, they said they wanted to see the zines people were making, so here ya go! I have one more I might share, and I think I might keep making them.