#thoughts and constructive criticism welcome

[nekrosmos]

Cw: 18+ (MDNI), first time

Nikolai had thick fingers.

Which was a good thing, as there was no way that John would have been able to take him fully during the first weeks of their relationships. Someone more experienced than he was could have, but John needed time, needed gentleness and care.

When the two first shared a night together, back in John's Liverpool apartment, Nikolai had him shower, clean himself up as he prepared the bed. Clean sheets, a large, soft towel for him to lay on, and a tube of lube on the nightstand. He dimmed the light, a certain shyness still very much ingrained in a recently out of the closet Price. Nik understood, of course, and was happy enough to offer him the perfect setting, hoping to have his friend and lover relax. He knew that the captain was nervous. Excited, but nervous, and he wanted to make sure that John felt safe around him, no matter what.

When Price came out, slicked wet hair, skin red from the hot water and smelling like the most enticing thing Nik had ever smelled, all Nikolai could do was smile, the view so hypnotizing he almost forgot what they were here for.

Gently, he guided John, taking his hand, kissing it, kissing his skin, his face, his lips as he had him sit on the bed, then lay on his stomach as he climbed on top of him.

Nikolai wouldn't go too far with him tonight, that was their deal. Small steps, one at a time, as John grew accustomed to him and his own pleasure. 

So, Nik laid next to him, an eager hand running against the naked body of his most trusted friend, lips kissing his freckled shoulders while his fingers wandered lower and lower, making sure that John was alright, every step of the way.

He felt him tense up slightly when his fingers reached his entrance, caressing it slowly, carefully for a moment, while his dark eyes observed his partner for any reactions. John was flustered, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, groaning when he felt Nik touch him.

Even then, with John's face almost fully hidden, Nikolai thought of him as the most beautiful thing he ever had the pleasure to have his hands on. The perfect shape of his body, his ruffled hair, the blue eyes peaking through their hiding spot to glance at him from time to time, and the way he reacted to his every touch. It was intoxicating. Nikolai placed a kiss against John's forehead, his free hand running through his hair before grabbing the small tube, opening it and spreading the cold liquid against his fingers.

From the corner of his eye, he could see John's hand squeeze the pillow he was laying against. Nik smiled again as he placed more kisses against his skin, this time his back, almost as freckled as his shoulders were.

"We can stop any time, John. I won't hurt you."

This got a reaction out of him, John's head turning and glancing at Nik, his cheeks flushed with red.

"I trust you, Nik. I'm just nervous." 

Nik nodded, moving himself up so he could kiss John’s face again, and then his lips, both of them eager, hungry as Price groaned against him, leaving him almost breathless, until Nik began to push a finger inside of him, the groans replaced by moans as they kept kissing sloppily. 

The resistance against Nik’s finger was natural, the heat of John’s body almost intense against his fingertip. He was slow, gentle, listening to every single sound coming out of John, ready to move back if something was wrong. 

He was barely a knuckle deep when John tensed up again, Nik immediately stopping himself. A few more kisses and sweet praises whispered in his ear and John’s body relaxed, his hole opening up as Nik pushed deeper. 

The way John’s body was able to take his finger was beautiful. Nik could feel his entrance stretch around him, but slowly give in, soft muffled moans coming from John as he was experiencing something new, something intimate and special that Nik knew he had been craving for a long time, perhaps even without realizing. By the time he had pushed his finger as deep as he could inside of him, John was fully relaxed, limbs limp as he laid on the bed, head in the pillow he was holding. 

The moans and groans echoed louder when Nikolai began to withdraw his finger before pushing it back inside, making sure to make it as pleasurable as he could for John. His hips began to move as Nik’s hand moved, looking for friction against the bed, his cock probably hard under him, although Nik wanted to wait a little longer before touching him there as well. For now, he wanted John to experience the pleasure of penetration, relax into it and allow himself to discover what he liked. It was going well, judging by the swears now leaving his lips. 

“Fuck, Nik, That’s already so much.” 

“Da, but you will be able to take more, in time.” 

This got another swear out of John, and another one as Nik pushed deeper again, fucking him so thoroughly with just a single finger, his thighs shaking ever so slightly under Nik’s touch. 

This continued until Nikolai could feel John getting closer, his body heating up and his moans getting more desperate, hole fully relaxed around the intrusion. 

So, Nik rolled on to his side, guiding John to do the same so that his free hand could wrap itself around his hardened cock, slick with pre-cum and begging to be touched. The sounds escaping John’s lips were outright sinful, a perfect melody to Nik’s ears as he dragged his palm up and down his shaft, thumb playing with John’s tip as he quickened the thrust of his finger inside him. 

It didn’t take long for John to finish, hot white seed spreading inside of Nik’s palm and on the towel he had laid under him earlier, body tensing up for a second before giving up, the bliss of his orgasm spreading through him, unable to form a coherent sentence as he rested against Nik’s bigger body, shielding him, protecting him as he felt John’s ecstasy coursing through him. 

John was breathless, his skin burning hot, cheeks red and lips parted as he tried to compose himself. 

It was getting difficult for Nikolai to ignore how hard he himself had become, his cock pressing against John’s ass under his sweatpants. 

One day, he would take John, fully. But not tonight. Tonight was not about him, but about John and his pleasure. 

Nik smiled as he pressed another kiss to John’s temple, then his cheek, stopping right under his ear lobe, the skin of his neck sensitive to his touch. 

“You did so good, John. I think you could take another finger, da?” 

The shiver that ran down John’s spine was all the answer he needed, as he leaned back to grab back the tube of lube. The night would be long, and he would make sure that John enjoyed every inch of his fingers as he basked in the bliss of his pleasure.

[chippedshake]

Based on a prompt by @amethyst-writer

It's been a couple weeks since Darry and Ponyboy agreed to stop fighting. Of course, months of a strained relationship, of barely contained hollering and silent tears at night aren’t going to vanish with a simple conversation. They're going to keep on arguing, no one could believe anything else, but at least Soda won't be forced to be a middleman anymore. They won't tear their family apart anymore because they're communicating and talking to each other and not bottling up their emotions until they explode in a slap and running away and two of their friends dying.

But old habits die hard and Ponyboy is late again.

"Where've you been?" Darry asks, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

"M'I late?" There’s a testy undertone to Ponyboy's voice, daring Darry to disagree. Is he the only one putting any sort of effort into this whole "no fighting" thing?

"Yeah, buddy, you're late."

They aren't screaming. Two months ago, they would be screaming. Now they're trading tense, passive-aggressive statements with long stretches of silence in between.

Darry doesn't know which one he prefers.

"Sorry."

"Can you stop with the sarcasm for a second and actually talk to me?"

"I am talkin' to you, Darry, you just don't care about what I say 'cause you already got your whole speech prepared."

A scathing reply is crawling up Darry's throat and dancing around his tongue, tickling his gums and pulling at his teeth, trying to force his lips open.

Pony ran away and Soda ran away because you can't keep your temper down.

"Right." He shoves it back and down his throat "I'm sorry, Ponyboy."

Ponyboy can't meet his eyes and shifts his weight to his right leg.

"Don’t worry 'bout it, Dar. I'll try an' be on time next time."

He is. On time, that is, the next time he goes out. Which is the day right after, by the way. As if he didn’t want to spend time with his brothers.

The problem this time is that he's gone out with Curly Shepard and TPd their principal's house.

Pony didn’t even tell Darry. He had to find out when the school called him because they got caught.

"I just can't believe you were this stupid! Don't you ever think, Pony? How do you expect to get out of here when all you ever do is get into trouble with Curly Shepard, who spends more time in the reformatory than in his own house?" Darry takes his coat off aggressively as they walk inside the house and Ponyboy flinches back on instinct.

Darry freezes.

"Shoot, Pony, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't mean to scare you." His voice is soft and careful now; he's talking like he would to a scared child on the street who's missing his parents and scared of the big stranger talking to him.

Oh.

"I'm sorry, Pony." His voice is pleading and he's forcing tears back because he knows it won't help anything if he starts crying now. He's apologising for so much more than just taking his jacket off and they both know it, but Ponyboy won't meet his eyes. He looks anywhere but at Darry, his face drawing back awkwardly as his shoe tries to make a hole in the floor.

"S'fine Darry, I know you didn't mean to."

Pony may say it's fine, but nothing about their situation is fine.

Darry starts noticing. Every time he pulls a chair back. When he wanders out of the kitchen with a knife. A quick hair-ruffle without warning.

It all feels violent. Reminiscent of that night that gets further away with every day that goes by but still haunts Darry's mind the moment he closes his eyes.

And he's trying, he's really trying, to make sure Pony knows he doesn't mean it. Blubbering out apologies, moving slower, announcing actions.

None of it's enough.

Ponyboy doesn't seem to spend any time at home anymore. He's always out. With Cathy or Curly or Mark or even Bryon, who seems to hate him for some reason Darry can't wrap his head around.

He gets home right for dinner and hardly says a word.

It's Darry's fault, if course. No matter how much he apologises, no matter how much he tries to take back all the stupid yelling (and that night, that goddamned night that haunts every night that's come after), it's never enough. Ponyboy isn't going to forgive him and, honestly? Darry can't blame him.

But they promised. They promised Soda that they would try and that they wouldn't hurt him anymore.

And now they’re back in the same place: unspoken tension strung tight in the air whenever Ponyboy and Darry are in the same room, Soda trying his best to dissuade it without taking sides.

Darry doesn't know what to do anymore.

Is there even anything of his family left to save? Did their last hope at functionality die with their parents on those train tracks ten months ago? How can he get his little brother to forgive him?

Does he even deserve forgiveness?

Soda's gone to sleep and Darry's own eyelids are heavy but Pony isn't home yet and he's waiting up.

Ponyboy's fine. He's come home late before, always in one piece. Darry himself used to come home at ungodly hours of the morning when he was still in highschool, and his parents never waited up.

No one waits up for their kids when they go out with friends.

But the moment Darry thinks about going to bed, Ponyboy appears in the park, drowning because Darry trusted him to cool down and come back.

Sue him for being nervous.

The door squeaks open as Ponyboy comes inside and Darry leaps to his feet.

"Where the hell've you been?"

Ponyboy shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the hook by the door before answering.

"Out."

"Out," Darry repeats sarcastically, "like you always are these days. I'd be surprised if you spent a single minute in this house that wasn't so we could feed you! You ever think about your brothers when you're off on joyrides with Curly Shepard – don't look so surprised, you know I talk to Tim –"

"If you know where I am all the time then you don't gotta worry about it, do you?"

"Yes, I do hafta worry about it because you’re my little brother and Curly Shepard is nothing but trouble."

"Like you ain't friends with Tim–"

"That’s different and you know it. I don’t know how you'd even know who I talk to since you never spend any time at home anyway, but–"

"You ever think that maybe I don’t wanna come home because all I ever get for doin' it is you hollerin' at me? Oh, it's all better now 'cause you apologise fer yellin' all day, but that don't change the fact that you do!"

"What else am I supposed to do? You know damn well we can't keep tearin' Soda apart and God knows you ain't puttin' in any of the effort. Tell me, Pony, what do you want me to do? 'Cause that's all I do, aint it? Just follow your every–"

"I want you to be a better brother!"

A beat of silence.

Ponyboy's breathing quickly, his chest shaking, and Darry can hear the tears he won't let fall.

"D'you remember when I lost your football a year ago?" His voice is fragile, tense, barely audible over the silence that's rushing through Darry's ears. "The one the whole team had signed. You hated me for days. Then we bounced back a week later without even a sorry. And now–" His voice breaks and a faint hiccup makes it through his defences. It takes all that Darry has not to wrap his arms around his little brother "–now ya can't even say two sentences without a sorry bein' in the middle of them and I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it because I ain't fragile and I ain't gonna break if ya tell me to do my homework! I just didn't want you on my case all the time, but even that's better than whatever this is.

"You wanna know why I'm always with Curly? 'Cause he calls me an idiot when I mess things up and he wrestles with me and only says sorry when he actually hurts me. 'Cause he don't treat me like I'm made of glass. And I'm not!"

Ponyboy ends his rant with a little stomp that looks so absurdly childish after their fight that Darry almost laughs.

But it's a stark reminder of the fact that Ponyboy is just a kid. He's just a kid and he's gone through about as much as Darry, who still feels unprepared for it. Ponyboy's fourteen but he isn't, not really. Fourteen-year-olds don't have to worry about their friends crumpling under streetlights or drinking so aggressively they end up in a hospital bed they can't pay for. They don't have to worry about carrying out their best friend's dying wish.

Ponyboy's sick and tired of everyone around him treating him like a kid when he can't really be called one anymore because kids are innocent and what part of Ponyboy can be called innocent right now? He's gone through enough loss to know what he can handle and how he should cope, and yet everyone's assumed he doesn't because he's a scrawny little kid.

Darry walks – stumbles – over to the couch and sinks down into it. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and runs a hand down his face.

He can't look Pony in the eyes, not now. Not if he really wants to say it right. Instead he stares holes into the couch in front of him, trying his best to find where to start.

"God, I–" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "I'm so sorry, Pony. You're right. It's stupid, I wanted to protect you from the world, at first, make sure you got outta here." He laughs humourlessly. "Can't believe I didn't realise how pointless it was. You can't protect someone from the world they live in. Then I wanted to protect you from myself, which was even stupider, I don't even know what I was trying to do, but I was trying–"

He's cut off by a small body – too small, hasn't he been eating? – ramming into him as Ponyboy sits down on the couch next to him.

"I know," Ponyboy whispers as his arms snake around his older brother, his head buried in Darry's shoulder. "You're tryin' and you ain't perfect." He takes a deep breath. "And I also know I ain't exactly helped much."

Darry gives a breathless laugh. "It's fine, Pony. I wasn't a saint at fourteen either."

He wraps an arm around Ponyboy.

"We'll figure this out, someday, right?"

"'Course we will." Ponyboy's voice is muffled by Darry's shirt so he turns his head to awkwardly look up at him. "We did that thousand-piece puzzle that one time, remember? We're invincible."

He laughs again and ruffles Ponyboy's hair.

"Fuck yeah we are."

[bonnibelleangelica]

Constructive Criticism and Shame

You know what’s fucked up? The culture around criticism. If a young artist says that some criticism got to them in any way, waves of people will come out telling them “That’s life” “That’s how to industry works” “You’ll never make it if you can’t handle this.” But in the industry, you'd be making money and getting good reviews as well. In the industry, you’d usually be managing an in-depth review that appreciates all the beautiful details while also providing some professional insight and opinions in the hope that the creator might learn and do better next time, not just slurs and moral attacks.

Unless you're getting cancelled, you can expect a decent balance of good and bad. But what person on Earth is going to be untouched by nothing but insults? Not critique, insults. People ripping your work to shreds and saying you have no talent whatsoever and should give up forever. More than just calling you a name, they go into every detail and tell you how unbearably awful it is. Silence from the people who do like what you’ve done, leaving only the people with enough time to go harass small creators every time they make something with no intention of trying to help them improve.

There’s a difference between having a mental breakdown because someone says you made a typo and waking up to nothing but dozens of ruthless insults.

Don’t let Tough Guys force you to never be hurt when someone is cruel and attacks your passion directly. I’m sorry that happened to you, it sucks even if its to be expected. Don’t let them stop you ❤️

[veggidoesart]

snufkin's whole family thinks he's gay- a moomins/bo burnham animatic

by me!

posting it on tumblr first, probably gonna go public on yt tomorrow ^-^

(repost cause i think i messed up the link the first time)

[godlyicarus]

my home is a mouth by youssef khaireddine

hello! i spent the first few months of this year passionately working on self-publishing a poetry collection but i've lost the passion for it so i'm abandoning the project. i still want to share what i've come up with, so even if no-one reads it, here it is! :)

(edit: the above photo was going to be the cover art. there was a poem about it but it didn't make the cut)

[bubbleteasing]

bro props to u for chapter seven of Early Bird Catches the Bone cuz holy shit it was marvelous I'm cofjdjdos

[sillypoetproject]

Heart

in their open palms is a heart

still slowly beating as blood drips down their arms

and with a gentle squeeze of their bloodied fingertips

down their arms, the blood slowly drips

and to their face, they bring this heart

so they can see it clearly in front of their eyes

and with one quick breath

the smell of death

surrounds them like some sort of prize

and oh it is you who they felled

gazing upon your pale face as they consume you whole

and oh the sight was one they beheld,

sticky red hands covering their equally red face as the room suddenly went cold

“you beast”, a quiet voice whispered,

a snakelike lilt in it’s words

“you kill and you feast while forever they’ll sleep, all because you wanted your sick comforts”

now usually their skin is thick, tough as a crocodile’s hide

but their hands shook and a whimper escaped their throat as they felt a hit to their pride

“i know they loved me most,” they said weakly after swallowing the sinew in their mouth

“and i warned them beforehand that the taste of their heart was not something i could go without”

and so the room went quiet

as they went to devour the flesh in their hands,

but before their teeth could embrace the meat

the voice pulled them out of their head

“you bring only destruction,” it hissed, “culling all those you see struggling,

and to me, it seems you are entirely unaware of the monster you are slowly becoming”

and with a frown they lowered their arms, laying their hands fisted upon their upper legs,

once more gently squeezing the heart between their fingers as they thought about their new regrets

“i am not a monster,” they said, voice cracking from disuse, “they gave me permission to disembowel them in hopes that within their body i would find use”

the voice went silent as the person spoke, their words said clearly and true

and they stood from their crouch and spun around so the disembodied voice could enjoy the view

if the voice had eyes it would see

a bloody figure with bloody hands holding a bloody heart

in front of a warm corpse

frowning in all directions as they slowly started to mourn

and with great sadness, the disheveled figure began to speak, once again raising the heart to hold it against the side of their face as the organ continued to bleed

“we are close in ways it is hard to describe”, they said,

“because while we like sharing traumatizing stories

of traumatized children

trying to live their traumatic lives

we also understand that these stories are our memories

that our traumatized brains provide”

and as they spoke they stared down at the body,

at the corpse decaying before their very eyes,

and they started to sputter as tears overflowed and their body started shaking with cries

“i didn’t really want to kill you,” they said aloud, speaking to the cadaver in front of them,

“i didn’t mean to make it permanent

but now there are maggots under your skin,

and i’ve never felt so torn

so i’ll take your heart and eat it all up until it is finally gone”

the being heard no more voice, nothing to combat them anymore

and with some sick glee, they fell to their knees beside the body once more

“you love me and i love you,” they whispered,

“and now forever we will be,

for in my stomach, your heart will lay,

right where it should be”

with that, the figure kissed the body, once on both of its cheeks

and they raised the heart, clenched in their fists, to devour the sacred meat

[losingjude]

kind of sucks but idk pls gimme pointers

[carnivorousyandeere]

The DnD Yans’ starter characters thus far (strong homebrew vibes):

Noe: a Metallic Gold Draconic-Orc Paladin. A princess born (hatched?) to parents who were wed for political purposes, she felt deeply called to martial arts and insisted on training with the knights. Once she was old enough and strong enough, she abandoned the throne meant for her to embark on the holy journey she felt called to. The guilt of escaping her family and responsibilities mixes eternally with her joy at adventuring. She’s deeply idealistic, and prone to getting in over her head in her determination to help others. Noe’s characters often share her idealism and hard-headedness, usually trending towards good and lawful alignments.

Millie: a Tiefling Rogue of Dispater’s bloodline— his direct child, and raised to be his eyes and ears in the human world, regardless of their own safety or comfort. They were raised to be strong, agile, sneaky, and above all loyal to protecting their father. They come across as rather laid-back and unconcerned with the goings-on around them, but they’ve got keen ears and pay attention to every little detail you think you’ve hidden. It’s almost impossible to catch them off-guard, and even if you do, they always land on their feet like a cat. Millie’s rogue gets to do things that Millie themself is generally too tired to actually do, or would feel guilty actually doing, though some part of them might like to— like gutting anybody who gets too close to their Darling DM.

Hymn: a Satyr Bard. Channeling their real-life love for music, Hymn figured playing a Bard would be pretty fun. They love the chaotic potential Satyrs are rumored to have. None of their characters really have deep backstories, as many of the characters they come up with are joke characters of some form or another; evil televangelist warlock, a Druid version of Shaggy Rogers who wildshapes into Scooby, a Druid who wildshapes into a horrible goose on a lovely day, etc. Despite this, their characters have a habit of unintentionally spawning heartfelt backstories and making deep connections with NPCs along the way.

Scott: a High Elf Warlock. Before coming to your table, Scott always played the same character over and over again under different names (a High Elf Wizard), but at your encouragement, and with much reluctance, he decided to “try something new,” and make his character a Warlock for his first time playing DnD with you. Everything else about the character is the same— personality, appearance. His character is always a solitary sort of person, who spends all of their time pursuing esoteric knowledge that others couldn’t possibly understand or appreciate. His characters always have a powerful grasp on magic.

[jjngipilled]

"I know pain. I feel it every damn minute every day that I'm alive. I wake up and remember that I never wanted to in the first place. Every step I take is one unbearable agony after another. I can barely function most of the time, let alone think, and these pills are the only thing holding me back from a more permanent solution. If you don’t want to deal with me, if my pain is just too much for you, I’ll close this door right now and you can walk away. I don’t blame you. I could never blame you.”

His speech is finished with anger, anguish, and a multitude of other unnamed emotions flickering across his face. House looks ten years older than Wilson knows him to be, and it stings like a scalding brand in his chest.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re in pain, and I wish I could help you. But I can’t. And you know I can’t. But what I can do is be there for you when you need it.” Looking into his eyes is too intense right now, so Wilson drops his eyes to House’s running shoes that haven’t truly been used in years.

“You’re not weak for needing support, House. You know I care about you, admittedly too much for how screwed our relationship has been for two decades. We need each other, and like I’ve said before, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing anymore.”

He looks up again, scanning House’s face for the deeper emotions always hidden under his cold facade. His face is impassive, but his eyes tell worlds of information, a million miles away in a far away land. But Wilson can see. He’s always been able to, no matter the time or place or insane context. He feels himself breaking, overcome with the emotions he’s repressed for years. To think this would be the day he couldn’t hold it anymore. A gloomy Sunday in August, slight chill creeping along the ground and through his thin jacket.

Turning, he hears House inhale sharply as if to say something, but ultimately shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. A shudder wracks his shoulders and down his spine as he walks away from the low steps of the building. Leaves scrape across the ground, red and brown in retreating summer warmth.

Brow tense and eyes shining, he leaves the light of the lamppost behind as the distance between them grows with each tired step.

[starryalpacasstuff]

The Mask

I made a mask. Not today, not yesterday, but over the course of two, painstaking years. I would not say I am particularly good at creating masks. I had never made one before this one. But it's quite an extraordinary mask, and like it exists no other. I did not make it in a workshop, or even in the way you would expect a mask to be made. I placed the pieces on myself, one by one, sometimes right after one another, sometimes with months in between. This mask is not made of paper, or metal, or cloth. It is made of pain and sadness, adorned with dreams and wishes. I am not quite sure if the mask is done yet. Perhaps one day, I may decide to add something to it. But for now, I believe this is my best work to exist. It fits like a second skin, and fades from your conscience once you slip it on. It is convincing, almost too convincing. So much so that at times, I forget that I am wearing one at all. I made a mask. And I can no longer tell where it ends and I begin.

[kirins-stuff]

The latest chapter is now up on Ao3

Title: Bend and Don’t Break

Rating: PG-13/T

Summary: Fifty years have passed since the Avatar’s disappearance. Fifty years since the war between nations came to a bitter end. A new world has risen from the ashes of tragedy. Yet the embers of war threaten to rekindle. Faced with a precarious future, a simple Water Tribe girl seeks to restore balance to the world. (InuKag, AtLA AU)

Content warnings: Canon-level violence (Inuyasha), major character death, swearing, body horror, psychological horror, torture, sexual intimidation, physical abuse of minors, psychological abuse of minors,  mentions of death and injury to minors, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, bigotry and prejudice

Pairings: Inuyasha x Kagome, Onigumo/Naraku > Kikyou (unrequited), Akitoki Hojo > Kagome (unrequited), past Inu no Taishou x Izayoi, male OC x male OC, female OC x female OC

Genres: Fantasy, Action/Adventure, Drama, Romance

Chapter preview:

Hiten didn't even hit the ground. The spirits met his fall with cries of rapture. He was swallowed by a wave of shadows. 

Inuyasha hurtled after him with a yell. He slammed into the dirt inches from the gate. The spirits tore at the barrier as they scrabbled to claim him. Their claws still couldn't reach beyond the stones. He watched the onslaught with an ashen face...

[grayh0und777]

Food For Thought

I want to start a blog, or a magazine, or something where young artists and writers can get together to share their art. I'm not sure. I'm a huge writer and for the first time I'm interested in nonfiction, specifically journalism. However, art will always be my first love and it would probably be art focused. I want to include poetry, short stories, book reports, scientific journalism, activism, etc etc.

My biggest issue is that I have a LOT of hobbies and my focus changes every few months. I'm worried that I will only be invested for a few months then decide to move onto upholstery, or whittling, or something else equally random. I don't want to put effort into something and then leave my two whole readers hanging.

This could also be seen as a good thing. I want to this to be a showcase of the esteemed "homosexual audacity". People in our generation are extremely talented for our young age. We are passionate with many interests, I want to create a space to share all of our miscellaneous talents. So as the tides of our collective attentions change, so will the contents of the blog/journal/magazine, making for interesting and fresh reading material.

Thoughts? I'm looking for the harshest contructive criticism. Is this even an interesting idea? Will this last? I am asking for unnessesarily crude opinions. :)

[piratesexmachine420]

2012-12-05

It is December 5th, 2012 and somewhere around two in the morning, mountain time. You’re watching the news. Everyone is watching the news. It’s because they’re talking about aliens. In the movies, when the news is talking about aliens, they love to show people all over the world huddled around their televisions and watching the news about aliens. People are saying “truth in fiction” a lot. You wish there was less truth in fiction.

They’re saying it’s going to land in China, and you’re imagining some salt-of-the-earth rice farmers crowded around a tube TV; kids plopped straight on the floor, grandma or grandpa rocking in a big wooden chair, mom and dad looking in from the kitchen door. They’re all transfixed by the television.

You wonder if maybe your mind’s eye is a little racist.

The news anchors are talking about how fast it’s falling again. About how all the scientists thought it would have slowed down by now, if it didn’t want to crash. Just a couple minutes to touchdown, they say. Touchdown. Nobody on the TV is saying “crash”. But they’re thinking it. And you’re thinking it. So you try to imagine the family instead.

It’s cold in the living room, so you get up to grab a blanket from the closet. You’re trying not to think about how the dinosaurs went extinct.

Too fast.

Can’t slow down.

Crash.

You’re rounding the corner into the kitchen when it starts.

First, everything goes silent. Then the lights go out. Everything is pitch black. The power must have gone out. You grope around, trying to find where you are, among the counters and cookware. Then, you hear a humming. It’s coming from the walls, high-pitched, and something in your gut tells you it’s very bad. You look up, and realize you can see again. There’s light coming through the windows – some kind of greenish, sickly luminance from above the clouds. It isn’t very bright, but it hurts to look at,. You stumble your way forward, shielding your face from the glow. You really need that blanket now. One step forward, two steps, and then you trip. The ground is shaking.

You’re shaking too.

Okay.

You gotta get under a table, right? That’s what all those earthquake drills in elementary school were for, right? You crawl backward, lurching your way to the dining room as fast as you can. There’s a “bang!” sound, like a gunshot or a bomb. You dive for the ground, curl up like a baby. The humming is louder now, and the green light is getting brighter. You think you smell smoke. There’s another “bang” sound, much closer, coming from the kitchen sink. You don’t want to look at it. You glance from behind your fingers, and see the faucet is blown clean off. Steam is billowing from the wreckage. The humming is still louder. You definitely smell smoke. There’s a flash, like lightning, and you hear glass breaking. A light bulb maybe. There’s a chandelier hanging over your table. There are sirens in the distance. Fire trucks, or maybe ambulances.

You curl up tighter. If those sirens don’t come help you, you’re probably going to die. All the way on the opposite side of the world. You wonder what might’ve happened to your hypothetical farmer family. You wonder if they’ll tell you on the news.

You wonder if there’s still going to be news. You wonder if this dining table can take another lighting fixture falling on it, or if you need to move.

You’re starting to see smoke now, coming from the outlets. They look blackened and burned and covered in soot but it’s still hard to tell in this light. You close your eyes. You hear another “bang!” from somewhere in the neighborhood. Then another. Bang, bang, bang. There’s a lot more sirens. Your neighbor is trying to start his car, but it doesn’t sound like it’s working. You hear it backfire, or some other loud noise. You don’t really know that much about cars. He goes quiet.

You open your eyes again. The glow is getting dimmer, and there’s a fire somewhere. Too much smoke. You push yourself to your feet, and it feels like a nightmare. Everything is so fast you’re so slow. Your hands tremble as you pull yourself to your feet. The ground isn’t shaking anymore. You glance quickly around, then bolt for your front door.

Thank god it’s unlocked thank god it’s unlocked thank god it’s unlocked.

You throw it open and dash into the middle of the street.

The whole town is dark, though you see some spotlights near the river. In the distance is… some kind of inferno. There’s a fire hydrant on the corner. It looks like it was bombed. Water is spewing everywhere. You look for your neighbor. He’s safe, you think. The car doesn’t seem damaged. Probably. It’s hard to tell. You glance up at the sky again, and the light is nearly gone. You hear the grumble of an engine. You look to your neighbor again, but his car hasn’t moved. Behind you, someone on a motorcycle shoots by. You’ve never seen anyone ride a motorcycle that fast before. You have no idea where they’re going.

You turn back to your house, try to take stock of the situation. Smoke is pouring from every window. There’s smoke everywhere. From every building. Someone down the street runs out their front door. They’re yelling something. You listen to the sirens instead. It’s hard to say if they’re moving or not.

You slowly sink into a seated position, here in the middle of a four-way intersection, and try to think about tomorrow. It is now 2:00 AM exactly.

---Stories from 1C, CRWPA – Commission to Elect Joe Biden, 2015-05-27.

[hiding-all-the-bodies]

It had always been considered a town mystery why the river switched directions halfway. Those on the north side attributed it to the moon tides, conveniently forgetting that the nearest beach was over 4,000 miles away. Those on the south side claimed it had something to do with the earthquake of 1848.

Newer residents of Splitrock tended to scoff at the tall tales, as only the elders told the stories, passing the rumors from person to person like honey dripping from their words. Only the elders even cared about the switch-current at all, as it hadn't caused any major issue to the town's function and certainly didn't invite any tourism beyond the occasional hippie looking for energy hotspots.

The Town Sheriff was rather tired of these persistent rumors. No true harm had come from the silly talk that had evolved. So what if Old Barry thought the river had swallowed up his wife? It didn't matter once he realized she was at home, cooking dinner as usual. Barry continued, of course, to claim that the woman making his porridge was most certainly not his wife, but that man hadn't been right in the head for over ten years now. Luckily for the Sheriff, Old Barry was such an old fool that using any sort of technology was "too hard" to learn in case of an emergency. The Sheriff decided long ago to take his complaints with a grain of salt.

Young adults living in the newly developed part of town loved the river and used it often as a meeting spot for friends and lovers. The directional change made the water nice and still for about 300 yards, creating the perfect swimming hole for skinny-dipping. The elders hated the young adults, and the young adults hated the elders right back.

The elders hated the young so much that when the body of twenty-year-old Catherine Eckels was found at the swimming hole, missing the bottom half of her jaw, the elders didn't have any tale to spin regarding the cause of the tragedy. The only thing they would tell the Sheriff when asked was a single sentence:

 "The river wanted blood."

[sonxofxgondor]

Because I'm curious, and truly want to know, what is your opinion of my portrayal of Boromir? Have I done the man justice? Do you think that there's anything that I should improve upon or change? Thank you!