#uk creatives

[s-f-stories]

Even if it feels like screaming into the void, please do follow the link. Go on record as someone with integrity.

The UK Government have launched a consultation on whether AI should be allowed to scrape content online with complete disregard for copyright.

The consultation is stuffed to the brim with technobabble buzzwords and jargon that frames AI as wonderful and that this is a foregone conclusion.

You can submit a response via the link above and tell them what you really think.

[thetimelordbatgirl]

Bob Iger saying all this while also being on basically billionaires vacation really should say something, holy shit.

[crunchie-morris]

Do you think the side of tiktok that’s obsessed with butch greaseball knows that female Spot Conlon was in that same theater about a year and a half ago

[raineandsky]

Heeey what’s up?XD i’ve got an idea which’s not letting me sleep in the night, I would be so happy if you wrote something like this. So basically: villain gets badly injured and supervillain leaves him behind, because villain is no more use in this state. He lies on his bed waiting for death to come and take him, also questioning his every decision that had led to this situation . When hero finds him, villain tells him to finish it quickly, he’s not even resisting . But instead hero brings his nemesis home with him, takes care of him and overall acts nice, which makes villain doubt his own sanity for a second.

Bonus points if hero tried to mock the villain(friendly ofc), expecting him to snap back, but instead villain just accepted it, making hero even more worried

Sorry if it’s too specific (*o*)💞

oooouuugghhhhh i have a soft spot for this kinda dynamic........ this was fun, thank you for the request!

tw: near death, blood

-

It’s close.

The villain can feel it. The pain is ebbing, the world is fading. A light chill is slowing blanketing him the closer he falls to the narrow edge of existence.

It’s a miracle he made it here at all, frankly, but the noise outside is a pleasant distraction from having to think about any of what brought him here. The quiet hum of the city below, the birds twittering on the branches outside his window, the door down the hall clicking shut, the chatter of the people on the street below, the—

Was that his door?

Any other day, the villain would’ve leapt up and taken the intruder on with his bare hands. But today is not any other day, and he can only watch as his bedroom door silently swings open.

Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have oiled those hinges last week.

“Oh,” the hero says faintly from the doorway, as if he’s surprised to find the villain in his own house. “You’re not looking so good.”

The villain lets out a sarcastic wheeze that sends a surge of pain through his chest. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

The hero approaches the bed, almost nervous, and the villain can see his nemesis’s favourite weapon tucked at his side, the metal protruding from his hip like it’s part of him. Maybe it is. It certainly seemed like it when it turned on the villain before.

The hero tsks humourously, the sound almost lost on the villain deafened ears entirely. “Those are the words of someone who didn’t dodge fast enough.”

“Can we stop dancing now and get to the good bit?” It’s intended to be sharp, harsh, but the lack of energy makes it come out like he’s begging. As if the villain ever would. “It’s a little unprofessional to follow your enemies home, but I think this might be for the best.”

“Oh, would you like me to fix you a drink while you bleed out, sir?” The hero breathes laugh, his usual grin worming teasingly onto his face. “Read you one last bedtime story?”

It’s a beautiful set up from the hero, really. On any other day, the villain would’ve laughed in his face and accepted either of those offers before putting him in the ground. Today is not any other day, so the villain just sighs and simply says, “I’d like you to put me out my misery.”

The grin on the hero’s face, patiently awaiting the usual retort, slips. The villain can barely find it in himself to put a name to the emotion his nemesis is slowly falling into.

“[Villain], wh—” The first flickers of uncertainty from the hero the villain’s ever seen. “I can’t do that. You know that’s against my hero’s code.”

“Eh, well,” the villain manages from behind halting breaths, “maybe it’d work out better for us both if you were the bad guy for once.”

The hero’s eyes flick over the villain’s face, then the crimson halo slowly seeping into the sheets, then, for some reason, at an ornate watch on his wrist.

“Alright,” he says confidently, like he’s just concocted a perfect plan in those three seconds. “Alright, I have fifteen minutes before the Agency starts asking where I’ve gone. Can you walk?”

“You can shoot me lying down, [Hero], I’m not wasting the last of my life obeying your orders.”

“It’s not an order, you moron,” the hero snaps, somehow gentle and annoyed at the same time. “It’s a request, and this is definitely not the last of your stupid, badly-spent life. Come on.”

-

Five days pass in what the villain assumes is the hero’s house. Not a decision the villain would’ve made, but he’s had five more days to judge the man about it than if he hadn’t made that decision, so really he can’t say too much on it.

The hero’s been in and out, much like the villain’s consciousness. A bandage here, a bowl of food there. Soft words, softer touches. When the villain meets him with more clarity and finds a smirk on the idiot’s face, his first worry is that he’s said something nice in his half-alive stupor.

“You’re more awake than you were,” the hero comments idly. “That’s good. Up to eating?”

The villain stares at his reflection in the soup the hero’s holding out to him. The blood caking his face before is gone, the giant gash the villain remembers the hero giving him barely a pink line now.

He’s better. Maybe the villain isn’t as awake as he thought, because this treatment, from the hero of all people, is rather charming.

He takes the bowl slowly, giving it a sniff. “Is it poisoned?”

“You’re definitely back!” The hero laughs, his smile wide and bright, and the villain almost smiles too. “No, it’s not poisoned. It’s not too flavourful, and the veg in it is nice and soft. Take your time.”

The villain brings the bowl to his lips and takes a sip of the broth. The hero wasn’t lying—tame, light, and not tasting even slightly of arsenic. “Thanks.”

It doesn’t sound natural to the villain’s ears, but the hero beams like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

The two of them sit in silence as the villain slowly works the soup down until it’s just a couple of carrots floating in a rather meagre sea. It’s warmed him nicely, woken him up a little. This care isn’t something the villain’s earned. Why is the hero doing this? Why is it making him so soft?

He’s been slowly planning his question, the obvious one, the one that’s been bothering him since the hero hoisted him out of bed and into recovery like he deserved it.

This question, carefully planned in the villain’s head, comes out as a rather pathetic, “Why would you do that?”

The hero shrugs, shaking his head slightly. “Any other day, I wouldn’t,” he offers with a light smile. “But it wasn’t any other day, and I felt like giving you another try.”

The villain nods and looks back into his soup. The hero, after a moment of awkward silence, adds, “Is that okay?”

Maybe any other day it wouldn’t have been. But today isn’t like any other day.

The villain shoots him an awkward smile and hero returns it cheerfully. Maybe this is the day he finally lets a hero win.

[singerorpheus]

i have no explanation for this

[id: a video of clips of hadestown, mainly of the 2024 west end production, set to hozier singing an old irish ballad with the lyrics overlayed.]

[11oh1]

slawn

[book-tease]

can i be honest, the lack of cursing in the proshot wasnt distracting to me personally... except with natalies "bull", but only because they kept in dan's "language" bit. there had to have been a better solution to that bit

[fraternum-momentum]

man im seeing all the ppl in the dol community have super cool ocs and im just here self inserting like 🧍‍♀️

[marisol-holme]

[Ad for myself because I back myself]

Might be shouting into the void, but if anyone is looking to hire a freelance experienced writer for their business, and happen to be on Tumblr, then lucky you!

Reach out to me on here, or follow my instagram (linked below) and we can do a quick zoom and a haggle over service charges.

Serious enquiries only please, I am a busy human.

I am UK based.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marisolholme?igsh=MTBib2ZnYTNzYjAxaA%3D%3D&utm_source=qr

[thesoftclubstoic]

Kelli Ali by Stephane Sednaoui for iD Magazine, January 1997

[chronicreativity]

in year two of my undergrad, i took a poetry module taught by eoghan walls and paul farley. i wrote a ten poem anthology about my chronic illness titled Chronic Creativity (which you may recognise as this blog's namesake!) and Thyroid UK very kindly published one of my poems in this issue of their magazine

[winters-tales]

For some reason, links aren't working when I try to embed them no matter which way I try, which is very annoying.

Anyway, there's a special bonus short story up on my Patreon about my LARP character, Sparrow. It's free to all members, all you need to do is subscribe.

This is Sparrow (in the middle) reconsidering their life choices the next day:

And this is the (really fucking HEAVY) rock that I dragged 400 metres in midday sun ON MY OWN for my feat of strength:

It's a faux-rock, so thankfully it's made of nice light things like polystyrene, chicken wire, and 2 bags of cement mix -_-

Gratifying to see other people try to lift it themselves and have a very out-of-character moment of of 'oh shit that's heavy-heavy, not pretend-heavy'

[nr1-logo-design-inspiration]

Creative fox illustration 🧡

[jack-kellys]

painting over mirrors

read here.

David has noticed a pattern, and he can't tell if art is the solution.. or the cause.

a short javid fic about art not being a coping mechanism, and instead a half-cursed way of being.

The roof of the lodge is lined with ghosts, is the first thing David notices.

Young boys and girls made ghastly by charcoal and the night sky are stuck to the railing, to the brick, and all around the hollow, iron rod that juts out oddly as a makeshift chimney for the heater a floor below. Each paper is a tiny bit crumpled, too, as if Jack has torn them down and put them up numerous times. David asks about them carefully, but only receives a shrug in return.

“They’re past kids that’ve come through here an’ left,” Jack says. “It’s my way of, just. Remembering them.”

David catches him watching a particular drawing, older, dirtier than the rest, a little longer. The boy in it has a button-like nose, similar to how Les’s used to look when he was younger, with Jack’s dark springy hair and large black eyes. He isn’t smiling, and neither is Jack when he finds David’s gaze.

“It’s nothing,” Jack retorts, as if David had said something. “Really, Dee. I just wanted to show you around up here is all.”

“And you are,” David agrees, allowing his gaze to become quizzical now that Jack’s gone defensive.

And Jack’s sensed it, his expression already working to undo what David’s spotted. The heat recedes from his eyes, his shoulder releases its tension. He even smiles, a forced shoving of his lips and cheeks.

“That's your nosey look,” Jack accuses David- accurately, but that's besides the bigger picture. “All in good time, m’kay?”

David’s not so sure.

Because Jack spends hours and hours alone at Medda’s, and when David comes by he finds the boy surrounded by scrap pieces of canvas, half finished and ripped, his paint-splattered body bent uncomfortably forward with a brush to the new one he’s stretched out, mumbling. And when he sees David he goes rigid, reddened eyes widened as if David’s caught him drinking too much or something when it at least only looks like painting.

And Jack spends hours and hours alone on the roof with his scrap paper that he folds away with an easy grin when David comes up to check on him, even though David can see that full, rendered sketches are completely scribbled over with dark, pressured marks.

And usually, anything struck through, brashly painted over, or smudged beyond recognition is free of mountains, sun, cacti and clay homes. Santa Fe remains safe, and so do Jack’s ghosts.

“No,” David finds himself saying. “It's been enough time, it's been- too much time of you hiding yourself away and not… being happy, about it.”

Jack looks at him, confused, so David forces more words from himself.

“Usually when you're drawing, or painting, when I'm there at least- you look… passionate. Like it's a simple sort of.. natural love.”

Jack frowns. “Yeah, Dave, ‘cause I- ‘cause it’s what I do.”

“Then why do you…” David bites the inside of his cheek, but continues. “Why do you- also passionately.. destroy it?”

“Passionately destroy it,” Jack echoes with a hum after a moment. He leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “It’s not- it’s just. It’s how I work. If I don’t like somethin’, I try again.”

“Most people rip out a page or set a canvas aside, or- hell, go with it,” David counters. “Jack, you… wreck it, to where you can’t even tell what it is anymore. Doing something you love.”

Jack looks up at him then, eyes narrowed curiously.

“You keep saying I love it,” he says. “Don’t think I ever said that though, Dee.”

David blinks.

Jack spends so much time practicing and perfecting this craft, he sketches friends and places he knows and places he wishes he knew, he sketches young newsies he still misses. He creates art out of the things he loves, David knows it.

“Don’t you?” he asks slowly, setting himself next to the other. Jack scoffs.

“I don’t love cigarettes, but I still smoke, don’t I?” he says, shrugging. Jack’s gaze flicks forward. “I don’t.. really know howta describe it. I see something, you know, in my head, and I just have to get it down. I have to, and if I don’t, I just get this fear that I’ll lose it, somehow.”

David nods, after a few seconds of processing. He tilts his head, hoping Jack will keep going. He doesn’t.

“Lose it, you mean- get angry?” David asks. Jack shakes his head, eyebrows scrunched, trying to figure it out himself.

“Nah, nah, like- lose it. Forget it. Like it’ll disappear,” he clarifies. “Like you’ll- you’ll just disappear. If I don’t do something about it.”

David doesn’t have anything to say to that yet, and thankfully Jack continues.

“I know y’won’t. I know that ain’t really true,” Jack murmurs, arms unfurling and hands setting themselves on the rail behind him. “I dunno why I keep drawing if it ain’t something I really love, like that, like how Kath loves writin’. I just know I have to, I gotta make somethin’ or it won’t be real, you know? With my own hands, makin’ those memories. Makin’ sure things I like can’t be blocked out, since I used- uh, I used to… it used to happen.”

And Santa Fe isn’t a memory, so it always remains. It’s always perfect, this… western desire, the cowboy idealization, it’s Jack’s one true creation. Nothing Jack can create it as can be marred when he doesn’t have anything to line it up against in his mind.

“And the destruction, then,” David inquires softly. “Is it about accuracy to what you remember? Does what you draw have to be exactly what you see..?”

Saying it out loud, David knows it’s not true- Jack’s sketches are often loose and relative, he’s just not sure what else the explanation can be. He doesn’t think like Jack, like an artist. And so Jack shakes his head.

“Ain’t easy to explain,” he says to David. Jack’s nose scrunches slightly, thinking. “Less about exactness and more… what it was to me . Interrup- interpretation. Something in my head just needs to express what the memory is to me, and when my hands ain’t do it right, it’s like misremembering, and I can’t risk that, so I have to get rid of it. There’s memory in your body, right, and there’s memory in my hands. I ain’t wanna accidentally draw or paint somethin’ wrong the same way twice, so I gotta rip it, or write over it, to just- remove it. Cancel it out.”

David bites his lip at that. Jack catches it, though, and his eyebrows raise.

“I mean I guess- I ain’t have to. I don’t need to,” Jack tries. “I think I just- well, I feel.. better when I do. I gotta do what my brain’s saying, that’s all. I can see what it’s gotta be, and I just get this itch, you know?” He scoffs, laughing bitterly. “God, it really is just like smokin’. Shit.”

David smiles with him, though a little bittersweetly. He can’t quite tell if Jack’s… suffering, exactly. There are times when his art looks like it’s killing him, and David knows how much time Jack can take with it and how much it isolates him. Is it really like smoking? Like some kind of addiction to the other, or some compulsion?

“Jackie, if it’s a habit you want to break,” he says, placing his hand over the other’s, “I’m here to help, you know? Anything you need for this, I’m here.”

Jack’s gaze falls to where David’s touching, letting their fingers properly intertwine.

“I probably should be better about it, hm,” Jack smiles softly, sadly. “But it’s- Davey, I dunno. It’s just how I think. It’s how I work and how I see things.”

“Then…” David hums. “Then I’d like to see how you see things, then. I’d like to see how you think. Tell me when you’re going to the theater. Tell me when you’re gonna go sketch something. You don’t have to create these memories by yourself all the time, yeah?”

Jack purses his lips, letting his head fall against David’s shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

David does his best to not let his body reveal his relief. The memorializing Jack does in his head, for those still around him… It’s a little haunting. He doesn’t know why Jack feels that need outside of his artistic inclination, but something tells David it has to do with that boy on the page that looks too much like Jack, set right by where Jack sleeps. Something… happened , something that used to–or still does, for all David knows–cause Jack to lose time, to block out things from his past. David doesn’t want to be one of Jack’s ghosts, not while he’s still around. Not if he can do anything about it.

“You need someone to remind you when to grab supper anyway,” David says, instead of any of the loose puzzle pieces drifting through his brain. Jack merely whines, and presses himself closer against David, decidedly present.

[white-cat-of-doom]

It seems like they have announced another leg of the International Tour, this one scheduled to start in April 2025 and tour Germany, Austria, and Switzerland.

We will see what else is next!

[gardenwalrus]

SECRET AMBITION: To be a good painter. I do it quite a bit as a hobby. I had to get rid of quite a few blocks about 'Artists are people who've been to art school, I haven't so I'm no good'. I got rid of the blocks when I turned 40. It was life begins at 40 so I looked around for a few things to start on. I finally realised I could afford to buy a few canvases. My mind was locked into a pattern from years ago: I'm not the sort of person who buys a canvas, that's something someone else would do. It seemed like such a luxury for me. Then I realised, God, I can buy ten! I don't mind what I paint. It's messing with the colours I like. And faces. Little characters. I'm not trying to impress anyone except myself.

- Paul McCartney within The Paul McCartney World Tour concert programme (1989)