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Propaganda

Ballister Boldheart and Ambrosius Goldenloin: No Propaganda Submitted

Mind and Heart:

Mind is referred to as "The Sun/Mr. Sun" throughout the album, and Heart is referred to as "Mr. Moon"

Sundrop and Moondrop:

Sun and moon r very silly. They're theater kids forced into a childcare role. Sun has So Much anxiety and moon is evil but not out of his own free will. They're the blorbos of all time <3333

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Hey ho we ain't dead! Just doing A Lot Of Planning. A Lot.

Expect character refs eventually :3

-🖋️

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for april fools we’re deleting this entire site sayonara you weeaboo shits

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Well fuck me but the pen has decided that Medical Trauma and Infection is something else to add to this au-

When the moots wake up I shall run this by them while cackling evilly

-🖋️

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SO.

CCCC AU. The three of us fell into a RABBIT HOLE fantasy au for CCCC. We don't really know how to get your attention so we will simply throw out words about the Rotten Faith AU.

God Eater Mind. God wars. Rot Angels and Eternity. LITERAL Angel Heart. Mechanically Modified Angel Mind. The Rot Consumes. Healing and friendship. BLOOD SACRIFICES. Soul Religious Corruption arc. Heart and Mind being friends <3. But not for long </3. Abandonment Issues. The Shot But Worse. Cacophony But Worse. {but they become friends again <3}

(delicious delicious dead dove do not eat levels of angst-)

Ask us if you want more info about the Rotten Faith AU :3

-🖋️

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Hello!

We're a little collection of three people who got WAY too into a hypothetical fantasy god eater AU for cccc and decided to band together and make a collective tumblr for it!

We'll be updating this intro post as we go! But for now just know that there are 3 of us and we will be marking our posts accordingly:

🦐, thoughts in [] - @kitkatriel

✨, thoughts in {} - @hhoneycloves

🖋️, thoughts in () - @randaccidents

(yes there are two artists and one writer... which means that I, the pen, shall be SPAMMING in comparison)

Welcome to our brainrot: the Rotten Faith AU

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they match....

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I'VE BEEN COUNTING DOWN THE DAYS FOR OPALS BIDDING ANIMATION & IM SO HAPPY ITS THROUGH JASHS CHANNEL

GO WATCH IT NOW AS WELL AS HER OTHER ANIMATIONS LIKE TSE & MUCKA BLUCKA!!! THERES ALSO A BUNCHA OTHER COOL ONES GO LOOK AT THEM NOW!!!!

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A challenge for tumblr moots from me, @randaccidents and @hhoneycloves 's silly writing group

Guess who's who (Kat, Randa and Noah/honeycloves)

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Ey yo this blog might be undergoing CHANGES I am dragging in mutuals and we are gonna be cccc au blogging

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but you see her on instagram and it was never really said that you guys aren’t friends but one day she stopped answering and you stopped texting and it’s not like the wound is a cavern but it is a diagram of what if in red letters. you want to tell her nice lipstick that’s a good color but the last time you spoke it was stilted and awkward 

how do you say goodbye, you know? it’s not an unfriend and block kind of situation. but you watch the people you once loved go on and have a life and you’re outside of it. and it’s bittersweet because of course it’s okay that you’re both thriving. but she used to be who you’d call if you needed to cry. she used to be who’d you’d be binge watching the new series with. you used to be hers, in a way, even if that way wasn’t permanent. and now she’s someone else and so are you and your friendship is clicking heart shapes next to pictures where she smiles next to people you’ve never met. you know where her birthmark is. she knows where you’ve buried your dead.

the poets and the singers and the authors write about romantic love when it ends. but nobody tells you how to get over a friend.

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my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

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Fire Song

In the spirit of Halloween, here’s a spooky little thing

They say divination by fire is evil, the power of witches.

~Dance~

But I am not a witch.

I am a simple songstress.

~Dance and live~

I use fire as an inspiration, weaving the tales fire sings

as it whispers the secrets of past and future alike.

~Dance and die~

The seers see fire as an end to all things.

The end of the cycle,

unreadable for its lack of cycle

thus lacking immortality and infinite wisdom.

But

~Dance and die and live forever~

I don’t believe that’s true.

~Live and die and dance forever~

Fire’s wisdom lies in the songs I sing.

~Dance and die and live forever~

Fire has a cycle, it has immortality.

It just isn’t a conventional form of immortality.

~Live and die~

Fire burns.

Fire dances.

Fire burns low and dies.

From the embers and ashes

fire is born again

~Forever dance~

Fire might not live forever,

but fire is closer to us than other elements will ever be.

~Dance and die and live forever~

You see,

fire understands mortality.

~Dance~

Fire understands death.

~Die~

Fire understands renewal.

~Die and forever live~

Because fire too is mortal,

in its own unique way.

“DIE”

Just like us all

“Kill the heretic!”

“If fire is so ‘understanding’, then go live with it!”

“Fire will never be anything but destructive!”

They don’t understand, do they?

Fire is just like us.

~We dance~

~and we die~

~In traces we leave~

~We live forever~

There will always be another songstress.

There will always be another fire.

Our ashes will fertilize the ground

and the ideas grown will be burned as inspiration

~Dance and die and live forever~

My time is come.

Its time for a new song.

An endless song is no song after all.

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Folding

Prompt: Creating Conversations

Wrote this during a writing camp thing back in June, buttttt its not like I have to keep it confidential

Before we traded paper hearts, we threw each other paper planes.

Cynthia was the girl who sat in the corner of the room, doodling on blocks of paper. She spoke to no one, and no one spoke to her. But I wanted to become her friend, made it my personal mission. We were young, only 7, and I wanted to make a friend.

But approaching her only made her turn away, silent. I spent many playtimes idly playing with paper thinking of how to talk to her. Finally, an idea came in one of the paper shapes I made. The following week was spent folding paper continuously, making sure that I got it right.

I waited till playtime to make my move. I scribbled out my message on a piece of paper, holding it up for inspection. “Hi, my name’s Andy! Want to be my friend?” written in red crayon. Satisfied, I quickly folded it with the ease of five days of practice into a plane. Carefully, I threw the plane in her direction, watching anxiously as the plane soared towards her table, letting out a silent cheer when it nosedived onto her table.

I watched her startled jerk. Carefully, she unfolded the paper plane. I watched her shoulders lift in a laugh. Then, picking up her own crayon, she wrote something on it. Was she answering me? Her fingers carefully refold the paper plane.

Then she looked up and met my eyes. I give her a little wave. Her mouth twitched upwards in a smile as she threw the plane back to me. Excited, I snatch it out of the air, hurriedly unfolding the plane to reach the message inside.

Under my messy red was her ordered black, spelling out one word.

“Yes”, she replied.

I looked back at her in joy, but she had already turned back to her drawing. Was she shy? Good thing I knew exactly how to talk to her!

Grabbing another piece of paper from my table, I scribbled down another question, sending the folded message flying across the room.

We communicated this way for the rest of the year. 

***

Before we exchanged rings, she drew on my skin, and I gave her a box of origami animals.

The next year was the first time Cynthia approached me.

I was alone in the library, learning origami patterns with small paper creatures spread out before me. I was so consumed that I didn’t notice her approach until she spoke.

“Can I join you?”

When I saw her, I speedily cleared a space for her as excitement washed over me. We were finally speaking to each other! She set down her armful of drawing block and colored pencils and markers, beginning a new drawing. It was clear that she did not want to be disturbed, so I went back to folding tiny animals.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

“Can I see what you’re drawing?” I blurted, dignity cast aside in favor of knowledge. She peered up at me, a single eyebrow drawn upwards in question. Seconds passed in silence and I squirmed. Was that the wrong thing to say? Cynthia spoke up, voice whisper soft.

“Ok, but it’s not very good.”

Her drawing block slid over into my space, giving me a view of colorful flowers. All the reds and blues and greens, so magical!

“I think it’s beautiful!”

Her eyes averted. She murmured, “Your paper animals are pretty too…”

There was a short silence as I admired her art.

“Do you want flowers on your arm? I can draw them for you. That is, if you want…” she said, her sentence trailing shyly off into nothingness.

“Would I? Please do!” I exclaimed, sticking my arm out to her, causing a soft giggle to escape her mouth. Carefully, she chose a marker and began to work, outlining flowers and leaves down my arm. I didn’t wiggle or squirm even once, watching her work. When she finally finished, I happily raised my flowered arm, turning it to admire from all angles. I wanted to give her something in return, but what? My gaze drifted to the animals on the table.

“Wait, I have something for you.” I said, as I grabbed 2 pieces of paper and clumsily folded two box halves. Sweeping the animals into one half, I covered it with the other half before holding it out to her. Seeing the protest etched through her body, I smiled and reassured her. “You gave me something pretty, so I’m giving you something pretty too! Besides, I can always make more.”

This seemed to be enough, her hand accepting and cradling my gift to her.

We continued our paper plane conversations, but now we would meet in the library to draw and fold origami.

***

Before I gave her strings of pearls, I gave her strings of paper cranes.

Cynthia’s twelfth birthday was coming up, and I had no idea what to give her this time. I was flipping through books combing for ideas when I came across an idea in a Japanese legend. The next few weeks leading up to her birthday were spent feverishly folding and stringing together her gift.

On her birthday, I brought 1000 paper cranes, strung up in groups of 40, to her house.

“It’s a Japanese legend,” I explained to her bewildered look. “If you fold 1000 paper cranes, you get a wish! So, I’m giving you one.”

Her smile was small, but brilliant. “Thank you for your gift Andy,” she whispered. “But I can’t tell you what it is, can I? Otherwise the wish won’t come true.”

She left the room laughing at my indignant protest.

The next time I came to her house, the paper cranes were hung on the wall above her bed, rippling gently in the wind. 

***

We were fifteen when I asked her to meet me at the park for a talk. We sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of nature around us.

I spoke before my courage left me. “I think I like you,” I confessed. “Like, like like you, you know?”

I couldn’t face her. What if she rejected me? Our friendship would be ruined!

Her voice swept past me. “I think… I like you too.”

“Oh thank goodness I thought I ruined everything!” I exclaimed to her laughter. “Well then, there’s only one thing left to do!”

Standing up off the bench, I held out my hand to her, grinning wildly at her confused expression.

Before we gave each other our love, we gave each other our friendship.

“Hi, my name’s Andy! Want to be my girlfriend?”

Cynthia giggled as she once had, light and carefree, echoing that time long past. She took my hand.

“Yes”, she replied, as she had many years ago.           

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I mechanically stand aside and watch as the spiders come surging out from between the floorboards, the crack in the wall, the corners that you swore you just dusted. They coalesced in a giant wave, spreading across the floor and forming a wave of scuttling legs around us and your sin.

I can’t breathe, there are so many bodies in the room. You put a hand on my shoulder, and my throat closes at its touch.

The wave bends, picking up your sin and beginning to feed. The scent of dust and rust fills the air, grotesque ripping and tearing noises bubbling through the room.

I can’t breathe. There is nothing to keep me afloat. Your hand on my shoulder feels like its pushing me further under, keeping me from surfacing.

Eventually, the wave broke, different groups scurrying off carrying their loot. I could still see hunks of your sin borne away on their backs. Air began to return to the room, smells and noises draining into the cracks in the floorboard, the ceiling, the corner you swore you just dusted.

I still can’t breathe. There are two hands on my shoulders now.

The room is clean again, as though your sin was never there in the first place. The hands on my shoulders gently turn me around. I look into spidery eyes and finally breathe.

“I said the spiders would take care of it, didn’t I?”

I look back at the place where your sin lay, and take a breath of air, salty like the salt I spilled in a circle around the house. You haven’t noticed yet. I smile with no teeth.

“Yes, you did. But I still need to clean the house!”

Your face falls as you finally smell the salt, exposed without the dust to cover it. I see those spider eyes panic, scurrying about the round glass walls of your eyes. The spiders will not come now that salt permeates the air. You trusted with too many of your sins, and retribution has finally come.

I breathe, and I smile with no teeth.

“Don’t worry, the birds will take care of it.”

“Don’t worry about the rest. The spiders will take care of it.”

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Hello!

This is just a small writer blog for me to spill my alphabets into, please be gentle with the sauce!