*inky!

names

Going by Gale is super important about me. About 4 years ago I started using it as my GIVEN NAME, shedding my childhood name, and letting friends call me by more than just my internet username, Kurr. 

Gale Anderson. I love the ring of it, how it sounds like two feet spread in a strong stance, leaning forward into the wind with a very small but determined smile. Its perfect. With this name it was the first time an art teacher/professor complimented my intense inky gore art—whereas a previous teacher had once, in these exact words, sneered at a personal animation I did and asked “do you have a mental problem??” [and yes, but my ptsd, autism, and the fact that my first memory is getting my face ripped off and over 100 stitches to fix arent “problems” they’re unique memories and experiences that make me who I am, that fueled my interest in “darker” artistic expressions]—no with the name GALE an art professor in college watched me paint one day, silently by my side and the piped up “When you paint you’re a beautiful violent hurricane” and it was one of the most beautiful compliments I’ve ever received in reference to my art. Gale, the Hurricane Girl. The sweet nice girl nicknamed LITTLE HURRICANE whenever I started to paint again, because my passion and interest was recognized. I have never experienced such a wonderful compliment to my name and my memories and where I came from, and a true acknowledgement to how I express those parts of me as I do.

Being Gale is so important to me. Closer than birth and child names, Gale where I think of sweet old ladies with tea and Turkish coffee on delicate doilies of intricate lace. Floral patterned couches and wispy hair. Soft gentle Gales, and swirling smatterings of ink and storm Gales, two sides of me that I both express and am, and want to BE even more perfectly.

Gale has BECOME my name, who I am and wish to be as I grow old. Its a name I’m going to keep on my heart forever. I name that’s NEVER been whispered by my once and former abusers, a name that even if I’m hurt in the future with while bearing, will not be able to have its full capacity grasped. Such good strong and powerful things about this name that can never be stolen from me.

As a result though, having fully encompassed and made Gale my real first given name, I have been exploring the idea of having an artist/internet moniker again. Kurr I still love, but slated to my baphometself/sona specifically, so it could have a name to the face. Slowly but surely, I’ve been using the username MERCURY TEETH on and off places, to become my official art brand—-and that’s a whole other post to make about the symbolism in that for me, all important and dreamy and good—-but because of that…my art name, my art nickname, I’ve been thinking of Merc, or Murky specifically. One of my soulcolors I havent expressed openly yet!! The lavender-grey of dusk and dawn. The smell of swamps and cellars with dirt floors. The rich earth under rotting autumn leaves. The quieter colors of the sky, the happy-dark, the Virgo in my heart and under my feet. Sorting emotions and being autistic and thought-confused until I can sit down and process everything—but being calmer, happier, and wiser for it. A trans-femme, intersex and in the middle. Admitting not everything is black and white.

I am Gale Anderson, the artist who now also wishes to be known as the alias… Murky. c:

Here’s the current progress on Carrie! I added in a new title screen created by Coco, I really love how it looks! Placed in a few more (placeholder?) sound effects and the rest of Carrie’s voice clips into the game. I also placed in some WIPs of songs that Inky has been working on. The main game theme is still being worked on but I put in a pretty appropriate placeholder there for now.

The game theme is taking a while for him to compose due to school, but there’s still other stuff to do with Carrie. The majority of work now has been finding and fixing bugs, but I’m also taking time to try and tweak things to feel/look better. I changed the effect of points earned fading out during game, and I added in options to reconfigure your controls to whatever you want; the game saves it automatically. 

I don’t think there’s any major content that I’m going to add, but I suppose I am making the content that is here right now feel as good as I can. It’s still a very short game, but I hope I can achieve high replay value.

‘Tween trembling fingers
and quivering lips
vibrant words arise
daunting ferocity,
the best of feelings.

Scrambled syllables
crack between teeth
melt on the tongue
trickle down the throat,
but through the fingers
they wreathe, stream, flow
the highest of ecstasies.

Singeing breath
from burning lungs
unvocal chords
eternally silenced,
the eyes drip on paper
inky black truth
a passing shower in may,
the fairest of pains.

Fearful teeth
tear deep furrows
brittle nails
pry open ruddy rivers
yet the clicking of the keys
drowns out all the screaming
that shudders in the bones,
the most profound salvation.

Narrowed in pain
the eyes,
torn and wrung,
the hair
knuckles, white and hard,
a canvas of words,
condensed from light,
the only way out of hell.

—  lungs collapse in clouds of dust, 04/25/15

The Samebito (shark man) is a creature that appears in “The Gratitude of the Samebito”, a short story by Lafcadio Hearn. It is described as a humanoid with inky black skin, emerald green eyes, a face like a demon’s, and a beard like a dragon’s.

In the story, a man named Tōtarō meets the Samebito one day on a bridge. Although frightening, the creature turns out to be a gentle being who, as punishment for a petty fault, has been expelled from the sea by his former employer Ryūjin. Tōtarō takes pity on the creature and allows it to live in a deep pond in his garden. Meanwhile, Tōtarō has been seeking a bride, and eventually falls in love with a beautiful woman he sees at a female pilgrimage at Mii-dera. He becomes deathly sick with grief, however, on learning that her family requires a betrothal gift of ten thousand jewels for her hand in marriage. When the Samebito learns that his master is on his deathbed, he begins to cry tears of blood which become precious rubies when they hit the ground. Through the Samebito’s tears, Tōtarō eventually wins the hand of the woman with whom he is infatuated. When he has finished weeping, the Samebito is also pardoned by the dragons, and the story ends happily.

Hearn notes that the name for this being is usually read as Kōjin. The kōjin are creatures thought to live in the South China Sea, which resemble ningyo, are always weaving at their looms, and whose tears become jewels.

Hearn’s story appears to have been based on another story called Kōjin by Kyokutei Bakin.

anonymous asked:

hey beautyfam do you know of a good inky/super pigmented black eyeliner similar to the maybelline eye studio lasting drama gel except a liquid liner

Milani eye tech perfection liquid liner is super pigmented and doesn’t run!! Pretty inexpensive too

-Cara

8

on 20 april 2010, bp’s deepwater horizon drilling rig exploded in the gulf of mexico, killing eleven crewmen and injuring seventeen. over the next 87 days, approximately 4.9 million barrels of oil spread over 68,000 square miles of gulf ocean, making it the world’s largest marine oil spill. 

to aid in clean-up efforts, 5,300 vessels of opportunity were hired from around the area. many strategies were used to attempt to clean up the oil, including 411 controlled burns where huge noxious plumes of inky smoke rose out of the fires on the surface of the water. 

more controversial and ultimately more destructive than the fires was the use of the toxic chemical corexit, a solvent that breaks down lipid membranes of cells (and appears here as red). despite the epa telling bp to find a less toxic dispersant, ultimately more than 1.8 million gallons were used. studies show the mix of the dispersant and oil creates a highly toxic mix.

layers of crude oil are still spread thick on the ocean floor, radiating far from the wellhead site. scientists have determined that up to 75 per cent of the oil from bp’s disaster remains in the gulf environment. more than 600 miles of coastline have been affected, with tar balls continuing to wash ashore. 

photos by chris graythen and daniel beltrá

omgpadfoot asked:

What if Voldemort didn't offer Frank or Alice Longbottom a chance to sacrifice themselves for their child, his offering to spare Lily was only a whim based on a prior request to do so. What if he killed Alice and Frank without hesitation, and was able to kill defenseless little Neville. Then just to be safe, he tracked the Potter's down too. What if Snape didn't find out in time, and Lily was murdered without thought, and Harry shortly after.

What if Voldemort went after Harry and Neville, and gave no one a chance to die for them? What if both Chosen Ones died as children?

Gosh, we didn’t want to pull our punches today, did we. Okay, well, I guess here we go–

Because Voldemort wasn’t gone, because there was not a sudden flood of peace–they didn’t send enough Aurors to take down Sirius Black.

Instead of standing laughing in the street when they came to arrest him, Sirius ran. He Apparated away and went to find Remus, because they still had work to do.

That first meeting, after Remus got the news of Peter’s “death,” of everyone’s, was a difficult one. It was outside the wreck and ruin of the little cottage in Godric’s Hollow and that only made it worse. It had been the only place Sirius had been sure Remus would go that night.

“What a Halloween, eh, Moony?” he said from the bushes and Remus almost cursed him right there, until Sirius managed to shout and dodge and wave his hands enough to explain that they’d switched the Secret Keeper. Sirius started laughing when he saw Remus start to believe him, and it wasn’t the mad laughter of a man who had lost everything, because Sirius hadn’t, not quite.

When Remus buried his head into Sirius’s shoulder, outside the slightly smoking shell of Lily and James’s home, they both cried like the children they were.

In a different world, they would have had this reunion in the scarred confines of the Shrieking Shack, thirteen years too late. In a different world, Sirius would have been gaunt, grimy, gasping with demented fury. Remus would have been washed out, threadbare. They would both have looked far too old for their ages, but there would have been a boy with messy hair and his mother’s green eyes staring accusingly out at them. In a different world, Harry would have hated Sirius until he understood, and then he would have loved his godfather for the rest of his life.

If you asked them, the boys crying on Lily and James’s doorstep, or the skeleton of a wanted man and the wan ghost with the beast living under his skin– if you asked them which world they preferred, they’d have an easy answer for you.

But what did happen, in this story where they buried the Chosen Ones too early and there was no love to bring them back? They kept fighting. The war did not end. Voldemort had seven Horcruxes and he thought he was immortal. For now, he was.

In this world, there was no prophesied boy. Love was not magic; it was only soft touches and quiet words, promises they could not promise to keep. An extra piece of chocolate tucked into a packed lunch. A mother’s favorite earrings passed down and down, hand to hand. Love was not magic. It did not resurrect.

Halloween Night 1981 was one more night in a long fight, to almost everyone. This was not the first time whole families had been lost. This was not the last time they would bury children.

But that night, Augusta Longbottom withered. Peter Pettigrew shivered, somewhere, welcomed into plush halls with open arms. Petunia Dursley found only the milk on her doorstep in the morning.

When Remus took Sirius back to one of his safe houses, Remus drank the same way he had in that other reality–in mourning and not any kind of celebration. But this time, he did not drink alone.

Only Dumbledore curled in on himself over lost opportunity, knowing exactly how much hope they’d lost in those two houses, now empty, now cold. He knew about the prophecies, Sybil Trelawney’s hoarse forgotten promises. He knew how powerful Tom had become and he knew how much weight they had been hoping to put on the shoulders of those two lost boys. He knew Harry had had his mother’s eyes.

(Albus did not know, however, about Neville’s first word or that Harry had refused new, magical toys to instead chew and slobber on Lily’s favorite, soft old doll, which she had carried from a Muggle world to a magical one.

Dumbledore thought about the war that night. It would save lives, this old man and his tired soul, that this was how he mourned. But there were more opportunities lost here than a war one day won; there was a grief here that had nothing to do with strategy.)

“We are lost, Minerva,” Dumbledore said.

Professor McGonagall was trembling, thin and severe with it. “You don’t think that,” she said and she was right. But it was a night to believe thoughts like that. In the morning, there would be new plans, new hopes, but not on this Halloween. Dumbledore took out a lemon drop and sucked on it. Minerva found the fire whiskey. The sun rose, eventually. They called a meeting of the Order the next day.

There was no prophesied boy, but there was still this–dozens of shadowed young faces looking up at Albus and not running, even at the very end of the world. Dumbledore looked out at his chess pieces, pawns and queens; his children and his friends; his collateral damage. He had the beginnings of a plan swelling in his chest.

It would take them decades to get their hands, quietly, on every Horcrux. Tom Riddle had to think they were secret. He had to think he was safe. It would take them almost decades, but one day he would be mortal again.

These dozens of faces–they were mortal now. Alastor Moody could feel mortality in the aches of old broken bones; Andromeda rewrote her own last name, refused to fear sea serpents, and refused to pretend that the serpents could not swallow any one of them whole. Remus and Sirius felt empty, gaping holes in the seats around them, and they made crude, expansive, joyous toasts to friends’ memories.

When Molly first reached over and held Arthur’s hand, they knew this was something that could not last. That was why they held hands, held on, held tight.

Keep reading

“I always see how people say they want fallout in Boston, California, or Louisiana, but I always thought how it would still seem similar to the past games. I want a game set in Hawaii. Like what if inky one island was hit with a nuke so some of the others weren’t that badly devastated, and then maybe you’d travel from island to island in make shift boats and have exotic mutants or island factions. A tribal government maybe. And of course…Sea Monsters, because fish can mutate too right?”

Fallout Confessions

i remember exactly when i fell in love with minho’s legs. when i was watching an inki stream of SHINe and they had zaddy in them sinfully tight white pants and i literally had my eyes only on his legs. nothing else mattered in that performance. i ascended to the heavens after this live. 

houseofblackreviews asked:

Hello! Your little Harry Potter shorts continue to amaze me. Recently I just read the one about Petunia Evans being a decent person, and I'm enchanted. Do you have a masterlist of all the ones you've written?

hello! thanks very much; i’m glad you enjoyed my petunia. i don’t have a masterlist, but i suppose i can try to make one here:

harry potter what if’s

  • what if petunia dursley was a decent human being?
    (someone asked me to write about petunia for their birthday present–but i rather detest petunia. so i did my best to write a petunia i could love.)
    [link]

  • what if a squib decided that she wanted to go to hogwarts and wasn’t going to let anything stop her? [link]

  • what if voldemort had gone after the longbottoms, and not the potters? pt. 1 – what if harry had grown up with james, lily, and the marauders, and neville had grown up the chosen one? [link]

  • pt. 2 – what if when voldy went after neville’s parents, the lestranges had gone after the potters? [link]

  • pt. 3 – what if voldemort had gone after the longbottoms and then the potters, and not given any parent a chance to sacrifice themselves and save their child? what if both chosen ones died as children? [link]

and i might have another one in the works oops…

non-hp what if’s

  • what if abigail hobbes got away, at the end of season one of hannibal? [link]
  • what if the little mermaid just walked away–from the prince, with the curse, and for herself? [link]

  • what if susan pevensie met peggy carter? [link]

but all my fic is on archiveofourown (dirgewithoutmusic) for perusal; and my novels are here.