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@emma-is-whole

Sandman was my first exposure to trans people, the way you wrote Wanda……I felt horrible for her when her nightmares were of having to undergo surgery to be a woman and I wanted to scream at her parents when they dressed her in a suit and put her deadname on her gravestone. I was 14 and reading it in the library in a very conservative area, and I never knew being trans was possible before that.

I consider it to be, if not *the* reason, one of the reasons I’m such a staunch supporter of the trans community. I was 14 years old and it opened my eyes to a whole community I knew nothing about. Thank you for your writing, it changed my life. I don’t care if you respond to this but I wanted you to know how big of a difference writing one person in a comic made to me.

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I’m glad it helped.

And that really is why people are trying to ban books and gut libraries now. Because ideas are dangerous and they can invoke empathy.

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Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

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ciiriianan

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

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Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

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Always reblog Arepo and his god

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Benadryl madness masterpost

I am fascinated by the correlation between benadryl and specifically spiders.

Okay so benadryl is the brand name of the pharmaceutical drug diphenhydramine, which is typically used as an antihistamine, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term is a substance which counteracts the body's reaction to allergens, hence why its intended purpose is to relieve allergies.

Now, although most people use it for seasonal allergies, it also has a similar effect on other allergic reactions, such as pharmaceutical allergies and, surprisingly, bee stings.

I would reckon that most of us have had a bee sting at least once in our lives. That being said, I do believe that it is also common knowledge that bees die when they sting you. Although sad, this can be good for us, especially those of us who are allergic to bee stings, because the bee will no longer be able to physically sting you. Once you get the stinger out, you will not have to worry about that specific bee again, since it essentially sacrificed itself to you.

Although most of us have probably been stung by a bee at least once before, I think it is relatively safe to say that humans and bees are not natural enemies. Although some may swat, humans tend to tolerate, coexist, or even depend on bees for the most part. No, the enemy of the bee would be something which is a natural predator to it, something that would eat it, such as a bird or, perhaps, a spider.

Spiders are known to prey on multiple kinds of insects. Any sort of insect could fly or crawl into their web and become trapped, lacking the ability to skillfully dance along the strands as the spiders do before they come wrap them up to prepare for their next meal. Therefore, it is ingrained into the soul of the bee to be ever alert to the danger of spiders, lest they should fly into the web and have no option but to await their doom. They are, on some level, aware that this is a fate which could very likely be waiting for them, so the irony of dying to something as innocuous as a human will not be lost on them as, in their final moments, they contemplate the deadliness of the spider, so deadly that one bite from the wrong spider could bring a slow and painful death to the human, only for the squishy, flightless human to be the one to bring about their demise. They do not resent us for it, they merely mourn their tragic death as they succumb to their injuries, knowing death will be swift as their organs are ripped from their bodies, clinging ferociously to the stinger which now ties the dying bee to their human for the remainder of its life.

We squishy, flightless humans can oft be struck with allergies and/or sleeplessness, and when this happens we sometimes will turn to benadryl for that relief. Benadryl is not specifically intended to make us sleep, but it is a medication which is commonly known to cause drowsiness, hence why several other medications for common allergy symptoms such as itchy eyes and sneezing are often labeled as "non-drowsy" to help us distinguish what medications will help us get through our day vs. what will get us through the night. Regardless, the main intention of benadryl is to block the body's histamine response, which the body does in order to combat allergens, which it typically does not need to do- if you aren't producing a histamine response to a peanut, the peanut is unlikely to hurt you.

However, your body will also produce a histamine response to bee stings- such as the bee you were likely stung by however long ago. In some ways, our bodies remember this, and thus when the histamine response is triggered, so too does it trigger the awakening of the soul of the bee who lost its final battle to you. Although humans and bees are not specifically natural enemies, for this bee, it is personal in regards to you, so now that its spirit lives in your histamine response, it can, and will, use that to torture and, if the bee is lucky, kill you.

What the bee doesn't know is that now that it is no longer a physical bee, it no longer has the same natural enemies of the bee, only of the histamines it now spiritually is utilizing as its dominion. In the eyes of the bee, it is unstoppable because the histamines have no natural enemy - now enter benadryl. For most people, their histamine responses don't stand a chance against an antihistamine, making it as ruthless and horrific as the spiders had been to the bee before. Again, the bee has no choice but to await its doom as the benadryl runs its course and wipes out the histamine response. The bee does not know benadryl, but with this now being its natural enemy, it must certainly be the one thing that the bee always feared most: the spider.

As the medication kicks in and the benadryl begins to run its course, the drowsiness sets in for us and we often allow ourselves to be enveloped by it and fall softly into a state of slumber, where only our spiritual minds are wide awake. Now safely making our way to the land of dreams, we carry with us some pieces of the spirits which touched us throughout our lives, if they are close to us and if they are also awake- most notably, in this case, you will find yourself accompanied to the land of dreams by none other than the very bee whose life, now spiritual, is being threatened to be snuffed out by you yet again, and again in its final moments the bee is considering the only thing capable of bringing it to such a slow and imminent doom- the spider, its once and future enemy. As you both enter the land of dreams, with you in blissful slumber and the bee in existential dread, the most prevailing imagery to set the tone for your dream will invariably continue to be the very same motif that was stalking your bee throughout its short, dreadful, doomed existence:

The Spider.

Hope this helps!

My relationship with mirrors has been a real rollercoaster over the past year and half or so. Don’t get me wrong, I can still absolutely rip my reflection to metaphorical shreds on a bad day. But more often I find myself passing by the mirror and liking what I see more than I ever have before.

We’re in a better place now, me and reflective surfaces.

(Description after the cut)

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thatsnotwatyourmomsaid

none pizza with left beef

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the-chocolate-chip-pancake

It should be a rule of Tumblr to always reblog none pizza with left beef

ive missed you

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ineffable-hufflepuff

I love None Pizza with Left Beef.

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Ten years into the future and I’ll still be laughing at this

I wish I had the balls to order None Pizza with Left Beef.

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thegeekmaster

If I had that kind of money to throw away, sure

I actually ordered this oncee. The pizza place called me five minutes later and the guy on the phone couldn’t stop laughing, and he just says “Miss, you can't do that”

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Anonymous asked:

So I see these covers that you post that you're working on and I'm curious, is this something you're doing because you want to do it, or something you're doing because the publisher isn't putting enough into it? (The latter seems to be the case with a lot of covers I see on books today.)

To use a favorite (and somewhat already-connoted phrase): "It's complicated."

First of all, let's lay out the terms of engagement in a situation like this (because a lot of people won't be clear on how this kind of thing works).

Briefly: though I've been on the bestseller lists for Star Trek work often enough, my original/nonlicensed works have never had a high enough profile for a publisher to get behind them and commit the kind of attention to them to drive their sales higher.* I am therefore considered to be a "midlist" author: the kind that doesn't get any particular attention at a traditional publisher unless one of the author's works (for whatever reasons—like unexpectedly selling a series to Netflix or something...) suddenly starts making a lot of money. Midlist authors' works are pretty much allowed to do as well as they can on their own, without any further attention (in the forms of print or web publicity, book tours, signings, contests, cover reveals, swag, etc...) except at book launch times. After that they're left to fend for themselves. (One of Peter's publishers once "said the quiet part loud" right to his face: "We don’t need to spend any money on publicity for your books. They're doing okay." ...Way to say "You're not important enough for us to give a shit"!  :/)

...Anyway. If a midlist writer's books manage to earn out (meaning, "if the publisher recoups a book's entire advance payment out of the author's percentage of royalty money..."), the publisher will be happy to leave the author's works in its catalog and let them continue to earn money there. But this doesn't mean—for example—that if the author produces new editions of their books and would prefer to see them in print, the publisher has any obligation whatsoever to do anything about it. Their response is likely to be "That's nice, but that would mean that we'd have to generate new editions of the books, with new ISBNs, and reset the text, and commission new covers. And that would cost us a lot of money, and there's no guarantee that we'll ever earn it back. So... thanks, but no thanks. We'll keep selling the versions we've got now. After all, why not? They're doing okay..."

Which is essentially what happened to me as regards the New Millennium editions of the YW novels.

(Um. Inserting a cut here, because this has gone on a bit. Under the cut: how to escape from the above trap... to a certain extent... and an actual eventual answer to the question.) :)

Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.

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Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.

She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.

So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.

“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”

She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”

“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”

“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”

“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”

Science fiction is full of first contact stories, but is there a such thing as LAST contact?  Decide exactly what that means, and write about it.

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It was too late, when the humans came. They were a young species, still exploring outwards, vital and thriving. 

We… were not. 

War had ravaged us, and sickness, and war once again, until our population dwindled beyond the point of recovery. We struggled against that, of course… we used genetic manipulation, and cloning, and even more desperate measures. None succeeded. When the humans came, we were sinking into apathy, only a few tens of us left. We had begun to discuss whether we should commit a mass suicide, or simply wait to fade away. 

And then the young species came, in their clumsy ships, and they asked us why we were so few. 

“We are becoming extinct,” we told them. “We have passed the point of recovery.” 

It is custom to avoid the races that are dying – once a species reaches the point of inevitable extinction, even war is suspended, and the fiercest enemy pulls back. The custom was born of plagues and poisons that could be carried forth from a dying world to afflict a healthy one, but it has the implacable weight of tradition now. After we are gone, after they have waited for the prescribed period of quarantine, there will be a fight for our world. Habitable worlds are few, and this is a good one, with plenty of free groundwater and thriving vegetation. It is a bitter thing to be grateful for the custom that allows us to die in peace, but we are grateful.

But the humans don’t know that custom, and they do not leave. They seem distraught, when we tell them we are dying, and try to offer their aid - but their technology is behind ours, and it is too late. When they realize that they can’t save us, though, they do something that bewilders us. 

If your suit watch is correct, you should have ran out of air… three weeks ago? The stars drift past and you’re forgetting how you got out here, but your practiced cognitive self-tests tell you that you’re sane. Reality seems to be dissolving the further you drift into space. And now.. music?

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(After the bittersweet tragedy of the Last Contact, I really had to write a First Contact to cheer myself up.)

She drifted. Cognitive dissonance had set in some time ago, she was aware of that. It passed the time.

However, she was still capable of lucidity. In one of her lucid spells, she ran through the exercises that she had been taught during training. (She wasn’t sure how long ago training had been, but she remembered it had happened) So far as she was able to tell, she was sane. 

The suit was in low power mode now. It had shifted into low power mode after the air ran out. Which had been, according to the timer that was still running, three weeks ago. (It had been one week last time she looked. Odd.) The timer was attached to the tiny distress beacon which existed to identify the suit’s location for searchers, as well as telling them whether or not the drifting suit still held a live person, how long the person had been dead, and the last known location.

She should have died when the air ran out. If the suit had thought she was out of air before she really was, she should have frozen to death within a few minutes of entering low power mode. 

Instead, she was still drifting, in empty space. She couldn’t even see her own ship, let alone any searchers. Not even debris. She had rotated on every axis multiple times, looking all around herself. Nothing. Only the stars, drifting past. 

Which…. wasn’t right. None of this was right. None of this was possible.

And yet here she was, drifting.

She had mastered lucid dreaming years ago - most astronauts did, as a way of alleviating the boredom and sameness of space-travel. She closed her eyes, relaxing into that mindset. If this was a long, strange dream - and it could be - she could at least make it more interesting. 

But she couldn’t so much as conjure a distant ship, or some soft music. This was not, then, a dream. 

It was not reality.

It was not a dream.

What other options were there?

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. For the first time since she found herself adrift - and she did not, now, remember how that had happened - she spoke aloud. 

“Is this a test?”

You are a devout Paladin trying to prevent the resurrection of a dark goddess. Ultimately you fail. When the goddess awakens, she claims that she doesn’t know who she is or what has happened. After a few days you’re struggling to determine if she actually has amnesia or if she is just lying.

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It wasn’t what I had expected.

I had expected…. Oh…  the usual things. Clouds of smoke, maniacal laughter, some monstrous being… they were always monstrous, whether fair or foul of face.

Not this. Not an egg.

It is already hatching, a jagged opening showing in the greyish, mottled shell. Even as I watch, small pale hands show, gripping the edge and breaking another piece of it away.

When I approach the egg and look down into it, I see a child. I would have guessed her at eight or nine, if I wasn’t seeing her hatching before my eyes. If I didn’t know she was Rek’na reborn.

When she sees me she lifts her little arms to me, like a toddler wanting to be picked up. “Help… pl’s…” she says pitifully, her voice wavering and uncertain. Are they her first words? They must be. Even though I know what she is, they pull at my heart. This is a child. I have never harmed a child, even one that might grow to be the darkest of goddesses. When she looks up at me, I know I can’t do it now.

I open the egg a little further, so the sharp edges won’t scrape her soft skin. When I lift her out with gauntleted hands, I try to be gentle. There were preparations made for her hatching, I can see… lengths of silk cloth to wrap her in, dishes of raw meat and bowls of what might be wine or blood. The priests and priestesses had their plans.

But they are dead or fled, and I wrap the child in my cloak and cradle her against one shoulder. She wraps her small arms around my neck trustingly, and I carry her out of the hidden temple to where I hid my horses. There I dress her in a spare shirt – four of her would fit inside it, for I am big and she is very small – and feed her her first meal. I don’t have fresh meat, and am not sure it would be wise to give it to her if I did, but I feed her bean porridge with salted meat, and a round of dry journey-bread, and she eats it eagerly.

I know I should destroy her. But she is a child.

Text: Sometimes in the dead of night on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I see an extra door in the hallway, black and imposing. 

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It’s not a bad boarding house, as these things go.

We’re not allowed up to the fourth floor, for any reason – but I don’t blame the landlady for wanting her privacy.

Nobody but the landlady answers the strange willow-patterned telephone on the third floor landing.

We all lock our windows on full moon nights.

No couples are allowed, ever. Only single women and girls.

And sometimes, if you go down the hall to the kitchen late at night, there’s a strange black door that’s never there by daylight.

For some reason, it’s hard to get new lodgers to stay. I don’t know why. It’s a little strange, maybe, but the meals are good, Mrs Hallow the landlady is kind, and the rent is ridiculously cheap. I’ll take the strange black door and the phone that rings even when there’s no wire going to it over rats in the walls and cigarette ash in the food any day. My last boarding house was like that. I like it here.

I’d been living here for nearly two years when I lost my job working at the telephone exchange. It wasn’t my fault – they cut the night shift back, and one of the girls cut was me. Mrs Hallow told me not to worry – as I was an old lodger, she’d let me work for room and board while I looked for another job. She’s so nice, I don’t know why people say she’s creepy. It’s not her fault she’s so tall and thin, and her bones show through her fragile old skin.

I worked hard, wanting her to be glad she’d kept me. One of the jobs she gave me, since I was used to working nights, was packing lunches after supper. For the Night Gentlemen, she told me, but didn’t say more. Every night, I packed twenty lunches in twenty tin pails and filled twenty thermoses with strong coffee. I made sandwiches, and boiled eggs, sliced pickles and cheese, and packed a paper napkin into each pail. I was to have everything done by eleven, Mrs Hallow told me, for the Night Gentlemen came at midnight to collect their meals, and I should be in bed by then. By morning, the pails were all gone. By evening, they were all stacked neatly in the kitchen again, clean and ready to be filled. I never saw them come, but I supposed it must be while I was sleeping.

Then I started to worry that my lunches were dull. I baked cookies for the lunch pails, and pies and pasties. I put in different kinds of fruit and vegetables each day. The Night Gentlemen worked late hours, if they came for their lunches in the middle of the night. They needed to eat good food. I looked through Mrs Hallow’s old recipe books and tried new dishes, like german apple pancake and potato dumplings. Mrs Hallow was pleased, and said she would pay me a little wage in addition to my room and board, if I didn’t mind continuing. She was getting too old, she said, to make all those meals every night.

I had been working at the boarding house for nearly six months when I really messed up. I’d burned a whole batch of cookies to a crisp, so I had to start all over, and I didn’t have time to decorate them before evening. It was Valentine’s Day, and I felt so bad that I decided to stay up late to finish them. The Night Gentlemen didn’t come until midnight, so I had time… I thought.

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The Seven Daughters Of The Cailleach Foraoise

Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a great forest with trees so tall that they shut out the sky, and it was always dark in that place. A single road passed through it, one side to the other, and no wise traveler ever ventured off that road.

In the forest to the east of the road there was a great hill, with a tower on it, and in that tower there lived a wizard. He was solitary and ill-tempered, but if someone in trouble came to him humbly and begged his aid, he did not usually refuse.

In the forest to the west of the road - or so it was said, for it was not visible as the hill and tower were - there was a great dark hollow with a house at the bottom of it, where the forest witch, the Cailleach Foraoise, lived with her seven daughters. She was ill-natured and dangerous, but still, she had been known to give aid to those willing to pay her price.

It happened that the king of the land had grown cruel and dangerous, and he taxed his people to starvation, he poisoned their land and slew any who displeased him. He slew even his own sons, when they defied him, and all went in terror of him. This king had three nephews, the sons of his sister, and they saw that soon they would be in danger from him as well, so they fled his castle by night, and took the road through the dark forest.

When they reached the river that ran through the heart of the forest, they stopped and took counsel of each other. They must do all that they could to save the kingdom and its people, that they agreed, but they debated what that was until the youngest spoke.

tonysopranobignaturals-deactiva

walks out of a US public school with my child furious because they didn't actually have a LGBT brainwashing class

In a lot of areas of the US sex ed barely acknowledges straight sex. LGBTQ people may as well advanced university course material.

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Fortunately, there is a very, very easy way to drive brands off tumblr.

Don’t follow them.

Yeah, they’ll likely blaze some posts.  The smart ones will blaze shitposts.  Don’t reblog them.  Don’t reblog, don’t follow, just let them lurk around the edges of tumblr.  That’s the whole joy of tumblr, honestly - the lack of algorithm means that they can’t game the system.  They can’t force their way in front of your eyeballs.

Brands here are like vampires - they can’t come in unless they’re invited.  Don’t let them in.

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psychoticrambling

also just for everyone’s knowlege: if a blog’s url is anything like “official-brand” or “brand-official” it’s likely fake. tumblr reserves the straight up brand url for companies.

source: i run the following blogs and I’m not affiliated with any company @official-elonmusk, @official-twitter, @official-ea, @official-chrome, @official-duolingo, and a few others

Good for you for muddying the waters to make it hard for brands to get a foothold. When people can't tell what's official and what's not, and when parody accounts are more popular than the actual thing, brands can't effectively operate.

exmo tumblr, look at this jewelry i got

the rtc stands for right to choose and is meant to symbolize a person’s right to choose how they live and what they do with their body and their life. so like the opposite of ctr rings lol.

it comes in tons of different flag designs and plain black and rings as well. kind of obsessed with it. it has a really nice weight to it too lmao.

(anyway the company is called sydney jewelry and their website is here if you want to check it out.)

That's so cool! I'm not sure if I would wear something so Mormon adjacent (have to avoid all appearances of evil), but I kinda love the idea of taking Mormon imagery and changing it into something pretty with a better message. It's deliciously subversive.

wow! congrats, yall!

I, for one, welcome our new trans gods

I love the implication that the Singular Christian God has been replaced by. Every trans person. We are now a unity

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Whats a mob to a king? What’s a king to a God? What’s a God to my Trans friend Hailey who works at Kroger’s?

Sounds like an improvement to me. Do I have to pray to a specific trans person, or just to trans people in general? I have, like, a list of things that need smiting.

Maybe drop your smiting list off at your local LGBT center or informed consent clinic and we will get back to you? Not sure when we'll get around to smiting, kinda new to the position and the last guy left us quite the mess.

Anyone wanna burn the family proclamation for me?

So I’m in mormon country and pride’s this Saturday. In a perfect world I have an art piece to show at it, and I’ve decided on the one I want to make:

A picture of a burning family proclamation (photoshopped by me to have rainbow flames) and bold letters (also done by me) that say “your god can’t tell me who to love.” It would be titled “Reclamation.”

But I can’t do the burning part rn, so anybody wanna step up and send me some nice pictures of a burning family proclamation? Credit would look like this: “Reclamation by [me], photograph courtesy of [you].”

Pls get me the pictures asap if you want to help. Thank you (:

[id: several pictures of the family proclamation burning in a tub]

YEAAAAAA TY!!!! I’ll update when I have the finished piece, this is lovely!!!!

[id: a screenshot of a comment by @honeyduchessxx that reads “If you want to make a weak country, destroy families. If you have strong families you have a strong country. Sounds like YOU are full of hate and judgement and are happy to destroy America.”]

Oh honey, it sounds like one of two things are happening here. Either you’re not mormon and therefore don’t know what you’re talking about, or your mormon, cishet, and parroting talking points. (Also you immediately assume I’m concerned abt the US lol.) I had to survive people like you for years and I’m done w that, so kindly fuck off.

But, if it really turns out that me kissing whoever I want is going to take down America, then lmao I’m gonna fuckin do it.

Don’t look now but the US has been destroyed

[id: an edited version of one of the earlier burning family proclamation pictures. Now it’s cropped, the background cleaned up, and the flames are rainbow. Overlaid text reads “no god can tell us who to love”]

Ok, this is cool.

#exmormon #art #love