bone & rattle

i though this tom and jerry/ willy wonka and the chocolate factory crossover was an elaborated joke made 20 years ago, like some kind of regurgitated lost media.

the animation looks so flat and inconsistent, where the style is botched and awkward, like it shouldn’t exist in this time period. at all.

but its real

it was made this year, in 2017, where direct-to-dvd media appears to be dying out, with an idea that’s so out of left field it can be counted as shitposting.

it’s like i’m experiencing a fever dream.

abandonment
would seem selfish
if i was not already empty.
    
unprepared,
quaking,
i rattle bones
and hear an orchestra.
   
living and dying
are often irrelevant.
    
the intrepid unknown,
   
i sleep
across train tracks
and feel very much alive.
—  poeticallyordinary, intrepid unknown.
things i want from supergirl

give me the first time kara is patrolling the skies and she hears maggie’s heartbeat skyrocket. and look, we all know kara’s probably stumbled in on maggie and alex at least once, so kara knows what /that/heartbeat sounds like.

this isn’t that.

this is faster and different and kara as supergirl is worried so she heads that way,

fast.

and maybe it turns out to be nothing, but chances are, it’s not. chances are it’s detective sawyer hauling a little kid behind her, a little boy with a fat lip and a black eye and an arm kara can see that is broken without her x-ray vision. and maybe it’s maggie with her hand protectively on the shoulder of the little boy, keeping him firmly behind her and maybe the other has her gun leveled at the gun leveled at her.

and this was only supposed to be a statement collection maggie will tell kara later - that’s why there was no back up.

but kara worries that she won’t get there fast enough because maggie has a terrified kid in one hand, a gun in the other and her eyes leveled at a man who is threatening to kill her. and kara, well she shows up just in time.

she shows up through a window, skidding through an open door because she used her super hearing and she heard, she /heard/ the way the mans muscles were tensing in his hand. she heard the slightest shift of the loaded gun and kara knew.

so she dove and rolled and skidded and is standing, wobbling, catching a bullet with her fingertips. she’s catching it and clutching it and turning to the man who fired it because

maggie sawyer isn’t allowed to die.

[maggie doesn’t know that yet, but kara will tell her]

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Okay, so here I am, an innocent lurker, having just found this blog, when I see: "what if the skywalkers were cthulu-type monsters." excuse me??? please elaborate you just wrote that and nothing else im dying ex p la i n y o ur s el f

  • The Force is everything that ever was and ever will be, every storm and every silence, the hunting krayk dragon and cowering bantha calf: it is huge, all-consuming, completely inhuman. How, then, could its children be anything short of monstrous? (Wonders, yes. But monsters all the same.)
  • Anakin Skywalker is boy-shaped, but Obi Wan cannot bear to look at him. 
  • A clarification: he can look at him with his human eyes; but he must clamp down the extra eyes his Force-sensitivity gives him, because when he doesn’t – well. The first time he met the boy he hadn’t closed those eyes; he’d open them, wide and curious and seen –
    • teeth and claws and roiling shadows, a slipslide of features and starfire, the white blur of warpspeed and it hurts –
  • Anakin Skywalker is the son of the Force, half human and half something extraordinary. There’s a reason the Jedi don’t like him, why Yoda mistrusts him; they all have to close their extra eyes around him; and even when they’re white-knuckled with effort, clamping down so the Force can’t so much as whisper to them (and that hurts Jedi, of course it does, it runs counter to all their training about opening up and trusting in the Force) and even then they still feel the velvet quiver of unseen limbs over their skin. 
  • And more. And worse. When he is angry – which is often – his shadow warps into something awful, and even the least Force-sensitive being quails at the profound wrongness of the sight. His features warp and melt, teeth spiralling out from his pupils, his mouth cracks open wide, his tongue growing scales and feathers and catching fire and he smiles, oh how he smiles and –
    • nothing like him should exist and
    • and you blink, lose the moment, he’s just a young man glowering at you, and his shadow is the same, but the memory of that horror is seared into the back of your brain.
  • It is no surprise that Padme dies in childbed. 
  • The first child’s cry makes Obi Wan’s bones rattle. It – you could not call it anything but an it – is a twisting, squirming mess of light and dark. There’s a wing, a thorned branch: you cannot focus on it. You cannot pin a shape to it. Obi Wan wants to run away, run and never look back. But the Med Droid is offering it to him; and it is a child, of a sort; and Obi Wan takes it, and it coalesces into a soft pink baby girl. He places it – her – against Padme’s white breast. Padme cradles it. “She’s beautiful.”
  • The second is just the same: pushed out like any human baby, but a roling mess of lightening and thick syrupy cloud, one moment tentacled and the next furred, pure power condensed. Obi Wan takes it in his arms and it solidifies into another fat baby, small and squalling. 
  • He’s not like the other babies, Luke Skywalker. He’s a funny one. When he smiles, you have the sudden absurd impulse that he’s got too many teeth for his face. His hair is corn-gold, but when you see it out of the corner of your eye you swear that it isn’t hair at all, but fire and teeth. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun. 
  • The other children are scared of him, Behu says to Owen, once. And Owen says: children always know. And Behu says: he isn’t a bad kid. Owen says: he’s a wonder. And that’s the problem. 
  • Jabba’s goons go to the Lars farm to collect water once. Only once. They return to Jabba’s palace gibbering nonsense, with their eyes burned out. Both mumble something about there’s something wrong with the boy and then jump into the ragnar pit. 
  • Don’t do that again, says Owen, but he hugs his nephew all the same, pulls him close, kisses his temple. He feels something hot-cold run over his spine, like something far larger than the child is trying to embrace him back. That night, Behu runs her fingers over the new white scartissue on her husband’s back, and says, he’s a good kid. Owen says, I know.
  • If I was there I could have saved them, Luke says to Ben Kenobi, years later, and in that moment he has a thousand thousand eyes and all of them are burning, and he has no limbs but a dozen wings bearing him aloft, and each feather is molten gold and each feather drips blood. Ben thinks of Anakin, screws his Force-sensitivity closed. Luke is a monster. A wonder. But first and foremost he is a boy, and he is grieving. 
    • Ben Kenobi holds him while he weeps. 
  • When Leia comes, she turns into a celestial horror with more teeth than Han cares to count. “Huh,” he says, after their first time. She’s so little in his arms, but so vast. He feels something gentle his back. He says, “Next time, I’ll wear a blindfold, princess. Don’t want to blind me, do you? Then I won’t be able to see when you’re doing stupid shit.” She titters, presses her face into the curve of his neck. 
    • Love comes to everyone, including monsters. 
middle earth gothic

there are rolling hills of grass in the shire and doors where lives once stood. you hear murmuring on the wind. they say it is the water of the brandywine but you know better. a girl sings a song and the bones of flowers rattle beneath her feet as she hangs wash to a clothesline.

when you find rivendell, it is quiet. the bruinen has cracked its way through the rocks, and moss covers the stacks of books. a bookcase rattles and screams when you come close to it. you put the parchment back. you put the syllabus back. a daughter makes her choice, and chooses rushing tides over the stillness of time. you hunt for a mother’s bone. there are none, there are none, there are none.

moria is a hollow cave and a hollow darkness and a hollow tunnel. there are dead ones wherever you look. a tomb screams of old friends and lost relatives. we cannot get out scrawled in spit tears and blood. when the ancient flame comes, you know your hands will let go and you will not be able to stop the screaming of wind through your bones.

when you enter lothlorien, the trees crackle and whisper and sigh. a witch lives here you hear them say. you do not find a way out, and the trees blindfold you to find the way: you are lost, but you catch glimpses of dead dreams in a pool of hissing water.

fangorn is a forest made of sinew and muscle and bone. the trees throb with poetry that lasts centuries. there is the body of an orc trapped in vines, and it smiles at you with sharp teeth rotting. you understand, for a moment, that death is nothing but the beginning, and then the darkness falls again. you smell water and wood and life. when the trees stare back at you, you do not think you feel safe. 

rohan gallops through time like bristling horses. a white lady looms, pale, behind shut windows as snakes creep over her uncle’s body like worms feasting upon dead flesh. her hands are marked with red, her eyes are empty pools. in all her dreams she drowns.

the white city looms like a stack of old bones. there are charred robes at the bottom of the valley where a grieving father once jumped to his death. at night the dead come walking, their eyes hollow, their hands clutching the heads of those they lost. there is the carcass of a fell beast on the planes before the city of kings and the children play with her bones.

the grey havens smell of saltwater and burning ships. the goodbyes here are final, and bitter, and made by the dead. the ghosts are quiet, for once. to the west, the sun sinks and kisses the sea. you think you hear laughter: you know it is only the wind.

I crave a love so deep that when it touches my soul it rattles my bones and squeezes my chest.
I want love that makes me a morning person.
A love that makes me forget what sadness ever felt like specially on the days I think sadness is all i’ll ever be.
A love that even though they might forget our anniversary they will never forget where we first kissed.
A love that makes me excited for Friday and Saturday nights but makes me fall in love with Sunday and Monday mornings. 
I want a love that I could go to parties with and hold our laughs while we whisper silly jokes that have everything to do with our shared dark humor, like a secret no one else is in on.
I want a love that understands I’m messy, difficult, and that most of my mood swings come from hunger and exhaustion, while the others come from anxiety and insecurity. 
A love that makes me coffee in the morning, but they know that the way I like it is not 3 creams and 2 sugars like I tell everyone else when they take my order.
but what i really mean is that on the days i wake up a mess i want no creams and no sugars or that on the days i wake up and the sunshine seems to be beaming through my eyes; that day they know I want 3 creams all the sugars because i have this weird way of thinking that it’ll just make my day sweeter. 
A love that looks like its traveled through all the ages and time zones just to be together.
A love that makes us finally understand the true meaning of fate.
A love that makes it impossible to ever think that soulmates don’t exist.
A love where one day I’ll look into their eyes and become so overwhelmed with happiness all I  would do is break down because I never once for a moment thought this was possible. 
A love that makes me question if my own mother had felt love for me before. 
I want a love that reaches through my chest and squeezes my heart when I start to worry they will ever leave me. 
A love that on the days when I think that i am not worthy of love they’ll wrap me in their arms and hold me so tight that it makes me feel like a fool for ever thinking such things.
I crave a love so crazy, so pure, so genuine, so out of this world.
A love so deep it won’t be enough for us, making us spend the rest of our lives just going deeper.
—  Odett G.