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My Art Stuff

@the-flower-girl-999

Some feedback and ideas would be great if anyone has some! Have a good day!

been trapped in my room due to the covid and ive felt too bad to draw to play videogames so ive just been daydreaming about stupid shit. like you remember a few days ago when i said that my ideal position in a fantasy world is to be an evil gay royal advisor ? its just beeen that

i do in fact advise the king to have positive interactions with the neighbouring kingdom of orcs because i plan to conspire with them later on and if i am the one that acts as an ambassador while our kingdoms strengthen their relationships then they will view me favourably especially since i bring gifts. my best friend is a dwarvish woman who enjoys complaining with me and i am kind to the kings children because i dont believe in being mean to kids but mainly its because i fear my plans my not be completed during the current reign and i dont want them to behead me once they ascend to the throne

I love it when I get so sucked into a game that I start dreaming it.

I dreamt last night that I was playing Hardspace: Shipbreaker which was fun because it was vivid, it was just general chopping up floating pieces of metal. But then at one point I fell into the furnace which was fucking terrifying and I'm pissed off because I dont even get the sticker since it was a dream.

The kingdom pays you quite well in order to bury the remains of magical beasts on your property. You’ve always just seen this as free and easy income, but this season you start to notice something off about your crops.

While I was never particularly fond of the arrangement, it had helped my family through tough times. When I was young, I would eavesdrop on princes, knights, hunters, and anyone else looking to have something quietly burried on our land. It made me sad when whatever they brought us hadn’t been hurting anyone. If it had been killed for sport or as some kind of rite of passage. 

Sometimes after they were done, I would sneak out and sit by the newest mound and look at the stars, hoping that whatever was resting beneath me knew I was sorry for it; that I hoped it found some kind of peace on the land I call home. It never felt like enough though. Once, I decided to make a headstone for one of them, a baby frost dragon. Really, it was a log with the word “frosty” carved in it, but the next day it appeared in our fireplace as my father lectured me about the dangers of magical creatures. It never changed how I felt about the whole thing.

When I inherited the property once my father passed, I still couldn’t break off the deal, but I did change how things were done. I would ask the client what they were burying and hand them the shovel. No small talk, no explainations, no tales of gradure overshadowing the body slumped over their horses backside. I wanted to make it clear I wanted nothing to do with what they had done and I did. After they finished and brought back my shovel, I would go and mark the grave. Something small that only I would notice. That way at least someone would remember them as more than prizes or monsters.

The garden was my plan to wean myself from depending on offering this sickening service. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home, but the reality of keeping a mass grave was even worse. So, I vistited a farm nearby who were willing to give me enough seeds for my first year. In the spring, I went around my property and began planting them by the markers I had left. I wasn’t sure how well they would grow if they would at all, but I couldn’t sit and stare at these ugly mounds of death and shame anymore. I wanted to make them beautiful.

To my joy, they grew. Some of which better than I had even expected and others grew differently than I thought they would. Of course, this was due to what was under them, but I had never considered that possibility.

It started small. First, I noticed the berries on the blueberry bush above Frosty were sparkling. When I looked closer, it wasn’t some trick of the light, they were frosted and frozen solid but still growing strangely enough. They tasted sweet and helped me keep cool on long summer days. Only one was enough to make someone shiver on the hotest days of the year. 

I never expected the apple tree I planted above the Caladrius’ grave to live. For years, there was a radius of dead soil around it. No matter how much rain or sun it recieved, any seeds that fell upon it were doomed to shrivel and die. Except for the apple tree. By the end of the year, it had grown to an astounding height of 30 feet and in the fall, it produced a number of white apples. They’re sweet and they can keep for months, but storing them is tricky. Anything they’re near starts rotting or dying meanwhile the fruit remains perfectly fine. The tree itself is beautiful in a haunting way. No animals ever nest in it, not even ants touch the fallen fruit. As it grows, the trees closest to it are starting to die. Fearing what it could do to the forest, I’ve taken it upon myself to dispose of its seeds carefully, not wanting the species to spread if it can.

Planting watermelons on the Kelpies grave was a mistake, one that I wouldn’t recommend repeating. Of course, they began just fine, growing fast and gracefully. Their flowers were a vibrant yellow and despite the bees avoiding them, they soon began growing into fruit. They looked gorgeous, sporting deep shades of emerald green and promising to be delicious. They weren’t. When I cut into them, the smell was atrocious. They were rotten and the gooey mess they left behind stayed around wash after wash until I eventually decided to burn the table that slime had gotten all over. I never replanted there, but I did give the remaining melons to pretentious clients if they would inscesantly brag about the things they’ve killed. Rarely did I ever see them again after that.

The same farmer the following spring traded some of my blueberries for a pair of lambs, boy and a girl. They were adorable when they were little and it didn’t take long for me to grow attached to them. That why I began panicking when their skin began to turn gray, stiff, and cold as stone. Their wool fell out and they began refusing the hay I was giving them, instead choosing to gnaw on stones and pebbles. Despite all these changes, their temperment never did so. They acted happy and content, continuing to thrive despite my worries. The ram’s horns began growing in and had a golden shine to them. Then, their wool grew back even though it wasn’t the same. It was sharp and shiny. Once it was long enough, I could see it wasn’t even hair. It was steel. I had to comission a blacksmith for a special pair of shears so I coud shear them properly. Now she’s the primary buyer of their wool, using it to make modified chain mail. It took me far too long to realize the stones in the field where I grew their hay were really the remains of stone golems that had likely been there since before I was born.

Mastering the properties of my land has been a long process. However, I did what I set out to do. I no longer rely on providing a service I despise. I’ve made my home something to be proud of, something magical. At last it is somewhere I and any others here can feel at peace.

Cant get over the fact that in Stargate, the planet's three moons are literally just pictures of the moon that have been rotated.

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for every time one of my cats fall in the space between my bed and the wall and have to do the funky climb back upwards, i gain two (2) serotonin

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he bites at my toes for not helping him

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"reclaim" implies that my cat originated from hell and that satan is underneath my bed and not paying rent

My moms cat did this while I was staying over except it was with one of those huge, old speakers and it fell while I was sleeping on the couch.

Back on Netflix and just watched Stowaway and I'm confused. Someone please tell me if I'm wrong, I desperately want this to quit driving me crazy. But isn't algae and cyanobacteria really easy to grow? From what I've researched, the most difficult part of growing algae in space is lack of gravity, but their ship has gravity. Algae is great at growing with minimal light and David had more than enough light for his culture. Algae only needs light, water, carbon, nitrogen, and a little phosphor to flourish yet all of the algae died.

I mean again, PLEASE correct me if im wrong, but algae evolved hundreds of thousands of years ago, it is a pest here on Earth. So, on a spaceship where Earth-like conditions are being recreated, how does David manage to kill that much algae that quickly?

Anonymous asked:

whats your avatar I cant tell

Oh, it’s the question mark in the default wingdings that comes with MSpaint! It’s a hand holding a pen, here in High-Res

I’ve got no skillz, so before this avatar it was always question marks (my header is still that) in different fonts. The fact that the question mark in wingdings is a hand holding a pen tickled me pink so I’ve had it ever since.

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Are you guys enjoying Dead Circuits? I’ve been working on it for awhile, so let me know if you have questions, comments, concerns, or suggestions. The askbox should be open. 

I’ll be taking a little break while I continue writing and I’m also going to post the first chapter on AO3, so chapter 2 will start appearing in a few days. :3

I go up to the counter, and glance over all the options. Some are out of date and some are just too expensive, but I know what I came here for. I smile to the cashier, “Hi, can I get a dream?”

“Sure,” they say. “What type? Fame? Fortune? Success?” 

“Just a simple one, please. Stable job and a small space for myself.”

“Alright.” They start ringing me up, then pause. “Would you like to donate?”

“What are you guys taking donations for?”

They smile brightly, “Just a second!” And disappear to the back.  

They return wheeling an entire rack of donation boxes to the world’s problems.

“Just to let you know, donations are optional, but unless everyone donates there’s no chance of solving these issues. They are completely optional, though.”

I look at what I have and I look at the multitude of boxes and contribute a little bit to each.

“Great!” They say, and point to the register. “Your total is still the same.”

I count the pennies and nickels and months and years I have remaining in my palm and after a moment, I put them away.

“Never mind. I can’t afford it. Thanks for your time.”

As I go to walk out, the cashier calls out to me. “If you’re not going to buy anything, shouldn’t you donate the rest?”