Reblogged whumpmyworld
Reblogged
You are a person who covers your counter space in clutter and inadvertently makes a shrine to a long forgotten god who shows up to thank you.
The pepper grinder is small and copper with a brass knob at the top that allows you to hand-turn the grinder. You’re never sure where you picked it up – it’s not a gift or a purchase, otherwise you’d have the saltshaker to match – but it feels right sitting next to your fruit bowl. Logically, it should go by your stove where the rest of your spices have congregated in a misshapen mob, getting stained by Bolognese and fry oil. However, your fruit bowl is a stoneware behemoth you found in the crawlspace under the house, and the shine of the copper next to the earthen tone reminds you of spending long hours excavating in the Italian countryside as an archeology sophomore in college (about two years before you became an English major), so it stays.
Then, of course, you’re too busy to eat fruit before it rots and the bowl sits empty- barring a lemon or lime here or there- and that’s no good either because it takes up over half of the counter to the right of your sink and backs up against the blank wall at the end of your galley kitchen where you can’t hang anything because both the fridge door and the pantry door swing into it.
So when your mother gives you another worry stone for your birthday – rose quartz this time, which means she thinks if you’re not worried about being single in your 30s, you should be – you hold it while staring out the kitchen window, drinking coffee over the sink, and when you finish the last sip full of grounds you toss the mug in the sink and the rose quartz in the bowl. It clinks loudly and then settles between those two lemons that you need to find a use for before the weekend, lest they go hard and unusable except for cleaning your sink.
After that, belated birthday wishes show up in the mail, and you can’t bring yourself to throw them out. Your Aunt Sylvia sends a postcard from Peru that she’s been holding onto for “a special occasion” for the last five years and, -aren’t you lucky?- you’re the special winner of a National Geographic photo of Machu Picchu. And you’re not a monster. The card may not hold the same significance to you as it did to her, but the thought does and so tucked between the bowl and the wall it goes where the very tippy top of the ruins rise over the brown rim, as if from the depths of a valley.
Then your college roommate (the archaeology one who made you want to do the study abroad program in the first place), Audra, sends you a shard of Roman pottery and a note in Latin that you can’t read but understand perfectly by the coffee stains littering the edge of it. The sight of the coffee stains warms your heart more than the pottery shard, so both go in the bowl where you can occasionally glance at them as you drink your own coffee over the sink and reminisce over study dates and the few regular dates you shared before her passion stole her abroad.
(And if the clay and the rose quartz lie next to each other and you suddenly think of marriage and nostalgia and her stoneware eyes that led you to save the same-colored fruit bowl from the depths of your house in the first place, it’s a natural series of associations and doesn’t prove your mother right at all.)
The driftwood isn’t from anyone. Your agent calls to tell you that you won an award for one of your books. The driftwood is in your hand, scavenged along the Potomac from amidst the pebbles deposited by the last storm, and it’s suddenly your only tether to reality as she explains what this means. It means reviews and author readings and an interview - of you! – and a guaranteed sequel. The stick is smooth under your fingertips and you wave it in the air is if it’s a wand in an attempt to burst your bubble.
Only you’re home the next moment and you’ve still got the driftwood in your hand and your bubble is unburst. It feels significant that you brought it back with you so you put it across the top of your fruit bowl as if it’s the award itself. You have a decaf coffee to celebrate that evening and see that stick guarding your rose quartz and your pepper grinder and your pottery shard and you think, I’m doing okay. And the joy you feel from that is so powerful that your next thought is, I’m happy.
Which is, of course, when the power goes out.
Outages happen all the time in a block as old as yours. Before, you’d see it as free time and go lay down in bed and wait for the world to relight or for morning to come. But you don’t have time now. Your agent is planning to call you soon. You are an award-winning author and you have things to do before your 42% battery runs out.
You make your kitchen your base and set the six pillar candles on your counter, lighting them one by one. They’re the rainbow ones from last June your mother bought you in a sweet yet confusing show of support and you’ve never found a special enough occasion to burn them. You smile at Machu Picchu peaking over your fruit bowl. Your aunt is the one who taught you about special things.
Then your agent calls and, while you’re hammering out the details, you see that the candles are about to drip colored wax onto your white, plastic countertops and even though you really want to replace them, you can’t afford to (at least until you sign a contract). You snatch up your driftwood and use it to scoop the wax from the sides until a kaleidoscope of color is collected and you have to keep spinning it to keep it from dripping.
You blow on the hot wax, thinking of Audra and your family and the future your agent is painting for you until it cools. Then you place the driftwood over the bowl where it belongs.
It’s just a bowl. Of course, it’s just a bowl. It does a good job of taking up a huge amount of your counter and of holding onto things you’d forget in a junk drawer. It looks good in the candlelight, warm and earthy and welcoming with the three bright lemons scattering amongst your treasures. It’s nice to see reminders of your loved ones every morning from the summit of Machu Picchu to your worry stone to that shard of pottery, but it’s not anything more.
At least it’s not until you put your driftwood, wax-covered wand back and think, I wish I could see her.
The flames of the candles sputter and turn gold, radiating a pure and steady light that could never come from a mundane fire. Your agent stops herself midsentence, apologizes, promises to call you back when she has a better connection, and hangs up. The bowl rattles and shivers and you take a step back as your copper pepper grinder tips over. You must not have put it together correctly because it spills when it does, little peppercorns that roll across your counter towards the edge.
You expect to hear the dried pepper hit the ground, but it doesn’t. Each peppercorn stops unnaturally.
G…
R…
A…
N…
T…
E…
D…
What?
The candles splutter and return to normal flame. Your bowl is still. The lemons seem less appetizing than they had a moment ago, but your treasures are still there and lovely.
You pick up your Roman shard.
Your phone rings. Audra. Although you can’t imagine talking to anyone after what you’ve just witness, your body isn’t on the same page. Muscle memory and association has you answering before the second ring.
“Mal, I got the job!”
“…The job?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you. Not because I was hiding it! But nobody ever gets it and I didn’t want you to get your hopes up and then my hopes up—”
Her rapid-fire word is grounding. You laugh. “Because my hopes are your hopes.”
“Obviously,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “I got the Smithsonian. The curator role. The job.”
She’s coming home. The realization hits like electricity, raising all the hair on your arms and almost making you drop the shard. You blink quickly to stop the automatic tears.
“Mal?”
“I’m here,” you say. You go to put the pottery shard back with more care than you ever have, as if it’s Audra herself. She can probably hear the way your voice trembles, but you can’t compose yourself. “Oh, I’m so happy. When?”
“In a month. I have to hand over some current projects, which should only take a week, but finding someone to take over my classes might take a little longer, but not too long! I promise. After that it’s packing—”
You put the pottery shard back in the bowl as gently as you ever have. Audra’s voice is the sweetest music as she says goodbye, in a hurry to start packing. You hear that music long after she hangs up. Your knees are weak. She’s coming home. She’s coming home. Thank whatever god, she’s coming home—
Your fingers touch something coarse and feather-light. Your brow furrows as you pull a scrap of ancient paper from the fruit bowl.
You’re welcome.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The lights flare as the power returns.
---
Thanks for reading! If you'd like to support what I do and/or would like to see new work from me, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)!
Thanks for all the support! Excited for another year on this blog. I'll probably make a mushy post about it at some point, but...EIGHT years! And counting! What an amazing time this has been :D
This story was based off my actual fruit bowl
Reblogged
trektober 7 - role swap
There was too much damn blood.
Captain McCoy himself had made it out of their crash mostly intact — but Spock and Dr. Kirk, beacons of bad luck that they were, had not. He stared at his First Officer and CMO, lungs squeezing terribly in his chest at the ugly blooms of green and red which stained their skin and shirts.
He didn't know what to do.
He had basic medical training, sure — all officers did — but not enough to help him here. Not when each of Spock's breaths sounded like it was more difficult than the last, and certainly not when a whole damn metal spike was protruding from Jim's side, wet, red tip glinting wickedly in the evening light.
A wet cough echoed through the wreckage, followed by a strangled gasp, and McCoy couldn't help but flinch.
"Bones."
"Jim," he answered, half begging — though for what, he didn't know. "You're... gonna be alright, Jim. You and Spock both." He hoped, even as he said it, that it was true.
Another cough followed, then a pained gasp.
"Bones, Spock needs help," Kirk said, voice strained. Quieter, he added, "I do, too."
McCoy squeezed his eyes closed, hands clenching at his sides. "I know, Jim. You — the Enterprise will be in range in two hours." He blinked twice, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks.
Kirk shifted where he lay, twisting his head until he could meet McCoy's eyes, a sad smile on his bloody lips. "That's too late, Bones," he said, achingly gentle. "You have to operate."
"I—" McCoy stared at him, a sob building painfully in his chest. "Dammit, Jim," he said desperately, "I'm not a doctor, I'm the captain! I can't—"
"You have to, Bones." Kirk coughed again, red spittle dripping down his chin as he clutched weakly at his side. His fingers were shaking, McCoy noticed. "I'll — walk you through it."
McCoy shuddered, then nodded. "Okay, Jim," he whispered. "Okay. You first? Then — you can help me with Spock?"
Carefully, Kirk shook his head, and McCoy didn't like the pity that filled his eyes.
"No. Spock first. You hear that gasping? He's — got a collapsed lung. And..." The expression on his face was half-grimace, half-smile. "When you do me, I — won't be able to stay conscious. Spock first."
McCoy nodded again, shoving aside the empty well of terror that was opening in his chest.
"Okay, Jim. Tell me what to do."
Reblogged
trektober 29 - time travel/loop
The landing party had gone by entirely without incident — or rather, without any incident save for Spock being unusually absent from Kirk's side. Still, all things considered, Kirk was quite pleased with the way the mission had unfolded. He remained quite pleased until, just after beaming back to the Enterprise, Lieutenant Liu stopped in front of him, turning back to the transporter pad with a questioning, "Commander...?"
Kirk turned, an odd dread spiking through him.
Still on the transporter pad, entirely unmoving and as pale as death, stood Spock. He looked about the transporter room as though he had never seen it before — and then at Kirk himself, those familiar and beloved eyes fixed on him as though Spock were staring at a ghost.
A terrible, choked noise left Spock's throat, then his legs seemed to give out underneath him, sending all six feet of him crashing unceremoniously to the ground with a crack.
In a flash, Kirk was at his side, knees smarting from how quickly he'd dropped to the floor.
"Spock," he said with barely suppressed urgency, taking his slumped form by the shoulders and shaking. "Spock!" His friend made no response; he merely reached out and gripped at Kirk, clutching at his shoulders like a lifeline. The vulnerability was alarming to witness, and Kirk shifted to shield him from the curious eyes of the security team. "Scotty, call Bones. Liu, Estrada, dismissed," he ordered sharply, not looking away from Spock.
Spock's fingers curled into Kirk's uniform, clinging to him like he feared that Kirk would vanish if he slackened his grip so much as an inch.
"Jim," Spock said at last, voice rough and slurring. "Jim, we must — we must leave. Now." His whole body was shuddering, but his eyes were clear, fierce and determined, and Kirk could not do anything but believe him.
"Okay," he agreed, stroking a hand down Spock's trembling back. "Alright, Spock."
He could not reach the intercom from where he knelt, still wrapped around Spock, but Scotty stepped forwards without question and called the bridge for him. It took mere seconds for Kirk to relay instructions up to Sulu, and seconds more for Sulu to obey, but it wasn't until he heard the faint hum of the warp core thrum ever-so-slightly louder as the Enterprise pulled into warp that he felt Spock begin to relax in his arms.
"Spock," he murmured, ignoring the sound of the door swishing open behind him. "What happened? Why—?"
For a moment, Spock was silent. Gradually, one of his hands unwound itself from the gold of Kirk's tunic, shifting until it was pressed firmly over Kirk's chest — over his heart. Only then did Spock speak, head still pressed firmly into the crook of Kirk's neck.
"You died. We all died, but you most of all." Spock's voice was low and grave, and he did not so much as shift as McCoy approached, tricorder already whirring away. "Time and time again, I saw your death. I lived my own. I cannot—" He swallowed thickly, shuddering. "Jim," he begged, "I cannot suffer your loss again."
Unspeakable tenderness filling him, Kirk tugged Spock even closer to him, lifting his Vulcan until Spock was half on his lap, every inch of them touching. "I'm here," he assured, tucking one hand into Spock's cap of black hair. "I'm alive, I'm here." Then a thought struck him, and he stilled. "Spock — it is over, right?"
"I — believe so," Spock said. "I have never returned to the Enterprise before. If it is not—" His voice cracked, then cut off, and Kirk ached for him.
"How many times?" Kirk asked gently, afraid to know the answer. Pressing his palm to Spock's cheek, Kirk caressed him softly. "How many times did you live through that? Live my death?"
Spock only shuddered, hands again tightening against him.
"I... lost count."
Reblogged
Protector of Ghosts
Even big scary ghosts need affection and emotional support.
[Image ID: A digital drawing of Danny Fenton in a hoodie looking murderous while gently cradling the face of a monstrous Phantom with one hand. Phantom's body is black and shadow-like with glowing neon green ribs, palms, eyes, mouth, ghostly tail and fire for hair. Phantom has four hands, three of which he is using to hold onto Danny, and the fourth hovers reverently over the human hand cradling his face. /. End ID]
Original sketch under the cut:
Some detail shots of the partial transparency that I am particularly proud of 💪
Reblogged turquoisemagpie
Something so profoundly fucked up between the inverse ratio of shrinking middle class and ever increasing aggression of advertisement
In which we're all Truman
#this is how it feels to be on tiktok#every video is secretly an ad somehow and theyre so good at hiding it u don't find out until the wnd#end*
This post has way too many notes and they've been clogging up my notifs for a month, but these are the first ones I've seen that Get It. Thank you. This is exactly it.
I wasn't talking about the absurdity of companies trying to advertise cars or vacations that no one can afford, like everyone in the notes seems to think. There are plenty of people who can afford them. Fewer than there used to be, but corporations aren't starving.
I was talking about the invasive way advertisers have taken over every modicum of available space and how it's no longer possible to turn anywhere without advertising being pushed on you, despite the fact that most people don't have the kind of expendable income that these companies are trying to extract from them. The less money the average person has to throw around, the more aggressively they're hounded to hand it over. Where people used to be able to afford a new car and a vacation and still throw expendable income around, they now save up for one or another big purchase (those who can afford one, and that population has significantly dwindled). People limit their other spending, and in response companies descend on our consciousness, on every last bit of space they can squeeze their presence into, like pigeons onto a handful of seeds thrown on the ground.
You have to sit through advertisements to watch something on youtube only to realize the video is, itself, an ad in disguise. You can't pump gas without a little screen blaring at you wanting you to buy things. Billboards and bus benches weren't enough, they have to be energy gobbling screens now so five companies can sell you shit while you wait instead of just one. Every available surface is screaming at you to BUY THE THING. Where you used to be able to play a game on your phone, now you can't get through more than a round of any without having to sit through ads to keep playing. Ads that are pushing other games to you that have more ads. Games based on making working class jobs look fun. Be a barista and fulfill every order or the customers will be angry! Lolololol! Work at a hotel and don't fail, making the demanding customer angry is failing don't fail! Hahahahahahahaaahaaaaahaaaaaaaa it's fun! Run a farm and make money to buy more things to grow and sell to make money to buy more things to grow and sell to make more money to buy more things to grow and sell and and and! Even in your free time you should be thinking about your place in the market economy! Or worse, they're ads for predatory games, whether they're "play our game and win real money!" bullshit or "doctors want you to play this to avoid alzheimer's [if you're old play this game where we'll exploit your confusion about technology to sell you more things.]"
Every free moment you have, every free surface you come across is another opportunity to sell you something. We aren't able to get a break from it in our free time in our own home unless we constantly take steps and make effort to, like installing ad blockers - which youtube and other websites are constantly working against - but those don't even work on your phone or tablet. And the closer to home the advertisement, the more it targets you specifically, because your personal devices, that should be your personal, intimate, private property and space, are exploited to collect data on you to wrench every last cent from your wallet. They want to get to know you, not because they're curious about you, but because they want your money. They don't just see you as a wallet with thumbs, they do so unabashedly and brazenly and aggressively.
This post wasn't about the content of what's being advertised to us. It was about the relentless, instrusive aggression with which advertising invades our privacy and personal space and every inch of public space. We are exposed to hundreds of images daily, none of which are art or even remotely creative or inspiring, but instead demand our attention and our money while ignoring that both have been stripped bare by the mere need to exist from one day to the next.
This post was about the insidious way advertising has embedded itself into culture and consciousness, so much so that in a post trying to call this out, most people's immediate reaction is, "yes, the problem is that I can't afford the thing being advertised" and not "why can't I go three seconds without being advertised to" in the first place. That advertisers continue to pour money into new ways to insert themselves into the average person's life when it's absolutely fucking pointless.
Reblogged
Orpheus and Eurydice
6/100 // print
Reblogged
obsessed with the Helena and Irving parallel and what it says about the aspects of our identity we think are fundamental (but aren't)...
Like Outie Irving assumes his Innie is just as radically anti-Lumon as he is. He assumes his hatred of Lumon is something ingrained in his personality! That's why he stays up at night drinking coffee and making paintings, because he hopes that when his innie dreams about the testing floor, he'll say "okay bet" and start exploring. That's what Outie Irving would do, after all. But he miscalculated! His hatred of Lumon isn't inherent--- his desire for meaning and art and spirituality is inherent. That's what his hatred for Lumon is built on. But in a world where there's no meaning outside of Lumon propaganda, of COURSE his innie would become ridiculously devoted to the company.
And Helena!! She is the corporation, that's her whole identity. She presumably assumed that Helly would be just as pro-Lumon as she is. But she miscalculated too! Her devotion to the company isn't inherent, her headstrong and entitled nature is what's inherent! And in a world where she's denied any agency whatsoever, that manifests as rebellion.
It's the same dynamic flipped on its head. They both sent their innies in there with opposite intentions--- one to take down the company, one feed the company's expansion--- only to realize that rebellion and devotion aren't inherent characteristics. Their innies have become the exact opposite of their outie selves, while still being exactly the same!! Because even though your personality is inherent, the values you hold are determined circumstantially. OUGH IT'S SO GOOD.
Reblogged somerandomdudelmao
Cleaning up my files and forgot that I had all these wing studies from circa. 2015 so thought, y’know what, I don’t need to hold onto these, so have this as a little gift from me to whomst ever needs some quick wings for their OC’s, AU’s, and Art.
Reblogged
Cass apocalyptic series Masterpost
So...one day I thought "hmmm, what if we had another season about the bad timeline" and then I went to draw it.
Do NOT repost/translate without my permission
НЕ распространять/переводить без моего разрешения
_________________ Cover___________________
Ep 6. Krangified
Ep 9. Commander O'Neil
Ep 10. Tiny Tello
Ep 11. The little things
Ep 12. Everything is falling apart
Ep 14. Donatello
Ep 15. Raphael
Ep 16. And the two they left behind
Ep 18. So many turtles
Ep 20. The winter is long
————
Quick q&a:
Drawn in Procreate (mostly). Commissions are closed. Tcest dni. This whole comic is about family and platonic relationships. My youtube. Basic round brush. Page size: 1620×2160.
If you use my comic pages in your art (such as voiceovers, edits, etc) please credit me as their author and attach a link to this blog.
Otherwise, I can and will report you for copyright infringement. Thanks:)
