I am absolutely obsessed with your story On Pins and Needles. Genuinely when I see that you’ve updated it I get so happy.
I cannot express how much I literally was kicking my feet and giggling to myself with how masterfully you were able to integrate the line “Yet I am always thinking about this slow fucking hockey player with beautiful freckles.”.
I honestly can’t wait to see where you take this story (but of course, no pressure or rush to get the next update out, I’m fully aware that anything we get from you is a luxury and I’m sure you have a life outside of writing). Your writing is incredible and so moving. I wish I could leave more than 1 kudos on the story, but hopefully this message conveys how much I’m enjoying your work. 💕💕💕
oh this is such a sweet message to receive! Thank you so much!
I'm happy you're enjoying it, and I hope you keep enjoying it as I update! Sorry I don't really have a concrete schedule for updating,,, I'm kind of writing and posting 2 things at once while fending off the 937938983 ideas I keep getting, so.
Thank you so much for giving my WIP a chance and also thank you so much for writing me such a lovely message!!
Seen a few comments like "this scene didn't happen in Yaga!" and "They aren't following the book!"
Guys. It's. It's a play. It is based on a play.
A play that features 2-3 people maximum.
Of course adapting it into a miniseries means things will change! Different mediums require different methods of storytelling.
The magic of the play is that every single one of the (female) characters can be Baba Yaga. If the actor who has played the witch goes full mask off, monologuing about what she is and why she's doing what she's doing, you don't know which of the characters she is.
With a television adaptation and more actors, extras, locations, set-pieces... obviously that structure is going to be put aside on order to make each character distinct. Otherwise the series risks becoming too confusing. Not every viewer is going to have read the play or seen it, so the cast and crew have to build the narrative with the assumption that the viewer is going in blind.
The benefit of this is that the series should build on the relatively sparse narrative in the play with what appears to be plenty of symbolism, incredible visuals, and a small but really talented cast.
Goddamit i hate this fucking post. I hate it because obviously if “twelve” followed the same pattern as the other teen numbers it wouldn’t be “twoteen” it would be “seconteen”. Think about it. It’s not “threeteen” it’s “thirteen” as in “third”. It’s not “fiveteen” it’s “fifteen” as in fifth. So with that in mind, you count “first, second, third, fourth, fifth,” and so on, so eleven would be “firsteen” and twelve would be “secondteen” or “seconteen”. “Firsteen, seconteen, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen….” It just drives me absolutely mad everytime i see this post that this obvious pattern was overlooked and i cant hold in my rage anymore.
Ilya’s childhood was littered with tiny little horror stories. Many ghosts looked perfectly fine, just people populating the city and seemingly going about their business blissfully unaware that they re-enacted the same routine, the same steps, every single day. Others unfortunately carried the memories and the wounds of their less-than-peaceful deaths.
And some were louder than others.
A woman in the middle of the street, her lower body flattened and mangled with the impact of the vehicle that killed her. His heart hammered and he kept his eyes on his shoes as he walked faster, ignoring her cries for help because he knew, he knew there was nothing he could do. A boy who had fallen into the river, who didn’t say anything with words, but followed Ilya all the way home, dark water leaking from his mouth, his clothes and his blue, bloated body dripping all over the floors without making a mess.
Ilya hadn’t dared to look into his swollen, fish-like eyes. He’d hidden under the covers in his bedroom, shaking and trying not to cry.
Looking at them got their attention. Speaking to them was worse. He learned to look through them, to keep his face still and free of recognition or horror. He held his mother’s hand as they walked past a tall building one day, and didn’t clutch at her tighter or flinch as a construction worker turned in front of him, the rebar sticking out of his chest passing through Ilya and his mother like a passing shadow.
So yes, Ilya learned not to react.
Yet he never quite learned how to stop being scared.
The second time Ilya talked to a ghost, and the first time he spoke to one intentionally, he was twelve years old.
Irina Rozanov lay on her bed, looking almost as though she was just asleep. Ilya almost wouldn’t have noticed that something was amiss, if not for the uncomfortable way one of her arms slumped off of the mattress, the pill bottle clutched tightly in a red, swollen hand.
She also, to Ilya’s quietly dawning horror, sat neatly at the foot of the bed like she was waiting for him.
His backpack hit the floor, a dull thump that landed like a gunshot in the oppressive silence.
Irina— the one on the end of the bed— looked directly at him, unwavering and present in the way ghosts almost never were.
“You can see me,” she said, folding her hands in her lap neatly. “I always suspected…”
“Mama,” he choked out, his vision blurring at the edges. “Mama, what…”
Her composure was more devastating than if she were wailing and screaming. She looked healthier than the body on the bed, which felt sort of obvious, but it wasn’t that her hair was neater or the dark circles around her eyes had eased, or even that she was smiling sadly at him. It was something about how calm she looked, like she was at peace with herself.
“I’m so sorry, Солнышко,” she said softly. “I promise I didn’t mean to leave you.”
Words stuck in Ilya’s throat, and he let out an ugly, hitching sob. His head filled with questions his mouth refused to ask, overwhelmed by the horror of seeing his mother so still on the bed, and so peaceful as a ghost.
“But you did leave,” his traitorous mouth finally worked, and his tone came out accusatory.
excerpt from Phantom Pains
Summary: Ruby Pike disappeared two weeks ago. Desperate for answers, Jacki Pike reaches out to Ilya Rozanov, a man who claims to be able to speak to the dead.
I got a 4 min long video of Kimchi dreaming today, so here's a clip
You get the whole walk cycle and the little sprint at the end.
Sometimes her sprints last for like 4 or 5 seconds and she can shoot herself off the couch or into a wall if she gets a grip with her back claws. If she does it next to a wall, her head smacking into it sounds like someone is trying to break into the house. She doesn't wake up.
Later in the dream she injured her paw and was limping, and earlier she caught something and ate it.
aint it crazy how many people realize they're queer when they have the language to express how they feel and a support system to encourage self exploration????
right at the beginning when she's like how do I help my son feel loved and accepted I'm here shouting
"QUEEN YOU ALREADY DID THAT BY TAKING HIS SIDE AND LEAVING THAT NO GOOD HUSBAND FOR HAVING THE AUDACITY TO KICK YOUR BABY OUT!"
And Good for her! this is the only response to a man who kicks out a child.
if your animal is lying on the floor, furniture etc, it’s important to take a picture of them. then, if they move or shift in any way, it’s important to take another picture. with this technique, you can take many pictures of your animal
one of the most comforting constants on this website is when a long-running show comes to an end and all the people who gaslit themselves to the point of psychosis over a ship that would never be canon go apeshit
neurospicy was an activity enjoyed by much of the 21st century usamerican middle class, related to the contemporary practices of "astrology," "psychiatry," and "phrenology." Practitioners, known as "neurospices" (singular neurospex) would attempt to categorize people through observation and consultation with the "Diesemfive," their holy book. It is said a particularly skilled neurospex could perfectly and accurately divine the conditions of another person from a single tumblr post.
