I feel incredibly ill right now.
This is either about two-day-old beef cuts or severe Starbucks intolerance.
Why are you so tasty you bastards
h
Today's Document
noise dept.
cherry valley forever
YOU ARE THE REASON
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Janaina Medeiros

Kaledo Art
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

if i look back, i am lost
Jules of Nature
Xuebing Du

oozey mess
$LAYYYTER
Cosmic Funnies
art blog(derogatory)

blake kathryn

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ellievsbear

shark vs the universe
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

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seen from United States
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@easytheregenius
I feel incredibly ill right now.
This is either about two-day-old beef cuts or severe Starbucks intolerance.
Why are you so tasty you bastards
SEXY RUSH FOR YOU
Pretty art for pretty Rush :)
Every day of my life.
*sleeps to avoid my problems* *wakes up and my problems are still there* what the fuck actually
Kaleidoscope - snippet
I am forgetting whether or not I ever went on with this. But OK anyway. Have a snippet. Again. Maybe.
Young
The lack of an attack had started to prey on his mind.
Even the phrase niggled at him. Lack of attack. It was a ridiculous jingle. Something out of Dr Seuss.
I do not like green eggs and ham. Screw that. I’d eat eggs and ham right now and the colour of them be damned.
They were running short of supplies, and the way Young saw it they were always going to be. There would come a crunch point, oh yes, there would come that point where -
“Colonel.”
“TJ.”
He was already rehearsing his responses to the inevitable: Rush is worse or possibly even Rush is dead or, (and this was far more likely) Rush has escaped the infirmary and I don’t know where he’s gone.
“It’s Doctor Park, sir, Greer just brought her in.”
“Park.”
That at least was new. Young summoned up a mental image of Lisa Park. Somehow he managed more sympathy for her than for Brody or Volker. Maybe he could do with a shot of what Rush had got, and a nice long sleep.
“Well, what is it? Injury? Disease?”
“I don’t know, sir. She said she was hearing voices.”
Young had nothing to say to this. He was partly amazed they all weren’t by this point.
“TJ. Is this anything to do with what’s wrong with Rush?”
Silence.
“TJ.”
“I don’t know. If I knew what was wrong with either of them I could start a hypothesis.”
Aaand it's still on. Hi, by the way. Yep. Still here. Sort of.
Shades of Green - Lorne Malvo
"How do you do that, just lie like that?" "Do you know why the human eye can see more shades of green than any other color? Once you can answer that, you'll have your answer."
Sketching and watching films is good. Clockwise from top left: Loki costume maquette, Malekith the Accursed, Loki costume (off model), Loki
SGU cowboys: Part 4
The horse, evidently as relieved as they were to be back in (quasi) civilisation, plodded on determinedly down the main street. Young felt the eyes on him, or, more accurately, on his uniform.
It struck him again, acutely, as it had been doing occasionally during their long ride here, that he was the last. His column were all dead. He and this foreign doctor, the only remnants of their respective lives. He felt rather than saw Rush staring around them, as if looking for something specific. Probably the general stores. There were a few signs of life in the early day: the gawkers already out on the porches, a woman leaning warily out of a window, shaking out a battered-to-unrecognisible garment.
No children. That was odd. Not even really any animals. There was something clogged and unhealthy about the air in the place, as if it had been dead for centuries and was having a hard time of its resurrection. Sound seemed muffled - the horse’s dragging hooves made soft, dead sounds in the dust of main street.
If this place was really someone’s Destiny, Young couldn’t help hoping that it wasn’t his. Something smelt wrong here, like the rank closeness under a porch in high summer when something had crawled in and died.
A tug and roll of the saddle drew his attention back to immediate things. Behind him, Rush was starting to dismount, even though the horse was still continuing its determined search for a trough or a stable. Young yanked on the reins, starting to feel an ache starting behind his eyes as the sun began to brighten into its habitual searing brilliance. The man didn’t even have to talk to be a pain in the ass.
“Trading post is that way,” he said, raising his voice as Rush freed his boot from the stirrup and strode off in a contrary direction, his gait rapid and strange. “Hey. If you’re in such a hurry -”
Dirt scraped loudly as Rush stopped, not dead still but swaying now. In that moment Young abruptly recognised the way he was standing, recognised the posture, and swore under his breath before raising his voice.
“Doc. Hey, Rush. I -”
Rush dropped, all of a sudden and all of a heap. Dust puffed up in clouds around him and Young’s horse skittered, huffing nervously, as Young swung down with alacrity.
There had been a man in Young’s column who had been a veteran of the first Indian skirmishes - Franklin, his name had been - and he’d managed to hide a gangrenous slash across the ribs for over three weeks before finally just falling from his horse during the longest, hottest day of the year. The smell should have tipped them off, but nothing smells good after almost a year in the saddle. That and the fact that he’d kept his coat buttoned tight despite the heat. Franklin had died out there and they’d buried him unmarked, doing the best they could with the empty landscape. A few rocks. A stick. That loss had hurt Young more than most because he felt he could have done something. No, should. Should have done something. Franklin had had a family. People who would miss him. And now that family wouldn’t even have a body to bury decently.
Rush had been standing the same way Franklin had stood every time they’d stopped and dismounted for that three weeks. Taking too much care, holding himself too straight.
Goddamnit, the man was wounded and Young hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to notice because the man was such a piece of work. His sense of responsibility, blunted by the trauma of losing his men, roared back up into life as he approached the crumpled form. Rush was face down in the dirt, his head and his dirty hair spilling over his outflung hand.
Young turned him over carefully, reaching down to his own belt and digging out his flask. He dribbled water through Rush’s cracked, pale lips.
“Were you even drinking, you stupid son of a bitch,” he murmured. Rush didn’t stir. Water leaked from the corner of his slack mouth and out into the dust.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Young looked up, squinting, hand raised against the climbing sun. A woman was silhouetted against the light, wisps of blond hair escaping her hat and haloing her head.
“Do you need any help?”
The fault is mine and mine alone. And maybe Ad Noctem's a little bit
*incoherent flailing. Of joy.*
Thankyou National Theatre Live. Everything's tigers.
Sorry.
Brain imploded. May have drowned in watercolour paint. And furry creatures.
So yeah. Sorry about that.
I am a real person (how about you?)
No. Not SGU. Sorry. But more of that will be forthcoming. For now, I can't get enough, it seems, of tiger!Doctor. Kate Orman, this one's plainly in your wonderful novel's field (see "The Year of Intelligent Tigers", if you haven't. No, really. Buy it now. Buy ten copies. Give them to Eight-obsessed friends). For background, the Doctor has taken up in a civil war between a colony of human musicians and a population of sentient tigers. At the point this story picks up, the Doctor is living with the tigers, learning what their agenda is. He's "gone native" and perhaps a little too literally.
A slightly different view of Anji and Grieve's meeting with the Doctor and the tigers in the wilds on Hitchemus, because I loved the scene and wanted more. The Doctor wasn't human anyway. It's easy to forget.
(Now all I have to do is fit cheetah!Master in here somewhere)