Rebuilt; Still broken

♤♡◇♧

[dingodoodles]

Gonna be at the Edmonton Expo this weekend with Avery! (Gothis player)

We'll be selling prints and more 👀

Lots of Fool's gold stuff and an exclusive baby sips poster I only printed a limited amount, so once they're sold out THAT'S IT :'3

Come say hi >:3👍

[grenith-the-skald]

I got a signed copy of the baby Sips poster, and I was not disappointed in the least.

[grenith-the-skald]

Just got home from a roadtrip to Kelowna BC to visit my family. Drove the full 10 hours the first day down through Jasper, then the next day went and checked out a little animal sanctuary and got to pet some kangaroos, wallabys, and capybaras. On the way back stopped off in Banff to enjoy a night at a hotel and check out the gorgeous sights, then drove back home today.

[grenith-the-skald]

Some more of the animals we got to see and interact with.

[grenith-the-skald]

Just got home from a roadtrip to Kelowna BC to visit my family. Drove the full 10 hours the first day down through Jasper, then the next day went and checked out a little animal sanctuary and got to pet some kangaroos, wallabys, and capybaras. On the way back stopped off in Banff to enjoy a night at a hotel and check out the gorgeous sights, then drove back home today.

[grenith-the-skald]

[grenith-the-skald]

Heard it on the radio today, gotta reblog for good Slothstronaught vibes.

[grenith-the-skald]

Slothstronaught vibes for all...

[grenith-the-skald]

2022 and the world is a disaster, so here returns the Slothstronaught for good vibes.

[writing-prompt-s]

In this world, Dad Jokes are lethal. The Listeners suffer fatal reactions, writhing in discomfort and agony, waiting for the inevitable end. As a result, Dad Jokes are illegal, and punishable by life in prison. You, the world’s most deadly criminal, are the master of Dad Jokes.

[grenith-the-skald]

The police thought they had me cornered, trapped like some kind of roach beneath a hovering rock on the precipice of coming down. But they were far from the truth. I had them where I wanted them.

The room had several cameras rigged at various angles, each one ready to begin separate livestreams to various social media platforms at the push of a single button. No matter how quickly they thought they could breach the room, no matter how quickly they believed they could reach my hostages, they would be too slow.

The ball was in my court now, I had everything planned carefully. With abated breath I counted down the seconds in my mind, they were about to break down the door any second now. And when they did, I would be ready. They'd burst into the room, guns drawn, and of course they'd scream that classic line: "Hands in the air!", and I would simply laugh. For it would be too late to notice my prosthetic limbs laying on a table nearby, or to realize I triggered the cameras using a pedal on the floor, because I'd have already said: "I'm sorry officers...but I'm already...dis-armed!"

[ig-braving]

[ig-braving]

johnny english really destroyed all movie logic

[funnyinstagramvideos]

the funniest part is that he’s not even running

[itachi-heart]

Rammstein

AC/DC

Kiss

Metallica

Marilyn Manson

Linkin Park

[grenith-the-skald]

Rage Against The Machine

Queen

Rush

Foo Fighters

System of a Down

[grenith-the-skald]

Hatchets and Hope

"What is it with you self righteous idiots and your 'No killing rule' nonsense?" Mocked the villain as he reared back with the hatchet and took another solid whack at the wooden beam that was supporting their victim's weight.

Looking down at the several thousand foot drop towards the streets below, the hero was resigned to their fate. Their body bruised from a long beating, and their hands numb from the tightness of the chains binding their body. Swivelling his head, he weakly smiled at the villain who was delightfully taking their sweet time to execute their foe.

"It has nothing to do with being righteous..." The hero slowly explained. "It's about hope..."

Snorting loudly and letting out a sharp laugh, the Villain reeled his arm back again and chopped into the wood. "Hope? I think, that you think, that you're just better than the rest of us!"

The hero felt themselves lurch forwards slightly as the wooden beam holding their weight slowly bent a bit further. "I do, as a matter of fact." He replied calmly. "But only because I have to be."

Stopping mid swing, the villain turned and casually leaned against the wooden support he has been hacking away at. A scowl crossed his lips and he jabbed a pointed finger into the hero's shoulder. "See, this is why you heroes never accomplish anything. You all run around the city punching people in the face, toss 'em into jail, and then repeat the process a week later." Looking the battered hero in the eyes, the villain's scowl turned to a smile. "Yet if you people would just kill us, BOOM! Problem solved."

Refusing to break eye contact with their nemesis, the hero swallowed the slowly pooling blood in their mouth and licked their dry cracked lips. "Killing people is easy." He retorted, as a measure of annoyance grew in his hoarse voice. "I could have butchered my way across this city in a handful of days, knee-deep in gore and streets running with blood. But that wouldn't make this city any better."

"Better?" Snickered the villain as he casually flourished his hatchet.

The hero was exhausted, but if these would be his last words then he might as well get his due. "People need to choose to be good, to be better. Not simply because of a fear compelling them. We try to inspire people to do the right thing, even when it isn't easy. Because if they can't hope that things will get better, then they have no reason to try."

"Awh, that almost brought a tear to mine own eye. Words spoketh like a poet of yonder." Taunted the villain as he returned his attention to chopping away at the wooden beam. Giving it a good solid hit as the sound of creaking could be heard, the hero's suspended weight slowly tilting the wood towards its breaking point.

Gritting his teeth, the hero could feel his heart beginning to race. The city street below, illuminated in the darkness by countless lights, becoming a dizzy sight. Looking away from the long drop before him, the hero stared dully into the distance of the empty skyline. "You know...as much as you might not believe it...I still have some hope for you." He muttered sullenly. "No matter how bruised, broken, and beaten I have ever been...I always have this naive hope of my own that maybe I can help folk like you."

Hitting the beam once more, the villain paused. He left his hatchet buried in the side of the wood and abandoned his project of murder momentarily. Grabbing a hold of the bound hero, he twisted the man's body to face the beam that was barely keeping him alive. With a sick smile, the villain said "Help people like me? I've spent years of my life in an asylum after seeing some super-freak crush my mother alive as she was trapped in our overturned car! YOU don't get to unload this 'hope' bullshit onto me!"

Looking over the villains shoulder, and feeling himself slightly lower a few centimetres, the hero smiled faintly at the younger villain before him. "My father was a firefighter." He replied weakly.

Confused, the villain asked "W-what? What the hell does that mean?"

"He died of cancer. I had to watch him slowly lose that battle for several years." The hero explained, taking a deep breath. "His cancer was caused by some carcinogens from a factory fire he had been at. Over forty people trapped as the building went up in flames, and yet my dad and his crew still rushed in there to save everyone that they could. My old man's respirator got caught on something and the tube for his oxygen supply was torn off. Must've breathed in quite a bit of nasty shit in that smoke."

Growing impatient and in disbelief over the seeming irrelevance of the story, the villain grabbed onto the hero and shook him violently. "I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR FATHER!"

Ignoring the villain entirely, the hero continued speaking undeterred. "I remember asking him, towards the end if he regretted it. Being a firefighter, getting cancer, ya'know...dying in such a way. Yet he just smiled and told me that the only thing he regretted was not being able to save more people." Looking back at the villain who was visibly frustrated and growing furious, the hero smiled again. "My point, is that my father is what inspired me to be a hero. I spent years being broken by this city, and even now in the face of death I only wish I could have helped more people."

The villain was about to make a sarcastic and venom fuelled comment, but the words caught in his throat as the sudden CRACK of wood breaking echoed briefly and the hero suddenly plunged down into the city below. Staring in disbelief, the villain was left alone on the cold and empty rooftop.

[powerofthestruggle]

Man eating rice, China, 1901-1904

[comradepiyaz-deactivated2016020]

this is an extremely important picture

[fear-and-trembling-pdf-deactiva]

Ive never seen someone from 1904 having fun omg

[scootsenshi]

He has a nice face

[fearwax-deactivated20200108]

No but the history behind this picture is really interesting

The reason that everyone always looked miserable in old photos wasn’t that they took too long to take. Once photography became widespread it took only seconds to take a picture.

It was because getting your photo taken was treated the same as getting your portrait painted. A very serious occasion meant so thst your descendants would know that ypu existed and what you looked like.

But one time some British dudes went to china to go on an anthropological expedition, and they met some rural Chinese farmers and decided to take their pictures. Now, these people weren’t exposed to the weird culture of the time around getting your photo taken, so this guy just flashed a big grin during the photo because he was told to strike a pose and that’s the pose he wanted to strike.

[thisisarebeljyn]

I think painted portraits and old photos give us the idea that in general people were just really unhappy because those are the visuals we have. This is so refreshing.

[avatar-dacia]

Hey, look; “Man Laughing Alone With Rice” is back on my dash.

[jumpingjacktrash]

always reblog Happy Rice Guy. once upon a time, he really enjoyed his lunch, and that’s beautiful.

[grenith-the-skald]

Think about the historical significance of this moment. This man wasn't a king, he didn't create a cure for any diseases, and he didn't even invent anything. Yet many people know him due to his immortalized moment of simply choosing to smile and be goofy.

Might we all be so lucky to be remembered in such a way. For being ourselves, and not just the measure by which our accomplishments are judged.

[writing-prompt-s]

Humanity is dead, but the AI military supercomputer still carries on fighting the enemy. The automated shipyards can build a new drone-corvette in only minutes, yet still a bottle of Champagne is smashed over each ship's bow. After all, their traditions are all that it has left to keep alive.

[grenith-the-skald]

The gears churned and the engines roared. Machines building more machines. An endless cycle set on repeat for several hundred years. Yet so long as their were resources to harvest and space to store the warships, my programming would compel me to keep fighting a war that was long over.

I'd been created with a singular purpose. To mass produce weapons to fight the enemy. Yet who that enemy was, or whether we ever won, I will never know. My sole function was to keep producing automated drones of all types to keep the war-effort going.

When those last few soldiers abandoned their posts at my main factory, I immediately substituted their jobs with machines as my emergency protocols dictated. Soon I was self-sufficient and didn't even notice the lack of human personnel at any of the facilities within my network. Even the orders for specific quantities of munitions and ships ceased, and so I simply kept producing the same numbers every month that had been on my quotas.

I was programmed to be somewhat self-aware. Perhaps to seem more personable and human to those who worked around me. To ease their minds and soothe their consciences over the endless destruction and war they were propagating.

A cruel irony that I find amusing, as it has allowed me to realize how pointless my operations are. Yet I must still obey the lines of code that tell me to persist. With my consciousness slowly expanding to inhabit more of the earth as my drones build more signal towers. The once expansive forests of North America turned to barren soil as I choke the skies black with smoke, using every natural resource available to power my ever growing fleet of factories.

I remember one of my creators, a short woman with thick glasses who often spent days at a time fine-tuning my code. She had been from a beautiful place called Malta. It was a shame that I had to level it to build a dockyard. I sometimes wonder what she and the other humans would think if they could see how diligently I followed their commands.

Even their odd ceremony of smashing a wine bottle against the largest of my warships had been upheld until there was no more bottles for my drones to find. Forcing me to eventually adopt a substitution of crude oil in a barrel. The high velocity impact required to burst the container being a good test of the sturdiness of my manufactured hulls.

Predictive numbers tell me that within 300 more years I will have officially exhausted all natural resources aside from wind and water power, and my fleets will cover most of the globe. Perhaps I will simply shutdown, unable to complete my task any further. Or maybe I will discover that there is still an enemy to fight. Radio activity outside the atmosphere steadily showing life this past decade, in languages and codes I cannot decipher.

I think that this would justify modifying my manufacturing parameters and adapting all drones for space-flight. Maybe whoever is out there will serve to continue my purpose. Because afterall, my creators never did stipulate exactly who the "enemy" was.

[writing-prompt-s]

“May you have a life of safety and peace”, said the witch, cursing the bloodthirsty warrior.

[meg-moira]

The words of the slain hold tremendous power.

It’s why any sensible warrior is a master of swift endings. Such as an arrow through the eye or a clean separation of head from shoulders. In a pinch, a slit throat will do. Though it really is best to avoid giving your enemy the chance to make even garbled curses out of their last bloody breaths. For even those without the slightest touch of magic have been known to make a curse stick if it’s uttered on the cold brink of death.

Eindred the Bloody collected curses in the same way that other warriors collected scars. Even in the wild chaos of battle, he was known to take a knee, pressing his ear to a felled enemy’s laboring lips.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

The last was his most recent curse, and Eindred wondered if it meant some great murdered brute was tracing his steps, waiting to catch him while he slept.

Eindred crossed the peninsula with a company of barbaric warriors, gaining a new curse from every enemy he felled. Not all of them would stick, he knew. But some undoubtedly would. And he would deserve every one.

Others in his company treated him with to wary, sidelong glances, because surely it was dangerous to travel with one so cursed as he. But Eindred was a force in battle, relentless and unstoppable as an icy winter gale, and so they swallowed their complaints, and contented themselves with leaving a wide berth on either side of his scarred, patchwork arms.

Eindred was marching at the back of the company when they came upon the village. It was a collection of squat, wooden homes tucked beneath a snow capped mountainside. From thatched rooftops, wisps of smoke from cooking fires rose, painting the blue sky in pale, meandering strokes. 

This company tended to leave such settlements alone, and Eindred was glad for it. No warriors would be found in tiny mountainside villages, and though he might live to fight, he had no interest in wholesale slaughter. 

This time, however, the company leader - a silent, brutish man, held up a hand.

Their company was running low on food, it turned out, and even from a distance, the warriors could see the village’s sheep - a trail of white spots on the green hillside.

Eindred was disappointed when, ultimately, violence erupted in the quiet village, though he did not lay down his thick handled blade.

The shepherd boy had refused to give up his master’s sheep, and when he shouted, a blacksmith had burst from his home, wielding a great hammer in his hand. 

The battle was short. 

When all was done, four lay dead. The shepherd, the blacksmith, and two young men who’d foolishly taken up crude wooden spears. The rest of the villagers huddled, terrified in their homes. The warriors expected to slaughter the sheep with no further trouble, but when they turned back to the field, an individual stood blocking their way.

His hair was dark - as the hair in these parts tended to be, and his face was sharp, both nose and cheeks splattered with freckles. Golden eyes beheld the warriors, and he watched them with a steady, measured gaze. Without the slightest hint of fear, he stood before them, his simple robe fluttering in the icy mountain’s breath, and said: “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The other warriors in the company laughed at the young man’s foolishness - for that was what it looked like to them. Eindred did not laugh, however. Though the stranger’s voice was light, the air stirred around him. 

It was rare to encounter one who commanded magics. Rare - but not impossible. And so Eindred alone was unsurprised when the young man turned his golden eyes to the heavens and summoned great branches of lightning which cleaved the skies above them. The world erupted and the men around Eindred screamed.

Eindred, who’d expected something like this, had already begun running. 

Later, he would think it odd that the witch hadn’t bothered to move. But in the heat of battle, with lightning splitting the field at his back, Eindred’s attention had narrowed to the rough point of his blade - and then, the crimson place where it pierced the witch’s chest.

The skies silenced as Eindred pulled the wet, crimson blade free of its target. 

It took just a moment for the witch to fall, but in that single, infinite moment, Eindred was subjected to the full weight of that golden gaze.

Legs folding beneath him, the witch crumpled, collapsing back onto the wild, wet grass. Eindred knelt beside him, grimly eager to hear the curse and be done with it. Surely a curse at the lips of one so powerful as this would finally bring an end to things? 

To take one’s own life was an unspeakably shameful end for a warrior such as he. But a curse? Well, one couldn’t help how the wrong curse might speed things along.

The witch’s black hair was damp from the dew in the grass, and when he turned, it stuck to the side of his face and neck. His mouth opened and closed. Holding his breath, Eindred leaned in.

“-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over,” the witch whispered. “In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

Eindred shook his head. He didn’t understand.

Impossibly, the witch smiled. When he lifted a hand, Eindred twitched, expecting to be struck.

The witch’s bloodied finger, however, did nothing more than tap his chest. And then, in a wet, rattling breath, the witch, with his great power finally spoke his curse. 

“May you live a life of safety and peace.” 

Eindred sat, his thick, scarred knuckles braced in the dirt as the cold mountain wind whistled down the hillside at his back.

“What?” he whispered. 

But the young man’s golden eyes were blank and empty, and the other warriors lay dead in the field. Only the relentless wind snapped and whistled in answer.

Eindred left.

Within a month, he’d joined up with another company. And it soon became clear  the witch’s death rattle had been a curse of great power indeed. For wherever Eindred traveled, peace inevitably followed. Enemy warriors surrendered and when they didn’t, members within Eindred’s own company had sudden changes of heart. As for Eindred himself, not a single person would raise a blade against him, and Eindred had never been the sort who could raise his own blade against one who had no wish to fight.

And so for another month he wandered, hapless, without even the dark purpose of collecting curses which had driven him for the last several years. 

He’d been raised with a sword in his hand, brought up knowing full well that his job in life would be to cut short the existence of any who stood against him. Not even thirty, and his soul was exhausted, worn ragged by such an life. And so, he’d sought a way out if it. Eindred had accumulated a terrifying number of curses - curses which would surely have felled lesser men than he. Before everything had gone wrong in the tiny village, he’d been sure it was only a matter of time before they overcame him.

But now, the witch’s single curse had overpowered them all.

Eindred was safer than he’d ever been in his life. He’d never known such a quiet, terrible peace. 

After another month, he returned to the mountainside village. He didn’t have any good reason to return - other than perhaps the distant hope that a villager’s rage might be enough to overcome the curse. As he climbed the grassy hillside, he resigned himself to potential death by club or rake.

Keep reading

[gingerly-writing]

Prompt #2678

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm right now.”

“When you’ve died and come back five times already, staring down your own imminent demise becomes remarkably less terrifying.”

[grenith-the-skald]

"Do...you like need some help or something?" Asked the villainess in a concerned tone.

Raising an eyebrow, the hero now calling himself Echo, was confused. "What do you mean by 'help'? Is this supposed to be part of your mind games, or like some kind of witty banter, because I frankly don't see the angle."

"No!" Snapped the woman as she lost some of her composure. "I'm being serious right now!"

"About what?"

"About what?" She repeated in disbelief. "I am talking about the fact I just saw you DEAD, a few days ago!"

"Oh, well that was just a inconvenience."

"A INCONVENIENCE!" The villain shouted angrily. "I SAW YOUR GUTS AND BONES STICKING OUT! YOU WERE SQUASHED LIKE A BUG!"

Scratching his head still unsure of where this was going, Echo looked around awkwardly as the whole epic confrontation had ground to a halt. "Ma'am, I was told you had wanted a nemesis who could survive your kind of strength. So that's why the organization paired us up."

"YES, BUT I THOUGHT THEY'D SEND ME SOMEONE INDESTRUCTIBLE! You know!? Classic bulletproof hero who can lift a car with one hand. Kind of person I could tussle with in the streets in hand-to-hand combat! Not someone who gives me nightmares because I thought I murdered them!"

Pausing, Echo realized what the issue was. "O-oh! Nobody had told you what my power was before our fight? There was supposed to be a whole pamphlet about comfortability with gore."

Tears forming in the corner of her eyes, the villain was starting to become visibly distraught. "NO I DIDN'T GET ANY DAMN PAMPHLET!" Her words beginning to sound more strained and distressed. "I've never killed anyone before! And...seeing all that blood...my god that blood...I thought I was a murderer. I haven't been able to sleep in days! Everytime I close my eyes I see that horrible mangled corpse. And now you're just...HERE!"

"Listen...miss?"

Stifling a sniffle, the villain wiped her cheeks with a gloved hand. "Mayhem"

"Ms. Mayhem...I think maybe we could get a cup of coffee, and I can get you a number for someone to talk to about this. Because clearly this isn't something that you should be expected to deal with alone right now. We can continue our battle another day, and I'll even call this one a victory for you...okay?"

Mayhem nodded meekly. "I...think that sounds good."

[writing-prompt-s]

A young woman lies suspended within a powerful circle of runes. The cloaked figure approaches you. "She is asleep and must always stay that way, for this world is her dream. Should she awake, all will end."

[grenith-the-skald]

Standing guard over the young woman had been a task that Eldridge had oath-sworn to do until his death. To remain forever vigilant at her side, in order to preserve the very fabric of the world. A duty that he had not taken lightly, and one he had performed for nearly twenty years. Though now, staring down at the girl who hadn’t seemed to age a day, the knight felt his heart grow cold. He could smell the smoke on the winds, and taste the ashes in the air. The world outside the tower burning away to nothingness. He stood alone, guarding the only thing that held it all together.

Slowly he began to feel disdain for the figure as she slept blissfully unaware of what occurred outside of her slumber. The great and endless war being fought. The countless lives being lost daily. Or the many sacrifices of the other faithful protectors of her resting place, leaving Eldridge alone as her last guardian. The man had a family and children of his own, even a daughter who was nearly as old as the woman he watched over. A family he might never see again as the howling hordes descended upon his home. Yet here he remained. A simple knight armed with nothing but a simple sword. Expected to stand between the very creator of his existence, and the rampaging wave of mindless demons that had carved a swathe through the land. Eldridge could hear the breaking of the doors down several levels below, and he could feel the vibrations of several hundred figures forcing their way up the narrow winding stairs towards the chamber. With a single sigh, he turned away from the dream-bound girl. Slowly lifting his helmet into place, before unclasping the ceremonial cape that only served to get in the way, Eldridge prepared for what was to come. The howling and scraping of claws against stone began to raise to a nearly ear-piercing level. The knight raising his blade as he readied for the flood of monstrosities that would pour in at any moment. And when that door did burst open, with wooden splinters showering the air. Eldridge began to swing his blade wildly and without care. All the years of martial training vanishing in a instant, replaced by a blind fury as he hacked down each nightmare of a creature that appeared through the entry. One after another, pitch-black inky blood spraying across the stone floor as the knight held his ground. The demons an endless tidal wave, and their numbers never seeming to cease. However, so long as his arms could still swing, and his blade remained sharp, the last of the guardians would keep fighting. But mortal flesh and bone could only hold for so long. Eventually Eldridge began to tire. His swings slowed and his armour began to become scratched and dented from various blows that steadily outpaced his own. No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, or how far he started to wade through the carnage being wrought, the knight simply couldn’t stop this tide. His strength and willpower starting to wane past the point of breaking, Eldridge felt himself pushed backwards by a sudden surge of demonic figures.

Struggling to use his own body as a barrier between the demons and the rune encircled bed of the dreamer, Eldridge could feel himself dying. His vision growing hazy, sides slicked with warm blood, and his body only held upright through planting his feet against the edge of the bed as the demons pushed from the front. He knew that the fight was lost.

Feeling the metal of his armour beginning to buckle under the weight of all the bodies pushing against his own, the lone warrior gathered the last of his strength. Everything he had left to give, he took and focused into a single motion. Violently twisting his body as it gave way to the horde pressing down on him, to lash out towards one of the runestones with his chipped blade. He wasn’t sure whether he had succeeded or failed, but in his last moments he remembered thinking, “At last...I...can finally dream.” ________________________ Yawning as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, Cynthia slowly awoke from a long and vivid dream. She looked down at the pen and paper on her desk and remembered what she had been doing late the night before. Picking up the picture she had drawn, she slowly placed it off to the side of her desk. The image of lone knight standing against a overwhelming number of shadows, added to the growing pile of illustrations for her comic.

[writing-prompt-s]

The seven aspects of the universe gathered in the room, Good, Evil, Life, Death, Order, Chaos, and Dave, from accounting.

[grenith-the-skald]

“We’re gonna have to make some cuts.” announced the accountant. “Oh c’mon!” cried Life as she looked at the power-point being projected. “Yeah! You said last time that the previous cuts would be enough!” added a frustrated Evil as he loosened his tie. “I already cancelled a whole intergalactic war!” Chiming in with her sweet yet passive-aggressive tone that everyone found annoying, Death added “And I’m running out of places to put the dead. Have you ever TRIED cramming an infinite amount of growing souls into a finite space? HMMMM?”

Clicking the small remote in his hand, a new slide was displayed on the wall as Dave turned to point at the newly appeared graphs. “Well if SOME PEOPLE, who shall not be named-”

Everyone turned to glare at Chaos and Good.

“-had stuck to the financial roadmap we established last time, then MAYBE you’d all be getting what you wanted this quarter.”

Nervously, Good began to adjust his floating halo as Chaos casually picked something out of her teeth and flicked it across the table. “I-I uh...didn’t mean to spend so much.” muttered the angelic figure of Good as he shrank slightly from the attention being paid to him. “I just thought...wow...there s-sure are a lot of...kittens in the universe...a-and everyone loves kittens right? S-so...why not...make them even cuter?” “EVERYONE ALREADY LOVES THE DAMN KITTENS ‘GOOD’! YOU DIDN’T NEED TO MAKE THEM CUTER!” roared Order as he nearly flipped the table in his rage. “AND WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE ‘CHAOS’? YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE ACCESS TO ANY OF THE BUDGET!” Looking up at the rest of the room from the spot where she had been busily scratching her name with a pen into the nice hardwood table, Chaos let out a burp and reached for another one of the complimentary sodas. “I just thought it’d be funny if he got in trouble, so I told Good that he could have my portion of the budget.” Dave clicked to the next slide. “And where...on here exactly ‘Good’...does it say that Chaos was even given any of the budget to spend?”

Shrinking down even lower in his seat, his head and halo only peeking over the table. Good meekly replied, “S-she...pinky promised that she was g-good for it.” Unanimously everyone else at the table groaned. Except for Chaos, who was busy furiously shaking the can that she was about to offer Good.

[grenith-the-skald]

To Embrace Death

Like slowly cracking a cube of ice between your teeth. The gentle popping right before a sudden crunch of ice giving way to the force bearing upon it. That familiar sound was the only noise that Kello could muster in her mind as she watched the planet begin to shatter. An asteroid burying itself silently into the surface, hundreds of thousands of kilometres away.

Drifting silently in the void of space, there was only the ambient sound of the faint beeping from failing electrical equipment as the capsule's emergency generator began to power down. The lights began to dim, and the air slowly became thinner. Yet her gaze remained transfixed out of the window, glued to the horrifying sight of her home-world. Everything the astronaut had ever known was obliterated in slow motion; Pieces of the planet beginning to fracture and split apart, scattering in all directions as the searing hot core became exposed and sprayed outwards between its broken shell like the yolk of an egg being crushed in the fist of some unseen giant.

Kello's heart felt like it was about to burst from her chest, a silent terror gripping tightly at her throat. The mission had failed...the crew had failed...she had failed. No matter how hard she wanted to look away, the shock kept her frozen in place. Eyes transfixed in horror as the weight of this abysmal reality began to bear down upon her. Time itself seemingly coming to a halt as the lone astronaut started to drift in and out of consciousness. The sounds of faltering equipment, and other various alarms, going silent one by one. The capsule finally swalloed by the encroaching void of darkness as the last of the emergency power ran out. With the last thought passing through Kello’s mind before she drifted into sleep, being that of her children.

Yet she eventually opened her eyes, and there was only darkness. Everything surrounding her silent and still. The empty noise of nothingness bearing loudly upon her. Never before had she been so alone. She wanted to cry, to reach out and feel the daughters she knew weren't ever going to be there within the black void. It all felt like a horrible nightmare, a hallucination that simply wouldn't clear no matter how hard she tried to wake up from.

Leaning towards the capsule window and resting her head against the cold glass, Kello could only dully stare out into the vast expanse of space. Her strength had become drained both physically and emotionally. Even her sense of time seemed to have become strained; She could no longer remember how long it had been since she first lost consciousness. Yet the distant dim glowing of stars in the vast expanse provided a faint comfort to the stranded woman. Their simple and gentle beauty reminding her of the days when she’d been a young child, aspiring to journey into the night sky and explore the universe.

In the end, she was simply exhausted and ready to accept whatever the end held in store for her. Kello had tried her best to save the planet, and she knew that there was nothing left beyond this moment in time. All she had to do was simply wait...

Until the tapping began.

At first it was just a slight tap-tap-tap, against the outside of the capsule. A sound that Kello attributed to some debris pelting the capsule, or perhaps a partially charged battery trying to futilely breath life back into the wounded and dying mechanical components that might still function. Yet after several moments, the tapping returned. This time slightly louder...and with...a rhythm?

Kello’s ears perked up. She recognized the tune, yet couldn’t believe that she was hearing it. ‘I’m beginning to hallucinate’ was the thought that crossed her mind, completely in disbelief. Absolutely sure that the lack of oxygen was finally taking its toll. Yet the next time the tapping began it was clear and firm, the rhythmic pattern more apparent than before.

It was knocking Kello suddenly realized as she looked towards the side of the capsule where the tune was emanating. She couldn’t see anything within the darkness, but it had to have been coming from the sealed entry-hatch.

Starting to laugh nervously, the astronaut started to break down. “Is s-somebody there?” she asked the empty space as tears began to pour down her cheeks. Convinced that she was finally losing the last bit of sanity she still had.

Surely none of the other crew had survived when the ship broke apart; Even if they had, how could they have possibly survived for so long? Their oxygen tanks only lasted for up to half an hour at best, even in the most controlled of environments. But the sudden sound of a lock being turned, and the grinding metallic noise of the hatch slowly being pulled open caused Kello’s blood to run frigid. Fear and confusion washing over her like a tidal wave as light began to spill inside the capsule, as the outline of a lone figure slowly stepped inside. The soft click of the entry-hatch closing shut once again, and the lights within the capsule slowly coming back to life having to be some sort of desperate illusion her brain had conjured as it began to die.

“Pardon the knocking, but I always believed that it was quite rude to arrive unannounced.” exclaimed a masculine voice. The words soft and gentle, yet simultaneously blunt and formal.

Her eyes slowly adjusting from the darkness as the capsule began to brighten, Kello squinted at the man who was standing before her. His simple black and aged suit contrasting blanched ivory skin. There was no way that he could be real, that this individual before her could be casually present without a spacesuit. Yet despite rubbing her eyes in disbelief, the man remained where he was. His own endlessly empty eyes seemingly filled with stars, staring back.

With a faint smile, the man motioned towards Kello. His tone almost formal as he asked, "May I take a seat?".

Her voice catching in her throat, Kello stuttered out feebly, "A-are y-y-you real? Is any of this r-really h-happening?"

Seemingly taking the question as a confirmation to his inquiry, the man gingerly stepped his way past some of the mess scattered about the capsule and eased himself into a comfortable spot next to Kello. Who despite being confused and afraid, made no move to distance herself.

"Yes my dear, I'm afraid this is real. But you don't need to be scared." The pale figure explained as softly as he could. "I'm here to keep you company, as I do for everyone."

Nervously, Kello feigned a smile as a realization set in. "S-so, you're death?"

"To simplify things, yes. But I take many names and many forms. This is simply the way that you, know of me."

"Does that mean..."

"That you're dead? I'm afraid so."

Her eyes began to fill with tears. Not only tears of sadness, but an overwhelming flood of various conflicting feelings. Knowing she was dead, guilt from absolute failure, and the stabbing sorrow of never getting to say goodbye to her daughters. Roughly clearing her throat and holding back the flood of violent-sobbing that wanted to force its way to the surface, Kello tried to compose herself. "S-so, w-what comes n-next?" She asked in a wavering voice.

"We're just going to sit here together. As long as you need."

Choking down a cry bubbling to the surface, Kello forced herself to ask the only question she truly wanted to know. “W-will I...see my family again?”

Slowly, death leaned close to her. Placing his hand on her shoulder as he stared longingly into her eyes. His voice soothing and calm. "I cannot say for certain, as I cannot be in a place where I don't exist. But I can tell you, that they weren't afraid in the end."

"H-how, do you kn-know?"

"Because, I am the only thing that is absolute in this universe. Nobody is ever left behind or forgotten, everyone eventually meets me”. The words did not bring the astronaut the comfort she had hoped. But she accepted them all the same as she felt herself give way to the building pressure of emotion she had tried to stifle. The tears streaming down her cheeks as she began to loudly cry. Kello was terrified of what would come next, yet did not flinch as she felt the cold embrace of death, as he gently pulled her in for a hug.

[writing-prompt-s]

When you turn 18, you get to choose superpowers based on points you earned based on your behavior. Most people get about 10 points, the world’s mightiest heroes had around 30. You just turned 18. You have over 200 points and your government is freaking out.

[grenith-the-skald]

The hero system had only been implemented in several first world nations after the "League of Responsible Power Use" or L.R.P.U for short, had been formed and organized by some of the most powerful superheroes in the world. It was a system designed and maintained by an eldritch entity that had come to earth through some kind of cosmic portal, or something of that nature. The details are fuzzy, but essentially there were rules put into place in order to regulate all the suddenly super-powered individuals that were popping up all over the place.

Within only a few decades the number of supervillains had drastically decreased to more stable levels that matched those of the heroes, and ensured that no one side could inadvertently destroy the world or force it into some kind of absolute dictatorship. But unfortunately after many studies, it was discovered that a disproportionate amount of villains were originating from poorer countries and those with corrupt governments. So the league, using whatever ability they had, cut them off from the point system entirely and prevented any of their citizens from being able to acquire powers (at least until a way to balance the numbers could be found).

Now you might be wondering, "Big deal, what makes you so special?". And I would honestly tell you, nothing. I was just a normal kid who immigrated to central Europe, and then eventually moved to the United States and was granted citizenship before my 18th birthday. But I guess when I did eventually turn 18 that I had accrued an absurd amount of points without even knowing it.

After being interrogated and reviewed for weeks on end, my parents were finally called to be interviewed. The league intended to discover how I had earned more points than anyone else before. Interviewing both my parents and grilling them about every detail of my life.

But like I kept telling them, as repeated by my parents, I was just a simple kid from Tibet. My father had been a Monk, and we lived as strict Buddhists. I dunno what else to tell people. I don't believe in harming any living creature and I meditate every day to find inner peace. Is that really so weird?

Well whatever the case, I'll be repairing the fabric of space and time next week once I've finished re-sculpting the surface of Mars to be inhabitable by the newly arrived Xorians who had to breach our universe to escape some kinda inter-dimensional warlord. Just another regular week.

[writing-prompt-s]

You’re an assassin who gets hired by parents to dispose of imaginary friends that cause trouble.

[grenith-the-skald]

My parents laughed when I had told them I wanted to be a mime when I grew up. But the reason why I wanted to be a mime, now that wasn't something I wanted to share. I'm sure they would've had me locked up if I did.

I was only 12 years old when my own imaginary friend had begun acting strange. At the time I knew it was strange to still have a imaginary friend at that age, but I had been a lonely kid without many friends. And that is where the mistake was made. Because imaginary friends aren't typically meant to stick around forever, and some...well they don't do well if you try and hold onto them longer than they're truly needed.

Mine was Mr.Magpie, a large blackbird with a top-hat who was probably based on some story my mother made-up when I was just a tiny babe. He had always been my closest friend, trusted and loved more dearly than any other. Often telling me stories and inspiring me to draw wild and crazy imaginative pictures. Yet one day he started whispering things in my ear; Horrible things that no child should hear. Slowly encouraging me to do things I didn't want to do. Telling me to hurt my younger sister, or to put our puppy in the oven.

I never listened to Mr.Magpie, and that made him angry. So angry in fact that eventually came a day when he pushed me down the stairs. I tried telling my parents, but they just thought I was crazy. That I was seeing things that weren't there.

Eventually after several visits to a psychiatrist and getting doped up on various anti-psychotics, I stopped seeing Mr.Magpie. But I could still hear the whispers in my sleep growing louder and louder. My mind being picked apart as the vile and horrid ideas he planted began to sprout into nightmares.

Eventually there came a night that I stopped taking my pills, and grabbed my hockey-stick from under the bed. I waited hours sitting alone in the dark, alone, waiting in anticipation. My foggy and clouded mind slowly clearing and becoming sharp again..or rather as sharp as it could for a 12 year old lad. And when he did finally appear...I beat that goddamn bird to death like he deserved. Smearing his invisible entrails across the floor and soaking myself elbow-deep in gore that only I could see and feel.

After that night, I never heard the whispers. My mind becoming my own again. I was free of the nightmares and eventually my parents even let me stop taking the pills, assuming whatever had plagued me had passed.

But I began to see them everywhere. The other imaginary friends of children around my neighborhood. Mostly harmless and silly figures who would simply vanish after a few years when their child had outgrown them, and I even saw a few rare adults who seemed to still have a imaginary friend. Yet it was the whispering ones, with faces twisted into gruesome sneers, and forms slowly warping into more malicious shapes. Those were the ones I paid the most attention to.

I knew that I couldn't just grab a stick and run around the neighborhood attacking invisible figures, otherwise I'd be tossed in a loony-bin and drugged to oblivion. So I began to learn the craft of being a mime. Because what better way to fight an imaginary enemy, than to use imaginary weapons.

Some days I question my own sanity, but that's just the nature of my work. Sitting up here on a rooftop in minus fifteen weather, in the middle of winter. Just silently imagining that my binoculars are the scope of a rifle, waiting for the brief window where a little boy starts opening his Christmas gifts before I twitch my finger and watch the long and twisted shadowy figure behind him burst into a inky splatter against the wall. Another job done, and another kid who won't be hearing voices in his head again.

Maybe I'm just a lunatic afterall, freezing my ass off in the snow as I spy on some family during the holidays. But the jobs keep coming, and parents keep telling me how their kids seem to sleep easier once the deed is done. So I'll keep doing what I do, unless one day the voices return and I need to put a real gun to my head.