Mike Driver
Kiana Khansmith
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d e v o n
KIROKAZE
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Sade Olutola
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
noise dept.
Noah Kahan
pixel skylines
RMH
#extradirty
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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official daine visual archive
sheepfilms
Cosimo Galluzzi
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@kiikicat
“if no art makes you feel anything, make your own art and feel something” is too raw of a line to have come from a jenna marbles video of her painting a rainbow/polka dot seahorse saying “it’s seahorse time” on a denim jacket
Why do you people feel profound thought has to come from high places? The gutter looks at the stars too
not only did you prove your point, but you showed an example of it in the same sentence
you may walk out of the underworld but you have to trust that she is behind you. do not look back to check.
i trust that she is there
i trust that she is there (i think)
i trust that she is there (please?)
i trust that she is there (can you hear me?)
i trust that she is there (say something so i can hear you)
i trust that she is there (what if it’s a lie?)
i trust that she is there (i can’t even see her shadow on the wall)
i trust that she is there (SAY SOMETHING)
SAY SOMETHING.
look behind.
I love story polls like this because there’s this moment before you realize what it is where you genuinely consider each open. Like, what type of “trust she is there” are you? Slightly doubtful (I think)? Begging(please?)? Fearfully questioning (what if it’s a lie?)?
And then you realize it’s one internal dialogue, one story, and you’re still fully putting yourself in each moment (I can’t even see her shadow on the wall) like you need to choose just one to be suspended in forever. But you know the outcome of this story (SAY SOMETHING) and it’s not a good outcome. So you’re looking at these options as if they’re real choices for you but you know that there’s only one ending to this poll no matter how deeply you reflect on each choice.
In the end it doesn’t matter if you want to be slightly hesitant or trusting or fearful or begging. The story marches forward regardless of your vote.
(Look behind.)
“…How does Magnus die live?”
New hoodie and t-shirt designs! Print is on the back and the Pride Knights’ logo on the front. ステー・プラウド means ‘STAY PROUD’ in Japanese! Hope you all like the new designs. Available until April 12th!
https://teespring.com/stores/prideknights
This is super awesome 👌💕
ONLY 3 HOURS LEFT!
Made a custom character sheet for D&D! I do these as commissions, and can make them useable in actual gameplay as well!
ok, but consider a centaur but the top half is a bee
my new best friend
Hi, would you ever draw or doodle sanrio characters as dragons? Have a nice day........
this is. such a funny request to me why the HELL NOT, the kitty? hello the kitty??
Caffeine Challenge #17
Hi, all! I had a little trouble getting started, but I like where it went! You can read mine below or here (X)!
Geneva stands on the outskirts of the town she built and feels the hostility radiating from the closed doors, the shuttered windows, the empty streets. There silence echoes out to her, accuses her, and she can see graffiti over the town’s sign. She doesn’t need to see it to know what it says.
The rebellion is successful. The Queen has fallen. Wanted dead.
It’s not a new thing, to be wanted dead. She’s been wanted dead by any number of people since she was very small. At least now there’s a reason for it.
She turns her back on the town (It’s already turned its back on her.) and shakes her head. She’s not resentful – far from it.
This is what she planned, after all.
———————————
It starts when she’s looking up (and up and up) at her brother. He’s regal and imposing, even with limbs that are too long, too thin, too weak. He changes the last part slowly, builds muscle like her father builds their kingdom, with sweat and dedication and something feral in their breast.
She looks up at him and thinks, You’re going to die. They’re going to kill you and you’re going to let them.
Turns out she’s half right. He lets his murderer put him down, lets the knife pierce his breast, lets them take the life from his eyes.
But they don’t kill him. She does.
Keep reading
You are apparently the most powerful magical being of your time. But the thing is….you’re not. You spend the entire story trying to convince everyone that’s you’re not being humble, you’re genuinely not the person they’re looking for
the first time you tell someone that you’re not magic, they laugh. they tell you that you’re being humble. they act like announcing your utter lack of ability is modesty akin to a saint. they tell you that they’ll always believe.
‘don’t,’ you say. your hands are so empty. ‘don’t.’
they do.
—————————
the second time you say it, you say it over the crown of your best friend. he’s asking for a blessing on his way to the war. you’re so powerful, after all, a little magic on him isn’t anything you can’t afford to lose.
you whisper that, if you had any magic, it would all go into the golden strands brushing your lips. the sun catches on his shining hair.
he gives his hair away in chunks, that first month on the front lines. no one gets hurt. no one dies.
magic, they say. your hands shake when men bend at the knee to thank you for the small bits of blessing your best friend gave them.
you have not given them any part of what they carry.
———————————————————–
the third time you say it, it’s barely a whisper dropping from your numb lips. your best friend is gone, again, and your family is serving tea to the king’s knight, the highest ranking warrior in the land. he’s heard of you. he wants you by his side.
men are disappearing, he tells you, and not coming back. even if your magic is nothing more than words, they need it. they need it.
your family assures him it’s not words. it’s not words.
it’s power to change the world.
(the world is war. war doesn’t change.)
——————————–
the first time you feel magical is with the king’s knight, his hand in yours. he is looking at you like you’re the best parts of homecoming. he is looking at you like he loves you.
magic, you whisper into the lines darting across his palms. you’re magic.
‘no,’ he says, ‘darling, that’s you.’
you don’t correct him.
————————————-
(you have nightmares for a week. you don’t know why even he won’t believe you.)
(no one believes you.)
—————————————————————-
the fourth time you say it, you say it over your best friend’s grave. he’s been dead months while you’ve been playing wizard for the king’s knight. he’s been rotting in a cave on the front line, his own golden hair locked in his fists as if it could heal the blood sickness that took his life.
magic, they tell you, runs out on mortal flesh. not your fault. not your problem.
‘but, i’m not,’ you say into your lover’s chain mail. ‘i’m not.’
‘darling,’ he says, ‘it’s not your fault you are.’
—————————————————
you scream the fifth time you say it. the sky is dark with clouds and lightning. there is blood on the ground in front of you. your sword is black with it, dripping with carnage and death.
the king’s knight lies at your feet. he died believing in magic.
he died believing in you.
you scream because dying with belief in your heart doesn’t change anything. you scream because, even with magic, this war was always going to end here for the both of you. with mud sinking into the creases of your armor and the people you care about dead. dead. dead.
you scream and the sky screams back, a roar of thunder and the shriek of metal against metal. no one dares get too close to you in your grief and rage. no one dares get so close to the one who’s calling chaos from the rioting storm above them.
i wish, you say. the world trembles around the words. the ground buckles. you extend your hands out over the battlefield and let the first drops of hot, hot rain pull at the blood staining your skin. i wish no one had ever heard of magic.
your ghosts, your lover and your best friend, howl. they beg you to stop. they beg you to see how very full your hands are. they are full, for once in your life. they are full with golden light, trembling with the heat of the world held in your palms.
you don’t care. you don’t care.
i wish for all the curses to just be words, you say. the rain begins to pound down, whisking the sound of your voice into the depths of the earth. the soldiers around you clap their hands to their ears as if to block you out. they’ve already let you in when they came to you for magic. i wish for all the blessings to just be prayers. i wish the only shine in the wind came from the lakes and the rivers and the oceans.
darling, your lover’s ghost whispers. don’t.
but, just like he once did, you refuse to hear the word.
there are arrows raining down on you now, flaming arrows. they know what you are. they know what you’re doing. you invite the tips into your flesh and speak your final, damning words.
i wish love was enough.
the world rocks, arrows and flames racing across the bloodied ground. men are screaming, scrambling away from the fissures that open under their feet. just as suddenly, it stops. the rain stops. the screaming stops. the earth stands still.
magic disappears.
the story ends here, you know it does. when love is enough, there isn’t a need for poisoned apples. the prince kisses you of his own volition, without prophecy, without compulsion, without magic.
with love enough, no one needs blessings on golden hair or cursed swords. they just need each other. only that.
so maybe you were magic after all. because the second magic disappears, so do you.
it’s okay though. your ghosts come with you.
I had a dream that the king and the queen of a small country had a daughter. They needed a son, a first-born son, so in secret, without telling anyone of their child’s gender, they travelled to the nearby woods that were rumoured to house a witch.
They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.
They left the girl readily.
The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.
She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.
The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.
She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying.
Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother.
(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)
((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))
The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.
The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.
Keep reading
[footage of the inside of an ordinary Eastern-European home, taken with a handheld phone camera, the man filming is walking from the living room to the back door of the house]
man, narrating in russian: Every fucking year, this time of the year, the pond at my backyard gets infested. What do ponds get infested with? Frogs? Poisonous weeds? Geese? No. Not my pond.
[The man opens the back door, stepping out into a garden. Three or four nude, human-like figures dash from the borders of a pond back into the water.]
man: Rusalki! I don't know where they come from or how they get here, and I can't afford to hire an exterminator every year. I can't let my cat outside anymore. Last year a rusalka managed to drown a whole deer in my pond, the stench was unbearable.
[He walks as he speaks, approaching the pond. There are several eerily beautiful female beings peering at him from under the surface, their long hair floating in the murky water. Their eyes are gleaming in an unhuman way. The man holding the camera stops to film them.]
man, calm and deadpan: What the fuck are all of you staring at. Get jobs or something.
[One of the rusalki, smaller than the others and clearly not a fully matured adult, slowly reaches out of the water with her white, thin hand, grasping his ankle. He appears unconcerned.]
man: You can't drown me, you little idiot. You're too small. Shoo!
[A loud thud startles the rusalki, making them scatter. A second thud makes it clear these are the approaching footsteps of something massive. The man turns around and points the camera at what appears to be a house, walking past above the treeline with chicken-like legs]
man, now yelling: IF YOUR HOUSE SHITS ON MY YARD AGAIN I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD-
funky little macro
cute tattoos ♡
anyone know of any songs similar to ‘achilles come down’ by gang of youths? absolutely obsessed with this song, and would love to make some kind of iliad/classical-themed playlist from it but i can’t find anything similar sounding. pls send me any suggestions u may have!!
The filmmakers stated that ICE threatened to subpoena raw footage and “threatened legal action” if scenes that negatively portrayed their policies and actions were not removed.
The pair went as far as to start using encrypted messenger services, installing cameras in their office and moving the raw footage to a secure location to thwart what they believed was very aggressive rhetoric by ICE through the negotiations around the finished film.
A new documentary that gives Netflix viewers an in-depth look at the machinations of immigration enforcement was allegedly almost blocked by
Reblogging again because it’s important. It comes out this Monday, August 3rd, on Netflix. It’s called Immigration Nation.
If you are white and you find out or are told that one of your generations-back ancestors wasn’t, just… chill out about it, okay? Don’t go around announcing that you’re “a minority” or going around like “hello fellow POC” because your mom says you’re 1/64th Native American.
There’s “being white-passing” and then there’s “having a trivial amount of non-white ancestry that does not measurably affect your life and which you have no cultural ties to”. Being interested in your ancestors and their history is great, and if that engenders a greater sense of solidarity and personal investment in the rights and well-being of a racial or ethnic group, even better… but, like, don’t be weird about it.
Also definitely don’t bring it up to “disprove” the lack of diversity in a given setting. Whiteness as a social phenomenon isn’t simply about having “pure European DNA” and a distant PoC ancestor—or rumor of an ancestor—here and there does not measurably change your context in a racialized society. Race isn’t a “real” or objective thing, and if it hasn’t discernibly affected you or your family for as long as anyone can remember then it’s just… not relevant in discussions of race as a social dynamic.
Obviously there are lots of things (like culture, ethnicity, religion, even language) that complicate race in unique ways but a tiny surprise on a DNA test that has had no tangible effect on anything in your life does not suddenly make your perspective that of a white-passing PoC.
Hey everyone,
Consider this post officially rescinded. The point I was trying to make was about using inconsequential ancient history with no bearing on your actual life or that of your family as a way to distance yourself from whiteness when it is convenient or seems “exotic” to you. It’s not anti-reconnection or pro-blood quantum and it’s not my business whether you consider yourself White or PoC. I’d like to apologize for the sentiments in this post, both those that were intentional on my part, those that were inadequately worded, and those that were simply misinterpreted. It’s not my lane to comment on this at all and it was inappropriate to make a post about it.
If you reblogged previous versions of this post could you reblog this update and/or delete prior reblogs without the rescintion? It’s not my place to speculate on whiteness like this and I’d rather my earlier bad takes do not continue to be spread around.
I’ve been asked to provide a slight further addendum:
The nuance of race and identity and this topic cannot be responsibly addressed in a short Tumblr post, and certainly not by me. Any attempt to clarify my intent or my opinions would result in compounded overstepping. The post was written in response to a situation in my workplace that made me uncomfortable but which I did not want to talk about publicly and risk doxxing myself or causing conflict at work, so I generalized rather than talk about a specific situation. It was not appropriate for me to pass judgement on the situation in the first place and it was especially wrong to try to generalize or to vent about this topic. I’d like to offer my apologies to anyone harmed and ask for space to continue my personal learning.
