This is the best description I’ve heard for this method, I always thought it was bullshit because I never heard a description that actually explained how to do this other than “tap your head 20 times”.
I have anxiety-induced hissing, which sounds/feels different from sound-induced tinnitus (which I have also experience). Sound-based tinnitus actually sounds like you’re “hearing” something in your ears, whilst the hissing I have feels like it’s “inside my head”, if that makes sense. But this technique still helps!!
Qila stared at her bony fingers, at the blood still caked under her nails. Xigon’s blood was little more than rust now, but she couldn’t bring herself to clean it off. It very well could be all she had left of him. That, and the place she now sat, where she hadn’t dared return since before they’d formed their order and their new image.
The small, semicircular structure hidden in the mountainside, though well-sheltered from the elements, still chilled Qila to her bones. Dark reflections gazed back at her from each covered window, each one’s face twisted in scornful judgment. She looked down at her notebook instead and gripped her pencil in unsteady fingers still tainted with old blood.
From each of these monuments to our grief and fury, he could see everything, and nothing escaped us but our vision, she wrote. Each letter was jagged with her trembling. I saw you in him, Vraelen. Perhaps I still do.
Our world’s heart is iron. It carries life through our veins. It holds up our grandest structures. Forms our sharpest tools. Feels reliable, everlasting, until it corrodes. It rusts. It decays. Leaves us nothing.
He left me nothing but blood under my nails and stains on my soul.
My dearest Vraelen. You cannot have left us nothing. You promised me. Will you find me?
A tear fell onto the parchment, bleeding through the last sentence.
Qila closed the notebook and hunched forward in the room’s single chair, leaning her arm against the telescope until it creaked.
The long-concealed windows shuddered under a howl of wind.
If Vraelen was a lost happy dream, Xigon was the bitter truth and the other half of the purgatory she had built herself from the icy rubble of a world that might have never truly been beautiful. Biting back a sob, she flipped the notebook open again and kept writing.
Only we loved the world enough to do what we did.
She gripped the telescope in both hands and pressed her forehead to its biting-cold metal. After a few deep breaths, she looked over at the lamp still sitting beside the chair. Long-extinguished, but still in its place. She had always given him that small kindness, not only because it let her cast shadows, but because she knew he was afraid of the dark and would never admit to it.
Maybe she was the same. She’d never admit to it either. Just as she would never admit to him looming large as a god in her mind, and perhaps just as sacred.
Only we would burn the world in rage against its icy decay. And he burned it beautifully.
Now, I dread the dark after the storm.
He was mine. I pushed him to her, and dark will be the world we created.
She couldn’t bring herself to write the Destroyer’s name. It wasn’t as if Kaosaan had never sung to her in the silence Vraelen left, but to acknowledge she’d ever heard it would feel blasphemous.
Blasphemous. As if this place itself weren’t sacrilege to a god of life.
Her knuckles clenched white against the telescope.
“Kolo, what part of ‘we need to go back’ don’t you understand?” He pointed to the water, then realized she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Kolo?”
“Come on, Aza.” Kolo’s small hand beckoned from a crevice in the lichen-splashed rockfaces he hadn’t even noticed before. “Good spot to go over our next steps. It’s not that tight a squeeze.”
Easy for someone as small as Kolo to say. As he lowered himself between the boulders, Azvalath certainly begged to differ, but he shrugged off his qualms when the frigid wind off the bluehole’s water ripped over their refuge instead of through their bones. “We need to get back to…well, never mind. Right. Master Xigon said it wasn’t safe.”
“Yeah, in case trusting me was too much of a stretch.” She scratched her white hair. “No, of course it’s a stretch after…well, you know. I’m just glad you came at all.”
“Hm.” Azvalath looked up at the churning sky. “You’re sure our mystery pursuers won’t find us here?”
“I mean, even if they do, they won’t exactly be able to yank us out of this hole. Valielit never used to find me here when we played hide-and-seek, and even if she could’ve, I knew she wouldn’t pull me out.” Kolo almost looked nostalgic. Azvalath shuddered at the name and grabbed his ears, half-expecting to pull his fingers away bloody. She put a hand on his wrist. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s just—” Azvalath gagged mid-sentence. His eyes burned and something seemed to squirm under his skin. He scratched viciously at a sudden itch in his palm, which then jumped up to his shoulder. “How did you not know?”
Kolo blinked. “Not know what?”
“You never thought something was wrong with her. Not once.” Azvalath flinched at his own venom. “Never even occurred to you.”
“Hey, keep it down!” Kolo tried to redirect, certainly louder than him.
“Either that, or you always knew something was off and you chose not to say anything about it.” On some level, he knew it was a rash assumption, but with the phantom pain of Valielit sinking her hooks into the most vulnerable parts of him, he kept spewing vicious nonsense. “Was it fun for you too? Seeing me like that after she had her way with me?”
Kolo bit her lower lip and ignored him. Just ignored him. It almost angered him worse than if she’d said something dismissive, but as he burned himself out, he realized there was nothing she could have said or done to make anything better when he couldn’t even console himself.
His rage fizzled out into something colder and heavier. Azvalath wiped moisture from his eyes and slumped back against the rocks, sobbing as the flashback released its chokehold. “I’m sorry.”
She leaned against the wall with him and stared up at nothing. “Me too.”
They sat in strained silence for a while. Azvalath tried to take slow deep breaths, but hyperventilated to the point of lightheadedness instead. Through the haze, he imagined how Ami would scold him for taking such piss-poor care of himself.
The wind quieted down, and Azvalath heard the bluehole’s water churn, followed by a few loud huffs. He remembered the bizarre late-night conversation he and Kolo had once over eyeless crocodile-looking dolphins or whatnot, back when times were simpler. Honestly, what he wouldn’t give for mundanity now.
Thinking along the lines of strange creatures, he muttered something only half-aloud about how he might get used to Kolo’s overly worshipful holf if it sang their stalkers into its jaws.
“Youmightgetusedtowhatnow?” Kolo snapped, clearly irritated with his mumbling.
“I might get used to Slaaek if he snapped up anyone with ideas of snapping us up.” Azvalath pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or if Channei could make herself a holf, that’d be spectacular. They’re…quite effective.”
“You could also deal with them yourself,” Kolo pointed out. “I went through all that trouble to get your sword for you. Might as well use it.”
The wind screamed over their heads. Though he wanted to be grateful for the shelter, all Azvalath could think about was how he wouldn’t be able to hear anyone approaching. His eyebrows tightened into a scowl. “Master Xigon wouldn’t approve.”
“It’d be self-defense, and he isn’t even here, so quit dragging your feet.” Kolo elbowed him. “Besides, what do you think he’d do if he were here and someone decided to threaten us?”
Azvalath pursed his lips.
“Exactly.” Kolo cracked her knuckles. “What people do matters more than what they say. Even if what they say sounds all wise and mighty, it’s not worth a thing on its own. And worst case scenario, you know what?”
He rubbed his forehead. “What?”
“I have weapons too, and it’s not like anyone can confiscate these.” She prodded him with invisible fingers. “And I can reach up and out of here, so relax. I’ve got us covered until you can grow a spine.”
Azvalath rolled his eyes. “Well, thanks.” He found her jab irritated him more than it would ordinarily. “You want me to grow a spine? All right, then. Now tell me everything that just happened between you and the Grinner.”
He fully anticipated – and knew he fully deserved – her fist slamming his lower jaw into his upper.
The pain half-distracted him as she spilled her guts. “I realized the thing that calls itself Linn and Valielit, the ‘will,’ isn’t my enemy, or even my antithesis. We’re parts of the same whole that used to be the Iron God, and that we’re the parts Vraelen ripped out of himself so Kaosaan couldn’t eat all of him. Because what’s a life-giver without life or the ability to give? Just a wishful thought. And that’s why Xigon’s such a mess. He’s spent however long holding Kaosaan’s attention away from everything else in hopes of building some sort of contingency in the meantime.” She spewed it all out so fast he could barely understand, then raised her fist in warning. “If you like having teeth, don’t try that again.”
“Damn, Kolo.” He rubbed his cheek where he’d bitten the inside of it. “Could you please repeat that? That’s…” He paused. “That’s a request, because I like having teeth.”
“Can’t give it verbatim, but it really wasn’t anything I didn’t already suspect. We can’t get Vraelen back. Not as he was, anyway, because he cut parts of himself off that became me and Linn, and by extension Valielit. The only new thing I learned is that Xigon’s been diverting Kaosaan’s attention toward himself.” She took a deep breath. “Now tell me something you’d never admit to me.”
“I find him attractive.” The words fell out of him in an instant. “No, wait. Kolo, I didn’t mean—”
Kolo raised an eyebrow and sneered. “Who’s him? I just mentioned a few.” Then she scowled. “No, actually, don’t elaborate. Assuming it’s any of the names I just mentioned, Aza…what the fuck?”
His face grew hot and red. “Forget I said anything.”
“Gladly.” Kolo pressed her knuckles into her teeth. “But Aza, really?”
He turned his head away sharply. “Shut up.”
Awkward silence hung between them, and as Azvalath realized the air was silent too, he had a gnawing suspicion someone or something might have heard them. Before he could voice his concern, Kolo piped up. “So as for our next steps, we can’t go back to the others, but I really don’t want to stay—”
“Shh!” He pressed a finger to his lips.
For once, she seemed to understand the first time. She crouched down and beckoned him to do the same.
He fought the urge to wince at the even tighter squeeze.
The quiet above was even more oppressive than the rock around them. Despite his earlier trepidations, he caught himself squeezing his sword’s hilt.
He scarcely heard the footsteps that came to a halt a short distance from their refuge. What he did hear, with odd clarity, was the sound of parchment crumpling.
Azvalath seethed. Much as he loathed hiding rather than fighting, they could be vastly outnumbered for all he knew.
The crumpled parchment bounced down into the rock fissure, making them both jump.
Keeping one hand on his sword, Azvalath bent down and picked it up. Kolo took it from him, unfolded it, and showed him what it read.
Kolo, Azvalath, hello.
Azvalath looked up.
Looking back at him was a dark-skinned woman with deep red Ferash Therall eyes. Despite the frigid air, she wasn’t wearing any sort of coat. Cradled against her chest was a scraggly-feathered fledgling raven. After their gazes met, the woman turned and called to someone else before snapping back with a wickedly triumphant grin. “Azvalath’s a big name for a wet cat.”
Kolo raised her fists beside him. “We never told you our names.”
“You didn’t have to.” The stranger crouched to get a closer look at them. Azvalath had half a mind to claw his way up and throttle her, but the next second he was overwhelmed with the feeling that it would be a very, very bad idea. It didn’t seem like his own hesitation, more like someone else’s jagged scribbles over his signature.
The bird screeched and splayed one wing awkwardly over the woman’s arm. She murmured something to it and then extended her other hand down into the gap. “May I have that back, please?”
Azvalath’s arm jerked up as if puppeted. Before he realized what he was doing, he had re-crumpled the note and thrown it back to the stranger, who caught it and backed out of his sight.
He breathed hard and fast as a few other voices above exchanged hushed words and laughter.
Before he could say anything, Kolo’s invisible hands snatched him up in a vice-grip. Azvalath jolted with surprise, and to his bewilderment, Kolo herself was squirming against something he couldn’t see. It almost looked like she was grabbing herself.
A second later, they were both yanked from their crevice and dumped unceremoniously onto the cold rock above. Kolo yelped and threw her fists up. Azvalath drew his sword before he was even fully on his feet.
“None of that. Let’s try and be civil first.” Another woman, tall and rail-thin, stepped forth and glared at him. “Now sheathe your weapon.”
Azvalath’s body complied with the order even as his mind screamed in protest. Panicking, he drew his sword again immediately. “Now tell us who you are!”
The spindly woman pursed her lips. “Lyu.”
“Nagi,” said the one with the bird. “And Sylesh.”
“Daelar.” A hunched figure who looked more cloak than man rasped from the back. “Who might you be?”
Nagi bounced on her toes. “Their names are—”
Lyu held a hand up. “Let them answer.”
“I’m…” Azvalath pursed his lips. “Aza.”
Kolo stared at him and shook her head.
“That’s…” He fumbled. “That’s my sister.”
“Really? You look nothing alike.” Lyu glanced between them and shrugged. “No matter. Are you two lost?”
Azvalath took a few deep breaths and tried to analyze their situation. Lyu didn’t have any red in her eyes, but the rest of them – even the bird nestled against Nagi’s chest – certainly did. All Ferash Therall, with Lyu likely twice-ascended. Other groups’ customs varied, he knew, but there were certain commonalities. Neither his nor Kolo’s eyes were illuminated at the moment, which meant this little band might—
“I see.” Lyu’s expression softened. “You’re worried we’re here to claim you for the Iron God, aren’t you? Nonsense. You’ve already been taken up twice. Both of you.” Her voice cracked softly with the last sentence. “And I’m sorry for that.”
Kolo’s trembling ceased. “Huh?”
“She means second ascension,” Azvalath clarified. “It’s rare outside of…”
“I’iba, Sothyrion has surfaced.” Daelar sounded as if he’d just run up a mountain, even though he hadn’t moved. “Seems he’s realigning the passages. Your orders?”
“We follow his path.” Lyu turned toward the churning bluehole and rolled her shoulders back. “Come. Nagi, Sylesh, escort the interlopers.”
“Yes, i’iba!” Nagi’s voice was eager. Azvalath glowered at her as she ran up to him, and with all his might he pushed back against the urges that weren’t his own. The urge to simply comply, to follow in her footsteps and do whatever Lyu commanded of them. This woman he didn’t even know had no right to puppet him. His hand strained toward his sword hilt, but halted an inch from it, his arm spasming as he fought to grasp it.
“There’s something we want to show you.” Nagi grabbed his wrist. “Come on!”
Azvalath’s objection turned to a high, guttural scream as her fingers seared through his skin like red-hot iron. Kolo jumped at the sound and covered her ears. Azvalath jerked his arm back, heard his flesh sizzling and gagged on the smell of scorched meat. The pain hit in full force a second later and the world tilted sideways.
Kolo barely managed to catch him in her ghost limbs. She held him steady until he was able to breathe again. Nagi watched him with a blandly pleasant smile, as if she hadn’t just mutilated him as casually as one might make small talk.
Once she managed to get words out through her own horror, Kolo whispered raggedly behind him. “I don’t think she’s the one meddling with our heads.”
Azvalath coughed. “Yeah, no shit.”
“Nagi, you know better than that,” Lyu scolded. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” Nagi stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Doesn’t matter what you meant. You won’t do it again.” Lyu waved for them to follow. “Azvalath, Kolo. Come. Assuming Sylesh is right about you and not making things up again, there’s something I want you to see.”
The fledgling raven cocked its head at them, splaying its wings against Nagi.
Kolo shook her head. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Azvalath sighed. “They’re serious. You know not all Ferash Therall are human.”
The little bird hummed. Images flooded Azvalath’s mind in rapid succession. Sothyrion. Water. Lyu bowed before Sothyrion. Teeth. Pitch-dark. His own knees thudding into rock before Sothyrion. A now-familiar holf’s head contorting to an uncanny angle as it took him in. Darkness falling away. A vast view from a…tower?
Finally, an idea that wasn’t his, that it was good to follow these footsteps. That it was right, that he’d be a fool not to. And that Kolo should too, as it would surely change their lives.
yurameshi replied to your post “rgr-pop replied to your post “I don’t mean to boast or anything, but…”
once had friends mercilessly fail three attempts at making me a birthday cake before realizing they’d been using diatomaceous earth in lieu of flour the whole time
I gasped with greater intensity than I ever have in my life
Not even a full 24 hours later and I'm back with an update yall! So this one is a Simon centered chapter, a little introduction if you will. Again, if you wanna be on the taglist let me know, because I'm hoping to start one!
On to the chapter! ^^
Cosmic Love- Chapter 1: World So Cold
“I don’t believe men are born to be good. I don’t believe that the world can be saved. How did you get here and when did it start? An innocent child with a thorn in his heart…”
-12 Stones, “World so Cold”
For the longest time, life felt like a monotonous blur. How else was he supposed to see it when most of it was spent in a damn cell? Trapped by four walls, and a past that refused to die…what else was there for him? He almost forgot his name in that wretched place. So often, too often, he was only Convict, or Butcher depending on who was speaking to or about him. Like a parasite, it stuck to him, but it was his soul it drained rather than his blood.
It was exhausting. All of it. Maddening, one might call it. What else was there for him in a world like this? A world, no, a universe on the verge of collapse. What was the point? What kept him going? Simon didn’t know at this point. What was left for him?
Perhaps that was why he took the deal. They send him out to that godforsaken world, moon, or whatever it was, and if he brought back something of value, they would free him. Simon didn’t know what would happen once he was free, if anything would. But anything was better than this singular, too regulated existence. He’d been all too eager to sign the Council of Iron’s contract, eager to get out of the damn cell…
Not realizing that he had signed his own death warrant.
What a fucking joke…
Simon should’ve guessed this would happen. The very second the captain said that this WAS the test…goddammit he knew he was screwed. He’d traded a cell for a coffin. Welded in shut, with no food and next to no water…god all the signs were there.
“Fucking idiot…” Simon berated himself as he continued this wretched, pointless search.
All of this trouble for some goddamn sample. But the specimen itself was…oddly elusive. Apparently some sort of noise was heard within the sea of blood, similar to ancient whale calls. Whatever it was, the Council wanted it, why Simon wasn’t sure. Nor did he see the point.
Not that he could see anything anyway. No windows. Just that damn camera and a goddamn microphone specially designed for this. If something was alive down in this hellhole, he needed to find it, get a piece of it, or see if he could find the damn robot that initially recorded the sounds and only made it long enough to send it to the Council. The last one was the least likely, nothing like that lasted down here that long. That was why now they were sending man steered little prison submarines down there, to seek this thing out…or die trying.
“C’mon you big fucker, where are you…” Simon thought aloud as he stopped and set out the microphone to record.
Well, not being able to see was bad enough. A part of him wished he didn’t have to listen to this. No whale or whale-like calls, but not quite silence either. The occasional click, a distant whistle or beep-like sound…but that was about it. Sometimes he’d catch the sound of scurrying or like rushing water. He hated that the most. It meant something was WAY too close for his comfort. And with no windows, well…it was safe to assume that it could’ve been anything. The Council knew there was life down there. What they wanted to know was what kind of life and what they could do…
“It’s fucking fish…what are fish gonna teach us?” Simon rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Unless this thing was actually a whale…then Simon realized he didn’t know what he would think. The last whale died on earth centuries ago, from what he was told. Enormous creatures who called the deepest oceans home…Simon had only seen pictures of them. He slipped on the headset, listening once more, keeping an eye on his coordinates, and the previously recorded notes from where this thing was heard. For a moment, surrounded by the quiet of the bloody sea, Simon could let himself forget. He could let his mind go numb to the world, to all but listening for that melancholy call…
“Where are you?” Simon thought aloud once again.
Though he supposed the better question would’ve been what was it, rather than where. What was he getting himself involved in? What was so important about this thing that he was risking everything for? A drop pulled him out of his thoughts.
Shit…
“And so it fucking begins. C’mon you big fucker…just one call…one sound…” Simon removed the headset and sighed in aggravation.
“Anything, convict?” the captain, Ava’s, voice sounded over the speaker.
“Nothing yet, but there might be a leak…pressure’s getting heavy”.
‘Then I suggest you find this thing real fast, quick and in a hurry. You aren’t far from where it was last heard”.
“What even is this thing?” Simon asked, “Like what do your scientists think it is?”
“There’s a lot of speculation. You don’t need to know about it right now. Just keep focused on finding that thing”.
Of course they weren’t going to tell him anything, ‘cause that would make everything too damn easy…
“Fine, fine…but I find this thing and I’m out. Right?”
“If you bring us back something from it, be it a sound or a sample…”
“Yeah, yeah. I read the contract. Just saying I should know what exactly it is I’m looking for, and how the hell do you expect me to bring it back. Especially if it’s as big as you seem to think”.
“Just focus on the task, Convict. We need to find this thing before we can even consider capture. We need to know where it goes and set up a trap at a later date, if possible”.
“Got it, right…”
“Don’t die, and keep in touch if you can. Have the recording equipment and camera ready”.
“I got it! I know what I’m doing…” Simon growled, “Somewhat…”.
Silence was all that followed, leaving the convict alone once more with only his thoughts for any semblance of company.
“You better show yourself soon, damn it…It’s fuckin’ hot in this thing…” Simon mumbled as he put the headset back on.
If you guys enjoyed please consider commenting, liking, and reblogging! I'd love to hear what yall think! ^-^ ❤️💙💜
Holy hell I have returned! I haven't written anything in ages. Depression will unfortunately put you in a creative slump I'm afraid :( but I'm back and have a new fanfic I wanna start posting. As I mentioned earlier I recently went and saw Iron Lung, and thought it was amazing (I wanna see it again but I'm debating if I should since I have a cold and I'm on bitch week so that's fun) so I've thrown this short prologue together and I hope you guys like it! More to come!
Cosmic Love- Prologue
Prologue
“The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out. You left me in the dark. No dawn. No day. I’m always in this twilight. In the shadow of your heart!”
-Florence+The Machine “Cosmic Love”
The stars are gone…
The mortals call it the Silent Rapture, but the Outer Gods and the so called Great Old Ones call it by a different name: The Great Awakening.
Something far more ancient is stirring. The drums. The Flutes. They cannot keep him asleep forever.
They were never meant to.
And upon his awakening, the dream will end. This universe will be no more. And they do not even know it.
Life…is such a fragile, hurtful thing. Nobody should decide who is worthy of it and who is not. Not Hastur of Carcosa. Not Great Cthulu. Not even the Sultan himself.
They do not understand life. Their immortality blinds them, despite seeing across countless eons. They do not see it. They do not value it.
The stars are gone…
The Great Awakening is Nigh…
I know it's short! I'm sorry guys! But I promise there will be more! If you wanna be put on the taglist for this story please let me know! Please don't forget to like, comment, and share! Thank you all!!!! Feels good to be writing again even a little bit!
Tumblr is super big on the "I didn't say it was good, I said I liked it" but really need to discover the value in its opposite of "I didn't say it was bad, I said I hated it".
You can acknowledge that something is good, great, a masterpiece even, and just straight-up not enjoy it.
- Pantyhose, tights, leggings, and stockings are each different.
- Waxing hurts and leaves red skin for a while afterwards while shaving leaves stubble
- Most can’t run in heels unless they have been VERY worn
- Insecurity in appearance doesn’t mean “buy me a drink”
- EVERYONE HAS DIFFERENT TASTES IN EVERYTHING
-Having large breasts sucks. It sucks beyond belief. If a garment happens to fit your large chest, odds are it won’t fit the rest of you. Underboob sweat is real and terrible. Bending over for extended periods of time will tweak your back out. Running can be painful due to boob turbulence. Bras are hella expensive. Big breasts are not fun.
Putting a tampon in isnt a quick bend-poke-done kinda deal. It involves cubicle yoga, messy hands, numerous curse words as you realise it isnt in correctly and have to take it out and start again with a new one.
If her hair is in an updo, one does not simply remove a hairpin to send her hair cascading down her back. No. If her hair is an updo, it will take at least an hour and an extra set of hands to remove the 137 bobby pins that are holding her hair in place. Furthermore, there’s probably a can’s worth of hairspray in there, intended to withstand category 2 hurricane winds. There’s no cascading happening here - the best you can hope for is a misshapen nest of hair to clump and poof unattractively in the back while it still remains flat against her scalp.
This is one of the funniest posts I’ve seen in a while (especially if you read all the comments), but also really depressing because at 42 I still judge myself as having failed for not matching up to all these mythical stereotypes despite knowing they’re impossible
The odds of a woman having smoothly shaved legs and armpits are directly proportional to the amount of skin her clothing bares and/or the amount of fucks she gives at that particular moment.
GLASSES ARE NOT COSMETIC. If we whip them off, we do not become gorgeous fashion models. We become squinty.
-most women wear bras. Yes, even when they are trying to dress sexy. Because bras make boobs look perkier and rounder, which is something men apparently find sexy, so being a seductress or femme fatale is not an automatic reason for a female character to not be wearing a bra.
-a good bra will hide headlights, or at the very least drastically reduce their noticeability. A women with enough pointy nipple issues will opt for a padded or molded bra to hide them.
-women’s nipples do not automatically become hard pyramids visible through any and all layers of clothing the second they become even slightly aroused. They are not the female equivalent of boners. And even if their nipples do get hard, the bras they are almost certainly wearing (because even a goddamn succubus with big, honkin’ knockers for seducing men is gonna have those painful puppies in some kind of boob sling) should keep those pointy nipples from being visible to every other character in the scene, JIM BUTCHER. YES, EVEN LARA RAITH WOULD WEAR A BRA ONCE IN A GODDAMN WHILE.
if you’re being tied up and tortured in a freezing underground dungeon, then you probably have more important things to pay attention to than how hard somebody’s nipples are, jim butcher
- Wearing a bra that doesn’t fit HURTS. It’s not sexy to wear a bra that’s “two sizes too small”, it’d make your clothes hang oddly and you’d have a weird, uncomfortable “quad-boob” effect and your back would hurt, BEN AARONOVITCH.
Also, after removing a too small bra, there’s gonne be angry red lines on the boobs and ribs and the lady is not going to want them to be touched by anyone for a good long while
-Lips aren’t just naturally red “as if she’d been drinking wine but they were just like that without makeup cause she’s so perfect,” my dear little Kvothe from ‘Name of the Wind’. Also, girls do not naturally smell like fruit or flowers, it’s either perfume or something she’d been eating recently.
I’ve been appreciating this post but now it’s back very specifically calling out my problematic faves and I don’t think those male authors realize how much it totally takes me out of the story for a moment when they commit these errors. It does nothing useful for the plot and is annoying for half of the audience
(Most) Women do not look at themselves in the mirror and compare their breasts to fruit. Any sort of fruit. Especially melons. Please save us from the melons.
Also we are not aware of our breasts at all times. I do not walk down a flight of stairs and think “oh golly my breasts are bouncing so much right now”. They are as much as natural part of our bodies as arms. Do you constantly think about how your arms are moving? Sure you may be aware of them, but paying full attention? Doubtful.
Also: women working out are almost never sexy. They’re not glowing or glistening or (kill me) *sparkling*. They are red and sweaty and gross just like all the dudebros doing their time with the dumbbells. Stop ogling fictional women at the gym, TOM WOLFE.
I never understood why men feel the need to address all this telltale “feminine” awareness when writing women. Like once in grad school one of my male colleagues wrote from a female character’s POV and was like sure to notice how her feet felt in high heels and all the women’s lifestyle magazines on the coffee table and also that like, her breasts were “heavy” or some shit. I write male characters all the time. Not once have I ever stopped to make sure they notice the weight of their own balls or been hyper aware of their chest hair or some bullshit like that. ????? why????????
Love this. I’ve been cackling to myself for good 20 mins reading all the comments as well but the last reblog had me dying like can you imagine!!
“Chad was late. He had an important meeting to get to and was mad at himself for oversleeping.
He quickly washed and brushed his teeth and then ran downstairs, his balls bouncing playfully in his pants.
Do I have time to make a coffee? he thought. He decided he did so went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. As he was waiting, he noticed his thick, curly chest hair was poking through the button gaps of his shirt. He giggled to himself and tucked his manly fuzz back in, hoping it wouldn’t happen during the meeting.”
the loneliness epidemic/gen z dead-eyed stare/poor socialization of younger generations and increasing rudeness of older ones is kinda an internet thing and kinda a pandemic thing but it is also the well-meaning chickens of the Stranger Danger movement coming home to roost
something something everybody thinks violent crime is at a high when it’s at a 30 year low, something something training your children to see everyone outside of their family as a threat until you yourself believe it, something something. again this was well-intentioned, people want their kids to be safe, but when you’ve heard “dont talk to strangers” all your life it’s hard to kill that instinct as an adult
but yeah if you’re an early 20-something person, it might be helpful to be directly told this: talk to strangers. that rule only applied when you were a child. you not only should but must talk to strangers
Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”
So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”
Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.
Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.
Yes! Absolutely. Identify the problems. Just like “bug” can mean anything from computer glitch to giant hornet, “problematic” is way too vague. What is it and how big is it?
or Dissociation Rice if we’re being real specific about the food part
♞ @theboredvoid
Mood Swings Red Bull
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@counting-horses please let at least one of these be real
Posts are selected by humans, processed automatically and queued to post. Click the link for more information about each horse. You can send a link or text to be counted to my ask box.
Dakko stirred and curled tighter under his blanket. Underneath, it was warm and safe. At least, warmer and safer than the noise he hid from.
The wool barely muted the sound of whimpers. After everything, he still heard someone meant to be strong and reliable reduced to tears and agony. As he half-slept, it almost felt like Haode was still there, crying for help no one could give him.
Haode isn't crying anymore, he reminded himself. He isn't here. He'll never hit you or scream at you again. He remembered clutching Xigon's hands and the quiet waves of a power the master seemed to want the boy to fear, but all Dakko could find was relief in the thought of it being one's last sensation. We're safe now, all of us.
But someone was still whining above him, muffled as if through a coat sleeve, like no one else was supposed to hear it. The sound of sobs into the stale air of a dusty shed while Dakko tried to pretend they were safe. It was too familiar.
He stirred and a gentle hand rubbed his shoulder through the blanket.
"Seiri..." he mumbled. "What's...?"
"Shhh." Lalek hushed him in a hoarse whisper. "Sorry I woke you up."
"It's not your fault." Wrong sister, but he still needed to say it. "Just don't go, please don't go." Dakko reached out from under the blanket to grab her hand.
"I'm....I'm not going anywhere." Lalek gave his cold fingers a squeeze. "Who's Seiri?"
Dakko peeked out from under his cover. Lalek sat with her head on her knees, and the hand that wasn't comforting him pushed and pulled in aimless motions at the bandages under her scarf. It reminded him of how Haode – as he'd once been, not the monster he'd become – had brought Seiri down from the tree, shrouded the abrasions around her broken neck with such teary eyes, and apologized to her lifeless face for being too late to save her too.
"When Ido and I were little, before we knew anything else, Seiri was our big sister." He held Lalek's hand a bit tighter. It was little more than brittle skin and bone now, but it was still alive. "Our father hated us, but he loved Seiri the wrong way, and it must have hurt so much worse than being hated, because she didn't know any other way to make it stop hurting, except to die."
Dakko went very quiet as he remembered Haode's explanation, how he'd tried to be so gentle about something so ugly. How he used to be gentle at all before he'd done something that made Ami's venomous rage shatter their lives. Dakko's teeth chattered. He felt like he didn't have any right to miss someone who'd turned out so horrid.
Lalek stopped worrying at her neck and brought another cachectic-looking hand down to dry his tears before they froze. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."
"Don't be sorry, just...please don't..." Dakko leaned into her palm. "We love you too."
Lalek didn't respond.
"I like the way you cut my hair," Dakko added. "And your cooking's the best."
That made her chuckle.
"Did Channei really burn water?" he asked.
"That was a joke." Lalek's smile lingered a few more precious seconds. "But if anyone could, she would. She burns so many things trying to cook, I think that's why she eats almost everything raw."
Dakko's eyelids grew heavy again. "Gross."
He half-slept for a few more hours, lulled back and forth by warm memories and ones that lined his eyelids with frost. It came in blinks that weren't quite dreams.
Lalek was crying and trying to hide it. Seiri hadn't cried in front of them. She'd been better at hiding it and now Dakko and Ido were older than their big sister. It was all wrong.
A pretty red songbird flitted down to feast that first morning in the sun. Its feathers fluffed under a fine dust of snow, its voice a high and happy chirp. He always liked the red birds, so warm and vibrant in the blight.
Dakko's wrists curled under Rizval's wrappings. His palms felt damp, though whether from sweat or blood, he couldn't tell.
Blood stained snow such a vicious bright red. It burned like looking straight at the sun. Channei had reassured him and Ido, when it was over, that bleeding out didn't really hurt as much as it looked like it did. That it felt more cold and confusing than outright painful, but to Dakko that just sounded worse. Channei hadn't asked. She'd just hugged him and soaked up his tears for a monster.
Channei. Where's Channei?
Dakko stirred back to wakefulness when the shed's door opened and let in both a cold draft and a flood of sunlight.
Lalek threw her arm up to shield her eyes as they adjusted. Dakko sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
Rizval guided a squinting and wincing Ido back into the dark of the shed. "Too bright out for him right now."
Ido snapped back at Rizval. "I just need snow goggles." When Rizval tensed up, so did Ido. "I'm sorry."
"You lost yours?" Dakko asked.
Ido rubbed his eyes. "They fell off."
Dakko gave a small smile. "And you didn't pick them back up?"
Rizval giggled like a small child. "Tell him, kid! It was amazing!"
Ido blinked a few times. "Huh?"
Rizval butted in. "Yayaba took him flying!"
Lalek smacked her knees. "What? Ido, really?"
Dakko practically leapt to his feet and stumbled over to his brother. "So you really can fly now, huh?"
"She kind of made me do it." Ido let out an awkward chuckle. "I didn't really do much of anything."
"And neither did I, for that matter." Rizval threw their hands up. "Because I'm evidently very bad at fishing, today's provisions are courtesy of Yayaba."
Ido dropped a sack on the floor. Dakko pulled it open to reveal two huge, toothy-looking fish.
Lalek wrinkled her nose and turned away. "Rizval, remember my rule about fish."
"That you'll cook them nicely if I do the nasty work first and don't leave a mess." They let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. No, all right, I've got it covered. But Lalek, you need to eat some."
"You all need it more," she rasped.
"Don't give me that shit, rockpile." Rizval's nickname for Lalek sounded sharper than usual. "There's plenty for all of us."
"I..." Lalek clutched a weak hand over her sunken abdomen. "I'll try."
Dakko and Ido exchanged a worried look.
Rizval picked the sack of fish back up. "You'd better." Their tone carried an edge of venom that sealed Dakko's lips before he could interject anything. "I'll be back soon. Boys, get some rest."
Dakko sputtered. "Rizval, I—"
The door closed.
"Leave 'em be," Lalek grumbled. "They're just in a mood."
Ido stirred up dust as he settled down and made himself sneeze. "This shed's filthy."
"Told the owner we'd clean it before we left." Lalek gave him a mischievous look. "Wanna start on that?"
"Um..." Ido looked around at all the disorganized crates and piles of debris. "Maybe later. I'm tired."
Dakko didn't notice his own smile until it vanished at the sound of Lalek gagging as she tried to swallow some water from her flask. He didn't say anything until Ido had fallen into a fitful sleep.
"Just in a mood, huh?" Dakko swept his fingers through the grit on the floor. "Sure."
"Our lovely crocodile has moods, yes. And they'll never tell anyone why." Lalek scratched her neck and coughed.
"I think it's pretty obvious this time." Dakko's lip quivered. "They're worried about you."
"Why would they be?" she scoffed. "Rizval's old enough to know what crocodiles and mosquitoes are. They've seen lots of people come and go. What's one more matter?"
He glanced toward the door. "Maybe that's exactly why it matters."
"Rockpile." Lalek rasped Rizval's nickname for her. "Rockpile. Crocodile. Kid. Fuzzball. Kittycat. We're not even people to them. They can handle it." She stared off into space, seeming to talk more to herself than to him. "I can't, though. Not like this...m'tired..."
Dakko's eyes widened. "Lalek?"
She flinched. "Sorry."
"No, it's fine." Dakko hauled himself up and brushed dust off himself. "I think I just need some air," he lied. "Going for a walk. Take care of my brother for me?"
Of course, all it took to make Lalek smile was the suggestion that she could still be helpful somehow. "Of course."
He forced a smile in return and stepped outside with some half-true reassurance he'd be back soon, but as he closed the door, it felt far too final.
Rizval's tracks stretched around the back of the shed, and Dakko could just make out the sound of their voice as they sang off-pitch, some nonsense serenading to a cat begging them for fish scraps.
Dakko couldn't resist a chuckle. He knew Rizval always thought no one could hear them singing, and he wasn't about to be the first one to tell them otherwise. That off-kilter song was like birds in the trees. A silent world meant peril. He couldn't stand quiet ever again.
Rizval's singing softened to humming when a wagon clattered its way down the nearest path, accompanied by the chatter of children clearly making too much fun out of an errand. Someone yelled a greeting, and Rizval yelled one back.
We're not even people to them. Lalek's words resonated in his mind. In how many ways was that true?
Focus. Dakko bit his tongue. Lalek needed help, even if she wouldn't let anyone know it, but who could help? Ami had rushed them all out of the farmhouse and said she'd come find them when it was safe, but how would anyone know?
She'd said there was a holf. A beast that hides in holes and sings you lies, she'd explained, and it can take a brown bear's head off in just one bite.
He'd tried to ask where Kolo and Azvalath were. When Xigon and Qila would get back. But she'd just hurried him and his brother out with Lalek, Rizval, and the medicine that Lalek kept refusing to take because she insisted it made it even harder to eat and drink.
When the cart and its passengers were gone, Dakko stumbled out and down the path in some direction he vaguely remembered having come from.
It was a slightly warmer day than usual, which Dakko was grateful for, but it also meant more people were out, and after prolonged dark and quiet he quickly found himself overwhelmed by the village's bustle. By the time he managed to stagger into wider streets, his head ached almost worse than his joints. "Focus, just focus," he muttered to himself. "Just need to find...who? Who can help?"
He nearly ran into someone carrying a heavy crate, then scrambled sideways and tripped on the edge of a pothole. Dakko flailed his arms out and caught himself at the last second on another stranger's coat.
He thought it was Master Qila for a split second, at least until she shoved him backward. "Hands to yourself, boy! I'm not your mother. "
"Sorry!" He staggered into a wall. "I didn't mean..."
She left before he could finish the sentence. Dakko sank against the wall and curled his head into his knees, feeling utterly helpless.
He stayed there for a while, shivering and scared to look up. People passed him by without even the slightest acknowledgement. Somehow, being ignored felt worse than being hit or kicked or screamed at. Dakko scolded himself in the silence. He wasn't an innocent little boy and hadn't been for ages. It wasn't anyone else's job to pick him up and do all the hard things for him.
Air chilled to near-liquid cold in his lungs. He held his breath for a moment, let it burn, then sighed out a cloud of scalding cold steam. Spikes of pinkish-tinged ice bristled through his knuckles and nailbeds. It shouldn't have felt as good as it did. It shouldn't have sung to his heart as it did.
He drank in the cold until a long shadow fell over him. Then he drank in the bliss of something immense wrapping its grip around his nerves. Dakko leaned back, nearly content enough to sleep right then and there.
Long fingers caught the back of his skull and forced his eyes to meet another gaze. One of Master Xigon's eyes was obscured by a bandage, but the other was dilated with something fierce. "Dakko, get up."
"Mmh..." He blinked heavy eyelids. "What happened?"
"You tell me." Xigon pulled Dakko's hood tighter over his head and drew him into a warming embrace. "What are you doing out here alone, hypothermic enough to draw me in from halfway across the village? Do you know what could happen?"
"Hypothermic...?" Dakko couldn't understand why. It had seemed almost hot outside not too long ago. "Drew you in...?"
"Get up." Xigon pressed his thumb near the base of Dakko's neck, flooding him with a sense of warmth that unlocked his icy joints. "With me. One, two—"
Dakko yelped as the tall man hoisted him up, but managed not to fall back down. Sweat and frost mixed on his brow. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to...I didn't mean to..."
Xigon planted one of his crutches between them. "Walk with me."
He placed an unsteady hand over Xigon's and did as he was told, struck mute with a dread he couldn't name. Passersby scattered as they went. Dakko rubbed his eyes with his other wrist and kept scolding himself. Why had he let that happen just now? Why had he almost given up in the middle of a street on a day that wasn't even that terrible?
Why was he leaning on someone else's crutch for bare minimum strength?
"You could have frozen to death," Xigon said at some point, once they were out of anyone else's sight or earshot. "And everyone on that street would have let you."
"But you didn't," Dakko stammered. He followed Xigon into a sheltered nook between two houses built close together, both of them ducking to avoid icicles.
Xigon leaned against a wall and brought one arm around Dakko's shoulders. "I'm keeping my promise." Something heavy hung over those words. "Listen to me next time."
"Your promise." The boy stared up at a melting icicle, then down at the tiny, deepening crater where cold drips landed like tears. "Can Haode still feel anything?"
"I'll never let Kaosaan..." Xigon trailed off, then shook his head. "What are you really asking?"
"I don't know." Dakko reached up and clenched his fingers around Xigon's hand again. Even with the master's glove and Dakko's wrist brace between them, the contact soothed the ache deep in his bones. "And I don't know why I did any of that just now. I was looking for you, or for anyone who could help really, but I didn't mean to—”
“—endanger yourself in the process?" Xigon finished. "As it stands now, to look for me is to endanger yourself. On some level, you must know that." His fingers trembled slightly under Dakko's. "It's about Lalek, isn't it?"
"How'd you know?" The boy knew the answer as soon as he'd asked.
Xigon's more pronounced tremor was all the confirmation he needed.
"What can we do to help her?" Dakko squeezed the master's hand. "There's got to be something, right?"
Xigon's breath caught for a second. "You've already demonstrated you wouldn't resist me even if I commanded it of you."
The dripping icicle snapped and then shattered against the hard-packed dirt.
"Only Kolo has succeeded in that, and she's left everyone but Azvalath unguarded." There was a strange shift in his tone. "I'll try again, then, and if you refuse again, understand you're eventually condemning Lalek to what I would have just done to you as well as Haode, were I even slightly less sound."
Dakko's heart dropped into his stomach, but he didn't move a muscle.
"Dakko." The master's voice snapped him back to attention. "Incapacitate me right now, make your escape, and wait for Ami to come. She will feel the same draw as I do, but not to consume." He pulled his hand away from Dakko and gripped his crutches tighter. "Don't hold back. I know what you can do."
"No!" The boy yelped like he'd been struck. "I don't want to hurt you!"
"You won't, Dakko." Xigon's posture straightened and his unbandaged eye grew wider, drinking in something no one else could see. "I can no longer guarantee I won't hurt any of you, though. Spare me that risk a little longer. I beg it of you."
Dakko took a step back.
Xigon dropped one crutch and shot his arm out to grab Dakko. He didn't say anything else, but his uncovered eye was impossibly wide and an insidious violet was creeping into it. Were there tears behind that deepening pulse of some far more colossal power?
The boy had never seen anything like it. He wanted to behold it forever, even if it meant—
"Please." Xigon's voice cracked. "Help me."
That pleading was too cruel of an echo to ignore, so Dakko tried Ami's suggestion from earlier and chilled Xigon's inner ear.
Xigon clutched his temple and sank against the wall before folding to his knees. His head dropped toward his chest. "Thank you. Now run."
"No." Dakko crouched in front of the disoriented man. "Ami's got it from here, right? You said so. I'm not leaving you."
"I could kill you," Xigon hissed.
"You won't, though." Dakko let out a dry chuckle. "If it were as straightforward as monsters and good people, I'd just be another tragedy." His cold fingers brushed over shards of half-melted ice, refreezing them. "I know someone or another would be up in arms, but I'd rather you teach me your way than let me be another damned tragedy."
Xigon pursed his lips. A small streak of blood leaked out from under the bandage over his eye. "Very well, then." He wiped the blood away. "If for no other reason than this is the loudest you've spoken your will since we met."
They grabbed each other's hands, one cold and one bloody, and neither shaking any longer.
I'm a writer. I was wondering if you can give pointers on realistic and respectful writing of a character who has had a brain injury. Especially things to avoid that may be wrong/hurtful.
I'm sure this person would love extra contributions in replies or reblogs too! But here's some stuff I compiled so far
1.
I think it's important to think about why you want to portray a character with a brain injury
If your reason for wanting to portray it is anything related to using that character's brain injury as a major plot inconvenience (eg. they forget a piece of information and the whole mission is ruined), I really don't recommend it. It's not entertaining writing as it is and just it makes the character seem like a burden to the plot.
If you just want one symptom for plot reasons (like memory difficulties), also ditch the brain injury idea. Either you intend to represent the whole experience or none of it!
I'd say similar things if the character is just going to feel hopeless or awful about it the entire time and it's going to be constantly used to make the readers emotional - we eventually have to live with it, even if accepting it takes time, and learning to accept your disabilities is something that desperately needs representing. Brain injuries are not some kind of eternal punishment for people with them, nor a tear-jerking tragedy for people without them
2.
Do proper research into brain injuries and zone in on what's applicable to your character
What is the cause of their brain injury? What type of brain injury is it?What parts of the brain were affected? How long has it been since they acquired it? How comfortable are they with their reality now? Do they have access to proper medical care and means of recovery? What will their symptoms actually look like?
All of this is important if you want your character to feel fleshed out in this area too
3.
Run your work by people with brain injuries who offer it!!!! You can find people on writing subreddits, discord servers, in-person, all sorts of places, who'd like you to ask questions and help in the writing of your character
Don't just talk about us, include us in the conversation. Acknowledge that you cannot fully understand our experience and so you cannot make the rules on how to portray it respectfully!
4.
Listen to our stories! Spend time with us online and in person if you can! There are so many stories from people with brain injuries on all social media platforms - do not use their words directly without permission, but you can certainly learn from their experiences and think about what your character's experience might look like
I really like this article it goes pretty in-depth into all areas of brain damage & injuries and recovery in writing
5.
Flesh out your character just as much in every other applicable area - if you overly expand upon their disabilities only for the character themself to be pretty lackluster, you're not portraying a real person anymore, you're just portraying the concept of a brain injury
AVOID:
- The 'You're not the same person anymore' trope, where a character experiences an accident or head trauma and is suddenly an entirely different person on every level. It's pretty much just used as an emotional plot device. Severe brain damage can result in significant changes in personality, but they are the same person
- Doom and gloom, where you're essentially just writing pure angst intended to make the audience emotional with no real representation of the disability outside the context of 'this is really sad'
- Comedic relief, where a character's brain injury is used almost exclusively as a humorous tool (eg. haha they keep forgetting things, haha they talk weird, haha they lost their train of thought, haha they behave inappropriately and don't realise it)
- And I'm not saying you can't do something amnesia-related, but if you're looking for a plot device that'll cause a character to do something like forget their entire life before that point for a very prolonged period of time and receive little to no medical intervention, please find a fictional means for it (eg. fantasy/sci-fi elements) instead. It's just so overdone and it's always written as caused by a head injury that you'd expect to result in TBI, but those effects are not realistic for TBI
How to write a character with amnesia article
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I'd love to see what others have to add to this! I know it's not uncommon for some people to say you shouldn't even try to represent other people's disabilities, but I don't think that's a realistic way to approach it, especially when lots of us would love to write fiction about brain injuries but struggle to because of said brain injury
Brain injury survivor myself, and also a writer. “Brain injury” is as much a blanket term as “bone injury.” Which bone? How severe? A mild concussion is a brain injury, and so is getting shot in the head. And depending on which regions are affected, your character’s experience could look any number of ways.
My injury was severe enough that I spent a month in the ICU and a couple more months in outpatient rehab. Seven months later I still have reduced short-term memory, difficulty producing verbal speech (though I can understand it perfectly), weakness and altered sensation in my right leg, chronic nerve pain in my right hand, inability to feel hunger or thirst, and episodes of debilitating fatigue after cognitively demanding tasks. None of that bothers me half as much as the mood swings between explosive rage and near lethal depression that are more likely a side effect of my anti-seizure medication.
I don’t appreciate pity. What I do appreciate is people treating me like a person and assuming I am capable, but still lending a hand when I ask. Just like I would do for them if our situations were reversed.
And FFS, do NOT use it for plot-convenient amnesia! Don’t! Find any other way to do that. My protagonist’s plot-convenient amnesia (hello, I’m not above that either!) was magically induced. Not a brain injury.
While we’re on that, I’m begging all of writerdom to stop hitting characters in the head to knock them out and using that as a temporary, harmless way to remove someone from a scene until they wake back up.
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