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Stranger Things

Andulka

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todays bird
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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RMH
DEAR READER
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Claire Keane

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@stanic-ph
Night of pictures
Regresando a casa
https://www.instagram.com/reel/DVaUtyUDuqU/?igsh=c2hyc3UzZGFtNWQ4
A little photo for the spooky season.
In my palm they rest, a cluster of fairy skulls, each no larger than a marble, whispering silent songs of forgotten realms. Their hollow eyes hold echoes of ancient mischief, of wings torn and laughter swallowed by the dark. Once playful guardians of the hidden woods, now they are nothing but brittle remains, fragile trophies of a world that slipped between shadows and silence.
The Circle of Mushrooms
After nights of games and laughter in the faraway land,
the troll wandered once more, guided only by curiosity.
In the hollow of an old tree,
he found a small gathering —
not of people, but of mushrooms,
standing like quiet lanterns in the dark earth.
He leaned closer.
They whispered in silence, telling stories of rain,
of roots that remember,
of seasons older than memory.
The troll listened,
and for the first time,
he wondered if perhaps even the smallest things
could hold the grandest tales.
A little bit of photoshop
Blood for the blood god, skulls for the skull throne
The Cards and the Kind Ones
To a distant place where laughter echoed through the room
and the tables were full of magic.
There, the troll found people who welcomed him without question.
They played with dragons, summoned spells, and built worlds from cardboard and dice.
He didn’t need to speak — the games spoke for everyone.
He stayed long into the night.
Not to win.
Just for fun
The Eye of Inner Chaos
Trapped in the middle, the eye sees all—yet controls nothing.
.
The Whisper in the Leaves
After listening to the museum’s secrets,
the troll wandered deeper—
where city noise fades
and green shadows begin to speak.
He didn’t hide.
He waited.
For plants, too, tell stories.
Slower, softer, ancient.
And between the roots and rustling leaves,
he heard a forgotten promise carried on the wind.
He remembered it, as he always does.
Beauty is but a mask — beneath it, we all wear the same end.
Troll trolling on the museum.
No one noticed when he slipped in — just a shadow beneath the ancient stone and glowing windows.
His name long forgotten, the troll wandered from world to world, museum to museum, searching for something.
Not gold, nor fame.
But stories.
And tonight, the walls whispered secrets of forgotten artists and lost time.
He listened, hair glowing like the last light of dusk.
He would remember them all.
This troll has lengends and stories to share with those who want to hear.
Message from luce you.
Where Shadows Meet”
The Space Marines emerged into darkness.
The chamber around them was carved from jagged black stone—volcanic and cracked, as though the room itself had been hewn from the bones of a dead world. The floor crunched beneath their armored boots, uneven and sharp, as if the rock still remembered the violence that shaped it. No light source could be seen, yet everything was dimly visible in hues of gray and red, lit by the sickly glow of the Immaterium bleeding through the walls.
Lieutenant Thalor stepped forward first, thunder hammer at hand and ready, his helmet sweeping left to right in silent assessment. To his right strode Sergeant Varkos, chainsword in hand, bolt pistol drawn. Behind them came Brother Korran, encased in hulking Terminator armor, his storm bolter and power fist at the ready, each step a grinding challenge to the cursed stone beneath.
They had been aboard the battle barge Vigil of Iron, en route to a chaos incursion near the Hadrex Anomaly, when the warp storm swallowed them whole. Now, they stood in a place that was neither real nor illusion.
Three figures waited at the center of the chamber.
The first towered in black armor, his form encased in a suit that pulsed with unnatural life. A cloak hung from his shoulders like shadow incarnate. A dark helm masked his face, but the pressure in the air told the Astartes all they needed to know.
“A psyker,” said Thalor, voice low over vox. “A powerful one. Warp-touched.”
Sergeant Varkos nodded grimly. “I feel his presence gnawing at my thoughts.”
The figure did not speak. Yet the air around him vibrated with unseen fury. His hand hovered near the hilt of a crimson-bladed weapon unlike any imperial design.
Flanking him were two soldiers in smooth white armor, their movements mechanical, their weapons alien mockeries of lasguns.
“Not men,” Korran growled. “Shells. Cultist scum in sacred shell casings. Hollowed out by doctrine not our own.”
Thalor stepped forward, voicing what all three knew. “They are not of this realm. But they are no less the enemy.”
A sound like a blade igniting filled the air. Red light bathed the stone.
The three Space Marines raised their weapons in unison.
“In the name of the Emperor,” Varkos intoned, “you will burn.”
And the battle began.
May the 4th be with you
A bird lies twisted in the photo,
without sky, without song, without story.
No one knew of its brief flight, nor of its death upon silent metal.
Only silence keeps its name, like a secret no one asked for.
What do you see here