@coolkidroland there's a subset of dumb fucks in the LGBT community who have started to be radicalized by TERFy rhetoric and think the word queer is inherently a slur that has not been and can never be reclaimed, and anyone using the word queer as a personal identifier is committing an offense on par with ripping baby jesus out of his mother's arms and murdering him in front of her and that it's a problem that's somehow worse than any actual problems affecting the lgbt community, like, oh, I don't know, trans women being murdered
i have run into some of these people in the persona fandom though, now that you mention it
@coolkidroland said: who is the most challenging character for you to write, why? Write a scene focused on that challenging thing!
Oh friend, I’m so sorry about me, but this is going to be the most disappointing answer in the history of ever.
I am going through a great bout of Hating Everything that I write, and Not Connecting with any of my characters. So like. Everything is hard. All of them are a challenge. Running this blog and pushing myself to keep producing words is my way of slogging through this weird endless creative growth and hoping I reach some kind of flat ground soon. Sorry I don’t have something better to give you.
coolkidroland replied to your post: “My mom was encouraging me to travel and see friends who live in...”:
take your mom to the humane society 'just to say hi' and see what happens
She apparently visits the shelter we got Justice at fairly regularly just to see the cats and kittens.
The thing she keeps saying is that she doesn’t want to get a new one yet because she and my dad are still bouncing about trying to sell the house on LI, and she doesn’t feel comfortable getting a new pet until they fully settle down in MA.
@coolkidroland as someone who used to be the kind of person who sent other people anon hate over trivial shit: they go to IHOP but they don't talk to anybody other than to order their food, and then they go back to their dorm room (because they're typically between the ages of 18 and 24 and privileged enough that their only problems are college and people they disagree with on the internet) to be completely alone and miserable, so they go online and look for strangers to harass
It must always happen the same way. You leave in the early morning. It takes hours to make it through the hills. You have a cat, any one that will agree to the journey, you wear sensible clothing, and you bring whatever trinket or sweetmeat you think will make payment. The sun is the only familiar thing you see in the hills around Ellsby, shining over a congress of strange trees, and brush that grows near to your waist. The sun reminds you of the world still turning, which is a reminder sorely needed. The cat takes you where it will, around the paths and trails cut by creatures you don’t dare wonder on. Ain’t no deer or bear seen in the hills for generations.
No one can say for sure why cats know the way, or why the forest won’t reach out its cursed hand to touch them. Ellsby folk only know the power of cats and don’t waste time pondering on the why. The cat takes you up, and up, in one forever forward movement. You follow its twin pointed ears, and the high straight stick of its tail, and gradually, the hills surround you, so you can’t be sure how much time is passing while you walk. You check the sun, and you think of the warm hearth of home, of the bed waiting for your return. You think of the trouble you hope to mend.
Then all suddenly, the forest passes you by. The trees retreat behind you, the brush shrinking into its sylvan world. There stands the house at the top, red timber, a slatted roof, the chimney stack puffing white smoke. The field is empty beside the house, or perhaps the herd is about, lowing gently, snuffing the air. Maybe you get stuck watching them, glistening and heavy in the afternoon, gossipy cow women with no time to waste on human concerns. Maybe the cat who guided you skips off to visit them, and for a moment you fear it won’t come back. Then the door of the house opens, one long creak, and heavy boot falls sound on the porch. You are afraid to look. People are always afraid.
She stands there in a blue dress, the hem torn, breeches beneath. She wears a belt with a long knife, and pouches holding only God knows what. Her dark red hair tangles about in the breeze, and she stares at you, only you, the one true and real thing on her land. She only asks one question.
“What ails you?“
And maybe your ailment is the sickness took your pa, or the patch of garden out back that stopped growing. Maybe it’s the dry weather keeping the town from sense, you the unlucky one elected to seek help. Maybe there’s a babe in your womb you need taken out, and maybe your man can’t know of it. Maybe you are in love, or seek it, or fear it will never come. Whatever the ill, you speak it into the wind, to the woman on the porch. You empty your pockets, of buttons, small carcasses, chicken eggs, the piece of thread you plucked from a dead man’s quilt. You hold it out. You promise to pay.
They say the Hillwoman will do or don’t, as it please her. But there never yet has been a person turned away.
She doesn’t look at the offerings.
"Come inside,” she says. The doorway is dark in her absence. The wind pushes you toward it, toward the rattling, jangling sound inside. Whether you are brave, or only desperate, you step through.
It happens like this to everyone. Always the same. Most only need go once and try their best to forget the memory. Some go a time or two, hope no one notices, hope the house at the top is finished with them, hope no more cats are needed. They don’t speak of it. If there are others, who venture to her half a dozen or more times, none in Ellsby would think to ask about it.
coolkidroland replied to your post: “coolkidroland replied to your post: “My mom was encouraging me to...”:
TO TOUCH A KITTEN AND NOT BRING IT HOME. Such strength.
She made me go with her once and did not understand why I literally teared up during the car ride home because we did not bring any of the babies home with us.
