#mythmaking

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Yoooo you read Graceling!!!! I just recently reread Bitterblue, remembering nothing about it beforehand, and I was floored by its amazing depiction of abuse/gaslighting. I never would have thought to represent gaslighting as an evil superpower. Using it to support the plot of a political mystery novel is just so cool.

I fully agree. Normally I'm not a big fan of characters having had their memories changed, since it risks giving the author a little too much license to straight-up lie to the reader to conceal information, and/or introduce a world with no internal logic at all which doesn't make for an enjoyable story.

BUT that's clearly not what Cashore is doing with Bitterblue. Instead, that plot is so clearly about propaganda, about how history becomes story and what's lost along the way, and about how a "hero" is in the eyes of the people who benefited from that hero's violence. Like, are George Washington and Theodore Roosevelt and Thomas Jefferson heroes? It sure as heck depends on whether you ask a white person, or a Black or Native American one. Human memory is short, history is malleable. People in power can edit the past.

Are you a butcher or a great warrior? Are you a freedom fighter or a terrorist? Depends on who's telling the story and how. The fantastical interpretation in Graceling is clearly Cashore pulling the classic SF trick of taking something figurative and making it literal, and asking a lot of fascinating questions about the responsibilities of leadership along the way.

[definegodliness]

The starry skies of the coldest spring

Tonight, I may Not fathom heaven. My eyes cannot adapt To the bright of those myriad stars To see beyond them, and question The lying emptiness, there, waiting, As anything other than Nothingness.

The sky Spoon feeds me Too much silver, and My tongue writhes in Desperate expelling, So to not speak Your name.

My second star to the right, And straight on till morning,

I no longer see The constellation we created, And I tossed the map toward our Neverland, Because I don't think I'll be flying, Anytime soon in this Hailstorm.

--- 3-5-2026, M.A. Tempels © Prompted by: @poppiesandpromises

[gregxb]

This page explains my relationship with Marvel and DC better than any rant ever could. It lays bare the machinery: clones, resets, copies, retcons, “mystery fixes,” brand preservation over character growth. Not storytelling - asset management. Not evolution - maintenance.

I don’t need clean endings. I need consequence. I need change that sticks. Growth that accumulates. Choices that remain binding. When everything is reversible, modular, and resettable, nothing has weight. That’s why I read more comics than ever — just less and less from the Big Two.

What’s interesting is that this page doesn’t actually push me toward some simple “corporate IP bad, indie good” conclusion, because the comics I’m actually reading right now don’t line up that cleanly.

I’m reading all the Gargoyles comics, and yes, that’s corporate IP, but it still functions like an auteur project. It has a guiding voice. It has narrative memory. It has consequence. It has accumulated meaning. The story doesn’t reset itself to preserve a brand shape. It grows. It carries its past forward. It treats continuity as weight, not as a problem to engineer around. It’s a corporate property that still behaves like a long-form novel instead of a content stream.

Same thing with the Energon Universe books at Skybound. That’s all Hasbro IP. Transformers. GI Joe. The most corporate-branded toyetic franchises imaginable. And yet they’re being allowed to tell an actual story. Characters change. Events matter. Continuity builds instead of erasing itself. Now, it’s still early. They’re only a few years in, and corporate interference hasn’t had time to calcify yet. That could still happen. But right now, it feels like storytelling, not brand maintenance.

And then there’s creator-owned work like Kieron Gillen’s comics, where consequence is structurally protected because the creators own the meaning. There is no reset button. No brand preservation mandate. No evergreen status. Stories end because stories are supposed to end, and when they continue, they continue forward, not sideways.

So the real fault line isn’t corporate versus indie. It isn’t IP versus creator-owned. It isn’t franchise versus original.

It’s whether a story is allowed to transform.

Some systems treat stories as living narratives that accumulate memory, consequence, and change. Others treat stories as immortal brands that must remain recognizable forever. And when immortality becomes the priority, storytelling turns into maintenance. Growth becomes reversible. Meaning becomes temporary. Not because writers are bad, but because the system cannot allow permanent change.

That’s the difference between a story world and a brand loop.

Once you start reading through that lens, you stop caring who owns the IP and start caring about something much simpler: is this a story that’s allowed to remember itself, or is it a machine designed to forget itself on command?

[ebookporn]

The Deluge tablet of the Gilgamesh epic in Akkadian

Written c. 2100–1200 BCE

[martyred-conquered]

Hell is comprised of ice, not fire

[stonebrokevillains]

Villains and Outlaws

The word outlaw comes from the Old Norse utlagi—later utlage—meaning someone placed outside the protection of the law. Not judged. Not jailed. Just... exiled from the system.

To be outlawed was to be unshielded. Vulnerable. Dangerous. Free.

Before it became a badge of crime, it was a mark of refusal. A soul too wild, too inconvenient, too ungovernable to be held within the walls of legality.

[hellgatenewport]

Legends about a neighborhood menace

It had been his 4th time coming back from hell

they didn't even want him down there

he was still wearing his same fit

they buried him in

the dirt on his grave was loose

cause they knew he was coming back

he can't relax

there's no eternal peace for him

goddamn, what he even do?

what didn't he do?

you must be new here

everyone got scars from him

he nearly died from lung cancer

and he pulled the tar out his own lungs

and gave his enemies some

when he was young he was shooting birds

with a full cubbard

he was doing that shit just for comfort

if he hurt you, it wasn't over for you

that just meant you was marked

he parked his car in handicapped spots

cause even the cops were scared to tell him not to

the say he used to go to the graveyards

because that's where he buried all the stars

he never had a car himself

he would just borrow all our cars

without question

he's a devil I shouldn't mention

the tension in his heart

could pull a bowstring

his phone wouldn't ring

he'd make yours ring

he didn't sing

he would command the mic to listen to him

no one missed him first time he was gone

there wasn't anyone who missed church the following Sunday

one way or another

he'll find you, motherfucker

I heard a sucker told me "oh he's just lonely"

He was an only child because he made it so

I heard he had a twin he snuffed out in the womb

that twin was born with stab wounds

he made his own womb a tomb

He wouldn't sleep in his room

he'd sleep in the apartment commons

just to see if someone he didn't like would come in

I heard he robbed a store

and they said "have a nice day, sir"

and he killed them anyways

I heard that when he prays

he prays to himself

because God don't want to help him

and he scared Satan away

I heard Satan sold his soul to him

I heard from a friend

he stole an angel's wings

and sold them to the pawn shop

I heard he could command the clocks to stop

because he knew he was gonna mop the floor with these fools

and they'd all have the same time of death

I heard his first breath was someone's last

and that made him glad

I heard when he got mad

he'd do something bad just to feel good

he was too cool for the golden rule

he'd buy you a pool just to drown you in it

he'd build you up bit by bit

just to rip it all away from you

he'd rob for the adrenaline

not cause he was needing money

he thought it was funny when someone was begging for their life

I heard from a dead soul

that he'd make appointments at the graveyard

and he'd tell them how many holes to dig

I heard he made a wig his own hair

when he was there, anywhere

you'd taste death in the air

the grim reaper wears oven mitts handling him

second time he died he fried the citizens of hell

that's why they kicked him out

I heard he kicked angel's off Jacob's ladder

just so he could go up and ask God, what's the matter?

I heard he battered his fried chicken with liquid gold

just because he could

I heard he'd chop wood with death threats

I heard he hasn't met his father yet

but that's because his dad fleed country

when he saw what his son was gonna be

his momma died in childbirth

cause she said he hurt coming out

and his evil smile caused her to doubt

he takes the long route through the hood

because he wanted to snuff out what was good

I heard he got his shoes from the grim reaper

mugged him first time he picked him up

I heard he commands a cup to be filled

he's never poured nothing himself

I heard he never asked for help

he would just pull out his belt

I heard he made a war pelt

out of people's fits he stole

I heard the whole world sighed first time he died

and when he came back it cried

the ride back from his first stay in prison

was quick, and they said "good riddance"

He don't pay pittance

cause he leaves no witness

but if he let you live

it was just long enough to give a warning

he didn't wake up in the morning

he'd wake up at dusk

because the sun was scared of him

and it was always a new moon when he was out

When they created the word doom

they was thinking of him

sense of impending doom

was just describing being somewhere with him when he was in a mood

he wasn't rude, he just chewed through holy bibles

I heard he was never burned by hellfire

because they was scared to touch him

I heard he was never stumbling when he drank

he possessed the liquor

the liquor could never possess him

I heard when he wrote in someone's book

it became a death note

I heard that Everytime he died

he'd wind back up at the house of who killed him

they say he's listening

but he's actually not

he just likes people having that thought

and the rot could never touch him

not even the scavangers wanted to eat him

I heard he's got the same gravestone

he just calls his grave his vacation home

we don't even bother holding funerals for him

just going away parties

he robbed a hardies just for a frisco burger

and he'd bite through caramel Werther's

just to feel the hurt blur

I heard he was murderer

but he'd call himself a burgler

because he'd rob people of their minds

kick them out their own homes

I heard he roams the street at night

just looking for cigarettes to light

I heard the bright ones here

fear him so bad they left town

I heard the ground rejects his feet

I heard he's the only one the devil won't keep

he doesn't know defeat

He keeps his victim's soul

I looked into his eyes one time

and saw a bottomless hole

there's no goal to his life other to create strife

I heard he murdered his wife

just to become a widower

I seen him one time smoking his opp's pack

he said it was the only thing that would make him kick back

I heard the taxman won't see him

I heard the census man don't count him

I heard him call jail an overnight stay

because they pray for him to go away

I heard he makes the skies weep

because they wouldn't keep him neither

I heard the devil's kinder than him

he sold someone out for one piece of silver

29 less than an other Judas

I heard he's the rudest man in town

but no one said that until he was in the ground

I heard around that the pound once thought about putting him down

cause he was just such a mad dog

I heard he'd sleep with his eyes open

hoping to catch a motherfucker lacking

everyone starts acting different when he walked in

parties became massacres

family cookouts became genocides

I heard he gets ride from the devil himself

I heard the liquor store let's him grab whatever he wants

and the clubs have an unlimited tab for him

I heard every ring on his fingers

were just gifts from his victim before he delivered them to their God

He acknowledged that God existed

Just because he pissed him off

I heard lightning struck him 6 times

and he walked away fine

I heard the sun don't shine on him

he don't even catch a shadow

He doesn't even smoke tobacco

it just knows to burn when he's around

I heard he frowned before he smiled

and I heard he makes all the dogs howl

I heard a scowl from him is less scary than a smile

and he'll follow you for a mile

that sense of being watched?

that's because you thought you lost him

naw he's always there

somewhere

I heard he only wears his victim's clothes

never owned a shirt of his own

I heard his eyes never saw daylight

only the night, and even that was too bright

I heard he was born under an unlucky star

Lucifer before his fall

I heard it all before

and then some more

the gore he's made could fill a football arena

and you haven't seen him on a Monday

on a Sunday he prays for non-existence

he was sent to Buddha, but removed at Buddha's insistence

last Christmas he stole all the gifts

and left everyone with his murder lists

I heard his hissed at snakes

and his scowl makes eggs break

I heard his daughter says "I don't have a father"

I heard he can't even drink water

I heard the clouds refuse to rain on him

I heard the snow avoids him

the ice doesn't let him slip

and the stars seem to dip

he was neither a crip nor a blood

he did every just because

when they heard the buzz, both parties invited him over to see him

those parts of those gangs don't exist no more

I heard the earth was sore from him hurting its back

I heard he reversed global warming

from all those kickbacks

I heard he saved the environment by killing enough people that it was equivalent to 20 million trees

I heard no where will let him be

I heard he's waiting for Jesus to come back

just so he can plan an attack

I heard he was Satan's general

one of the top brass

one time he murdered a teacher in class

just so they'd let him pass

he'd been expelled from so many schools

they made a rule about not letting him in

he still got his diploma

just because they were scared of retribution

he calls killing people "restitution reunions"

because he's assuming he's killed someone you know"

I heard they buried him in a steel coffin once

he broke through that shit with Ease, using his grilled teeth

I heard he doesn't breath, he inhales CO2, and exhales CO2

Everyone rues the day he was born

he was so bad, all the pastors were forewarned

he doesn't need porn, he don't beat his meat

when he's riled up he looks for someone to eat

I heard the heat of hell coming off his skin

was enough to make a man believe in God

I heard a lot and I hear a lot too

if you don't believe me, it'll happen to you

he only kept me alive cause he liked how I hype him up

but he said the moment I stopped he'd pop me

he's the only descendant of cain still left

and the way I see it, why did God give him breath?

why hasn't he left this mortal plain?

is it because we need someone to blame for pain?

this is all a game to him

it's all fun and games

nothing could make him tame

he will always remain just the same

shame on his forefathers

and shame on his honor

I better get out of here before I'm a (goner)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

© Vladimir Zotov, 1970.

* * * *

“Children have an elemental hunger for knowledge and understanding, for mental food and stimulation. They do not need to be told or “motivated” to explore or play, for play, like all creative or proto-creative activities, is deeply pleasurable in itself. Both the innovative and the imitative impulses come together in pretend play, often using toys or dolls or miniature replicas of real-world objects to act out new scenarios or rehearse and replay old ones. Children are drawn to narrative, not only soliciting and enjoying stories from others, but creating them themselves. Storytelling and mythmaking are primary human activities, a fundamental way of making sense of our world. Intelligence, imagination, talent, and creativity will get nowhere without a basis of knowledge and skills, and for this education must be sufficiently structured and focused. But an education too rigid, too formulaic, too lacking in narrative, may kill the once-active, inquisitive mind of a child. Education has to achieve a balance between structure and freedom, and each child’s needs may be extremely variable.” ― Oliver Sacks, The River of Consciousness