#ttlotfkj

[highstellavoltage]

anyone going to the drive-in tomorrow night? it'll be cold as fuck but they're showing 80s movies

[satellite-runner]

when two killjoys have a kid, some don’t choose to give their child a name. they believe it’s the child’s choice when they get older. instead, they just mish mash their two names into a frankenstien name until the kid gets sick of it

[our-dumbass-of-sorrows]

its OUR chemical romance

[vanitypunk]

[dyke-in-crisis]

AYO LESBIANS AND EMOS GET UR JUICE I'M BACK W KILLJOY ART

commissions

[pollackpatrol]

Danger Days 10 Years Anniversary Celebration Event!

That title is so long! Please tag all works for this event as "Danger days: year 10" because the long title is a joke.

Anyways, this is a monthlong event in Novrmber with a prompt every day, not unlike Inktober! You can make art, writing, memes, or anything you want for the prompts, as long as it fits the day! The month is divided into 2 parts, with November 1-15 being pre-comics era and November 16-30 being comics and post-comics era, though you can ignore that if you want.

With all that out of the way, here's the prompt list!

1. Sunrise

2. Cherri Cola & NewsAGoGo

3. Party Poison

4. The Kobra Kid

5. Fun Ghoul

6. Jet Star

7. CherriGhoul

8. Holidays

9. Radio Crew

10. Candles

11. Radiation

12. Tommy Chow Mein

13. Bad luck beads

14. JetGear (Jet Star/Mad Gear)

15. The Lobby

16. DESTROYA

17. The Girl

18. The Phoenix Witch

19. Animals

20. Radio

21. Red and Blue

22. Record release day (free space)

23. The Nest

24. Val Velocity

25. Volume

26. Vinyl

27. Vamos

28. Vaya

29. Stargazing

30. Sunset

[deathchic]

happy ten years, danger days

there’s no colour in the sunsets anymore.

desert sunsets are so beautiful— bright, brilliant blue, then soft, dusty pinks, glaring orange, and finally, deep, rich, purple. it’s so hot, during the day, and so cold, during the night, that you have to do everything at dawn and dusk. half your life, you’ve been bathed in colour. you hardly know what it’s like to sit under a dull, unchanging sky.

but the thing about gradual introductions is that you don’t notice the change until it’s absolute.

when you look up, and all you see is grey, you continue with your business.

when you look up, and all you see is grey, you think absolutely nothing of it.

when you look down, and a stranger is grabbing your hand, you absolutely think something of that.

their skin is a gentle shade of pale brown, except for where it’s red and peeling. their sleeve is a slightly dulled but still blinding in comparison brick red— utterly forbidden. something tightens in your chest. you drag your eyes slowly upward, and they keep getting wider, not wanting to miss a single photon of reflected light. their eyes are a brown so dark it’s almost black, and your brain conjures half forgotten dreams (memories?) of windswept rocks, scraggly plants clinging on for dear life. their hair— it’s pure nighttime. purple so deep you’re expecting to find stars.

it’s colour. it’s art. the little thing in your chest that was tight, getting tighter, tighter, tighter still, suddenly it releases all at once, flowing through you and over you and out of you and feeling like ice water, setting your nerves alight with sensation you’d been told to forget, every single hair standing up at once.

you get pulled in a direction. you follow.

a day passes. a week. a month.

you realise; you thought it was you. that gradual reduction of saturation, of life— some part of you had known. but. everybody still sat and watched the sun set. everybody still made empty comments about blue, and pink, and orange, and purple. so of course, if you’re seeing in monochrome, it must be only you.

it’s not you. you didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not something wrong. something has been stolen from you. something important. but now, someone has grabbed your wrist, and hasn’t let go. for the first time in years, you are no longer alone. so i’m telling you, you can stop pretending. go get it fucking back.

you douse yourself in colour once more. you remember what it’s like to live only under a sky that loves you, and that you love. you feel pain, which isn’t new, but you know what’s causing it, which is. this pain isn’t despairing, this pain is not hopeless. it’s righteous. this pain is fire.

you leave neon trails in sun-scorched sand. you leave tiny scrawled messages on miserable concrete. you let your screams be carried away by the wind and trust that someone will hear them. you put on a mask. but its okay— it’s not like before. never like before. this mask, all it does is put your insides on your outsides. if you could peel off your skin and put it on inside out, just to feel as much as you could, to show everyone what a brilliant red you’re made of, you would. but you can’t. so you wear a mask. and a leather jacket. and on your hip, a gun.

you’ve had to fight recently— in the physical sense. it’s terrifying. you cry afterwards, every time. you relish every second of freedom it buys you.

it’s dangerous, but you’re not worried. you think it would be okay if you died tomorrow, anyway. but you don’t want to, is the thing. and that’s a first. before... you wouldn’t have cared. it’s very hard to not want to die when you can barely bring yourself to live.

so you fight, and sing, and you write on walls and the ground and on skin. you declare your existence as loud as you can. and sometimes, you grab the wrist of a stranger.

because let me tell you a secret: every single person thinks it’s just them. and another secret: it never, ever is. it’s not just you, killjoy. you’re just an artist, is all, and you’ve got a canvas, but no paint. you’re waiting. and i’m here to give it to you, to tell you it’s time.

look alive, sunshine. pick up a brush.

[highstellavoltage]

came across the witch's mailbox.

die with your mask on, tumbleweeds.