#SInk-fanzine
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In the course of spiralling down an internet rabbit hole today, I found a truly excellent essay about the trials and tribulations of fandom: How To BNF Without Tears, by Walter A. Willis
If you are familiar with the term BNF (Big-Name Fan), you may have heard it in the context of early-aughts fandoms, or some configuration of superwholock. But this article is from 1954!
Please enjoy these excerpts:
Very well, let's consider a day in the life of this wretched Neofan. Brighteyed, the little fellow wakes early, listening for the tread of the postman. His ears are so sensitive to this faint sound that he will leap out of bed, every nerve quivering, when the man is a hundred yards away ….. whereas before he became a fan a whole battery of alarm clocks barely fluttered an eyelid.
It's me, I'm the wretched little fellow refreshing my AO3 inbox, nerves a-quivering
Consider now a day in the life of the BNF. He too is driven from pillow to post, but since he was up to two o'clock in the morning finishing an article he had promised for ten days ago, the postman has to knock twice to waken him. He staggers down the stairs, observing with a sinking feeling that the porch is covered with a layer of various sized envelopes[....]Some of the letters are from his friends, and he puts those in his pocket to be enjoyed later. Some are from self-appointed enemies, and he puts those aside until he feels stronger. The rest are from Neofen. Some of them want subscriptions to his fanzine. Some want information. Some want material for their fanzine. Nearly all of them are rude.
1954 equivalent of "RIP your inbox"
Now, on the way the BNF handles this mail depends whether he shall stay in fandom or retire suffering from chronic disenchantment like so many others[...]So I am going to suggest some rules which you might consider following when you become a BNF. (All that is necessary to become a BNF is to maintain a reasonably energetic standard of fanactivity for approximately two years.)
And then our friend Walter goes on to advise BNFs to "comment on as many first issues [of fanzines] as you can, and always find something to praise," "Always be polite and kind to Neofans," and to take the piss out of yourself: "Humourous attacks on you should be encouraged -- they add to the interest of fandom, rank as egoboo, and might give you something to write about." (Walter also warns on the dangers of attending conventions, and advises that you wear a false beard to maintain anonymity.)
Of course, I had to know: what fandom were these guys in?
So I did a little digging. Walter mentions a "Ken Potter" in his letter. Turns out Ken Potter ran multiple science fiction fanzines through the 1950's and 60's, including Brennschluss, Triumph and Scientifiction.
A scan of Brenschluss, containing such gems as "tho I did once kiss a girl" and "Isn't Fandom romantic!"
Additional glossary for some terms used in Walter's essay:
"Egoboo": A colloquial expression for the pleasure received from public recognition of voluntary work. Originated in science fiction fandom as early as 1947
"Hectoed" fanzine: A method of copying text and illustrations that fell out of fashion after the 1940's. It involves involves making a bed of gelatin, transferring a special carbon ink to the gelatin and then laying on and picking up pieces of paper.
"Faned": Slang for "fan editor," aka the editor of a fandom publication, usually a zine.
#anyways next time someone tells you you're too old for fandom#you know where to direct them#shout out to those ladies in the 70s trading kirk and spock yaoi fanzines#and shout out to these guys in the 50's sending each other hate mail about science fiction fandom beefs
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America & Canada, 1910s
Brotherly bonding, airplanes, and a future full of possibilities. Originally this fanfic was intended for a fanzine, however, I changed my mind at the last minute. Please enjoy!
Wingman
Ohio, USA; 26 July 1911
It’s warm, but not too much so. A wind glides over the Ohio farmland, caressing wheatfields, picking up bits of grass and straw, slipping between a wide crack in the barn doors and rustling Canada’s hair. He tucks a stray curl behind his ear, reminding himself for the third time this month that he should see a barber, or at least give it a quick trim himself.
That can wait, though. For now, he flips open the folded newspaper and spreads it over his lap.
‘Laurier Stumbles as Federal Election Looms Ahead’
The headline dominates the front page of the Toronto Star, bold letters weighing heavy with stamped ink across the flimsy newsprint. Canada sighs, thumbing the page corners of the three-day-old paper that he still hasn’t finished reading because his last attempt on yesterday’s train left him with a bout of motion sickness. He flips past the editorial fistfights over Reciprocity and glances briefly at America, who is too focused on tweaking his latest flying machine, bolts squeaking with every turn and tools clanking as they hit the floor, to notice his brother’s staring. And then he catches his fingers on what resembles a bicycle chain.
“Ow, fucking thing,” America hisses, shoving the injured digits in his mouth
“Are you okay?” Canada asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” America grumbles, dismissively waving his greasy hand. “The chain drive can be a real pain sometimes. That’s not the first time it’s nicked me.”
“Need any help?”
“Nah, I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure?”
Without answering, America wipes his fingers on his oil-smudged overalls and dives back in, climbing between the massive canvas wings to reach an exposed motor near the centre of the craft.
Canada crosses his legs, leaning back in America’s creaky chair, the only one in this rickety barn-turned-workshop. A few years before, when news broke of the Wright Flyer’s success, America dropped all other hobbies to pursue machine-powered flight. And since then, he regularly insists that Canada should come witness his newest attempts at conquering the skies.
Currently, his feet are dangling over the edge of a wing. He’s likely going to be distracted for a while longer. Opening the newspaper to the international section, Canada resumes his reading.
‘Crisis in Agadir Intensifies; British PM Threatens Military Action’
Heart sinking, he groans. “Ah, geez....” Reluctantly, Canada scans the news story, each sentence laying a brick on his shoulders.
With fiery commentary, the article recants the crisis across the Atlantic, the most recent in a string of disputes between France and Germany. And Canada finds himself wondering, not for the first time, why England chose now to forge an alliance with his self-described ‘bitter rival’. Not that it’s Canada’s business, or that he’s unhappy about whatever accord they’ve reached. On the contrary, it’s quite nice to visit his guardian in London, find France there, and not have the scene devolve into a screeching maelstrom, but did it have to be now? With everything happening in the world, it feels almost like exchanging one type of chaos for another. Then again, as Scotland once mentioned, that’s par for geopolitics.
Eyes dragging down the grey column of text, Canada gnaws his lip, and there it is. ‘Britian to likely double demands for shipbuilding materials from across the empire as super-dreadnought class warships continue to dominate the naval arms-race.’ Groaning, Canada allows his face to fall into the paper, scratchy pulp crinkling against his glasses. “I don’t want to build any more boats,” he whines. “Can’t I just worry about an election instead of... twelve other things?”
Anxiety isn’t good for his health, but it’s difficult to relax when one’s days are spent making warships for a war that hasn’t come. There won’t be a war, though, will there? No, of course not. This is just how things are in Europe at the moment. Tense. Very much so. But, then again.... What if--
“Boo!”
Canada jumps. “Shit!” Legs shooting out, he topples over. Cobblestone meets his hip and elbow. The flimsy chair clatters in his wake.
“Woah!” America peers down at him, a goofy smirk stretching his features.
“What-- Why did you...?”
“Hah! Sorry. You okay there? It’s not often that I hear you curse.”
“Well, you startled me, assho--…. Jerk.” Righting himself, Canada brushes the sawdust off his left side, giving one stubborn smudge a good smack.
“You looked so tense; I couldn’t help it! You were hunched over like a stone gargoyle.” America imitates the said statues by curving his back and making little claws with his fingers. “What’re you reading, anyway?”
“Oh,” Canada says as he gathers the scattered newspaper sheets. “Well, it’s... You see, it’s about the crisis in Agadir and I’m worried that-”
“The what in where?”
Canada blinks. “In Agadir. Haven’t you heard of it?”
“...Is Agadir one of Monaco’s cities?”
“What? No! It’s one of Morocco's.”
“Oh, okay” America chuckles. “Guess I got them mixed up.”
“And Monaco is a city-state, she doesn’t have any other cities.”
“Huh.” America glances up at the rafters, bottom lip firmly under his teeth. “That makes sense.”
Canada sighs, a long-suffering sound. “You should really pay more attention to what’s going on in Europe....”
“I do! Sort of. If it’s important.” Canada doesn’t glare, but he does wait patiently while staring pointedly at his brother. America shrugs. “All right, maybe I do get distracted sometimes, but can you blame me? Business is booming. I’ve got an economy to run and the inventions people are coming up with this century are way more fascinating than whatever’s happening in... where was it?”
“Agadir.”
“Right! You know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I do, but... Things aren’t exactly peaceful these days. I’m not sure that’s the right sort of attitude we should have, at the moment.”
‘We’, as in nations, of course. However, also as in brothers. As in two with everlasting ties across the Atlantic. But that part, Canada doesn’t say.
Wiping his messy hands with a towel, America turns away. “Listen... We’re flanked by oceans on both our east and west coasts. To your north, you have solid ice and to my south I’ve got Mexico, the entire Caribbean, and just... Europe is a world away.” Before Canada can internalise his sentiment, America changes tune. “Anyway, that’s not why we’re here in the first place. We’re here for flying machines and a good time, remember? Not politics.”
Fidgeting, a familiar tension in his shoulders, Canada nods. “I guess so. Yeah... Yeah, you’re right.”
His acceptance must have sounded more believable than it felt, because Alfred shoots him a smile. “Great. If you want, we can talk seriously later, but for now, the fixes are all done. Can you help me get this machine outside?” He jogs to the barn doors and drags their handles.
Pushing aside disappointment and adjusting expectations with a practised ease, Canada watches the doors open with a yawning creak.
Sunlight streams through the doors and loft windows, turning wooden walls to mustard, highlighting raw patches of damage caused by their owner’s contraptions. A scrape from a propeller blade, a dark stain from a splatter of engine grease; and against them are piled a plethora of building materials. Aluminium sheets, timber, and spools of cord replacing the livestock that once slept there.
Weaving between the mess of scraps, Canada reaches the left wing, grabs its canvas surface and when America arrives on the right side of the machine, they start pushing. It’s shockingly light, for being so large. A double-winged craft with two propellers, some type of tail, and a set of smaller wings on the front that stick out.
“Do you think this one will work?” Canada asks, partially to distract his anxieties, but also genuinely curious; wholly lost as to how this machine is meant to work.
“Definitely,” America responds. “It’s based on everything I’ve read about the Wright brothers’ flyer. Those two really know what they’re doing.”
“You copied them?”
“Of course not! I just took a bit of inspiration from their design. There wasn’t much to copy, anyway. They’ve been very secretive about their new machine. It’s a little annoying.”
The corners of Canada’s lips tug upwards. “So, you tried to copy them, but couldn’t find enough information to do it.”
“Shh!”
America previously attempted flight with a few of his own unique contraptions. Most ended without major consequence, dying in the early testing stages when the odd machines simply broke apart when travelling faster than a brisk walk. Others, however, were disastrous, like when he tried launching his small glider off the top of a moving automobile and spent a week in hospital with a shattered spine.
“I liked the one you built that had propellers stacked on top of each other, and instead of flying, it just bounced around the field.”
America pouts. “Hey! That one was based on a design by Da Vinci, so it’s his fault that it didn’t work, not mine.”
“It was the funniest one you made.”
“Buddy, I am working on scientific miracles out here. They aren't always going to be graceful works of art.” America catches his gaze between the wire bracing. “And by the way, if you keep pulling my leg, I’m gonna launch you instead of this flyer.”
Canada’s smile broadens. He shoves the machine and relishes the dust its wheels kick up – glad that he left his good clothes at home, the fancy suits and shoes that come courtesy of England’s pocketbook. Throwing his back into it as the sharp aroma of fertile farmland slams his nostrils on a long, sun-swept day; there are few things as satisfying as this.
The flyer exits the barn, barely. Its wide wings graze the doorframe, but when it’s out, it greets an open field. Wind glides in from the West, swinging the weathervane atop America’s farmhouse and tugging insistently on the canvas wings. The two brothers take it a bit further, several metres before a gentle dip in the terrain.
“Okay, stand back!” America calls.
Canada does and his brother hops into the hip cradle, lying flat. In short seconds, he has the propellers spinning, the engine sputtering. Sluggish at first, then faster. And faster. Canada squints against the machine’s gust and watches it roll forward, accelerating towards the hill, a big craft carrying bigger dreams. Could this be the one that finally flies? Maybe... maybe?
He holds his breath, eyes wide. Great, white wings reach the edge of the slope, tilt up. So slightly, and then. It sinks, disappearing behind the hill. Canada’s heart drops.
He swears and dashes after his brother. God forbid he has to drag America to the hospital a second time. The machine swerves, skidding down the incline, but to its credit, doesn’t tip over or combust. Instead, it settles to a jerky stop in a patch of tall grass.
Canada jogs over, making it in time to see the propellers slow, engine going quiet.
“Fuck,” America bursts as he stumbles out of the cradle.
“What happened?” Canada asks, noting that America is uninjured.
“It’s the damn wind,” America gripes. “That ridge is North facing, but the wind is pushing West, so I had to fight it with the controls, and I couldn’t generate enough lift.”
“At least, you can be glad you didn’t crash.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” America sighs, sarcastically. “At least it wasn’t a total catastrophe, right?”
Canada frowns. “America.”
“Sorry. I just... it’s frustrating. That’s all.”
Pausing, Canada studies his brother, how America’s shoulders droop and his sky-blue eyes fixate on the ground. “You care about this a lot, don’t you?”
Rather than answer, America shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks a stone, looking 200 years younger. An expressive boy, always running faster than England could catch him, faster than Canada could challenge him, and faster than his own legs could carry him. Canada chews his lip. “If you had a North wind, would that be better?”
“That would be fantastic. It’d help me speed up, but I can’t control the weather.”
“Well, if you just need to go faster before um....”
“...Before lifting off the ground?”
“Yeah.” Canada points at the flying machine. “If it’s just that, then maybe I could push this tail part here-”
“The rudder.”
“-while you’re working the controls, and then, maybe you’d have enough speed?”
America hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I appreciate the offer, but... I kind of want to do this myself.” Canada’s frown deepens. “Dragging it out of the barn,” America continues, “is one thing. The flight test though, that’s, y’know... that’s the real deal! If I can’t do it myself, then....”
The tension in Canada’s shoulders returns. “I may not know much about flying machines, but I do know that there are two Wright brothers. They didn’t work alone.”
“But I’ve been trying to get these machines working for years, this is like a milestone for me! It’s important.”
“I know it’s important to you! That’s why I want to help!”
America blinks. His mouth hangs open, trying to form words, but failing, whereas Canada’s jaw snaps shut. Impatience fizzling to shame, because shouting is awful and he’s never liked doing it, never liked hearing it from others, but sometimes with America, it’s the only way to get him to listen.
Sighing, America glances away, looking everywhere except at his brother. His gaze lands on the flying machine, sitting silent in the grass.
“...All right, let’s do it.”
“Really?”
“Yup!” America shrugs, already marching toward the machine. “We’ll give it a try.”
They manoeuvre the craft out of the thicket and cart it up the slope in uneasy silence. Once back to its starting position, America begrudgingly points to where Canada can grab and push, an area of the rig that won’t interfere with the complex turning system. Then, he hops in the hip cradle and again brings the motor to life.
This close to the propellers, they feel like storm winds, whirring with energy.
Canada’s eyes water, dust hitting his glasses and spraying his front. He braces and thrusts, fingers wrapped tight around the wooden poles, putting one foot in front of the other, striving for momentum. He’s jogging, then he’s sprinting. Shoes slamming the earth, the tail starts to drift away from him, faster than he can run. With a grunt, he gives one final push from his core, throwing his strength through his shoulders and into his hands.
The weight of the machine vanishes. He trips, fists and elbows hitting dry soil. Head snapping up to watch America go, but there’s only a blur of ivory against the cerulean sky, and Canada furiously wipes his dusty glasses. Then, he sees it.
America’s machine is soaring. It drifts through the air, straight and true, hovering about three metres off of the ground. Canada watches, stunned silent, as it glides into the distance, its little motor humming, stalwart and solid, without faltering and without breaking. The craft banks gently, turning with the smooth grace of an eagle, floating above shrubs and fencing, circling the field to pass over a dirt trail to the main roadway. And it's shocking, how easily it seems to fly, when so many inventors and visionaries could only do so in their dreams.
Eventually, the white canvas wings land a good distance away, in the centre of the pasture.
Canada scrambles to his feet, barely registering that his limbs are shaking. Heart as light as a feather, bursting with all the energy in the world, he runs to meet his brother.
America tumbles out of the plane, jumps up, and booms with a voice loud enough to cross the Atlantic. “Did you see that?!”
“You did it!” Canada cheers, barrelling towards him.
A few more steps and America sweeps Canada into a big, bone-crushing hug. “Thank you so much, buddy!” He’s bouncing and spinning around like a carnival carousel, making Canada’s head swim. “I’m sorry I made a fuss. You were right, I just needed an extra push! That’s all it was, and I was flying!”
In a minute, Canada may be sick from the spinning, but for now, his smile is hurting his cheeks. The robust pressure from America’s arms and the sunshine warmth of his giddy laughter takes him back, centuries ago, when they were children playing in the wilderness. Sneaking out without their guardians’ permission to sing and laugh with a kindred spirit. A brother. A twin.
When America finally puts him down, Canada stumbles. “Hang on, I’m dizzy,” he murmurs, spreading his arms to regain balance.
“Are you all right, there?” America chuckles.
“Yeah, just give me a second.”
“Wow, you’ve got, uh....”
“Huh?”
Reaching out, America wipes Canada’s forehead. A cloud of dust falls into Canada’s face and he squints, almost sneezing. Then, America presents his palm and fingers, coated with rusty soil.
“You’re covered in dirt!” he howls. Canada looks himself over, seeing that his soft-collar shirt and cottonade pants are hidden beneath a layer of Ohio dust. “England didn’t buy you these clothes, did he?”
“Nah, not these.”
“Okay, because I was gonna say, he’d be fuming if you did this to something he bought you.”
Canada grins. “I’d just say it was your fault.”
Snickering, America helps him dust off, patting his back and shaking most of the dirt off his clothing. When Canada is moderately clean, he suggests they get food; it’s past lunchtime. Never one to turn down a meal, America pats his stomach and heartily agrees. They store the precious, genius, and fantastic machine in the barn for safekeeping. All the while, America sings its praises, going on and on about how wonderful it felt to pilot, how he’s never felt freer in his whole life. He also brags a little, mentioning his desires to show it off to everyone they know, including ‘those geezers’ in Europe.
On their way to the farmhouse, Canada remembers the headlines he read in his newspaper, probably because America mentioned Europe, but also, because his concerns rarely leave him for long. Worriment needles at his happy thoughts like a splinter under his skin and a question builds in his lungs.
“Hey, America?” Canada asks.
“Yeah?”
“If I was in trouble, would you come to help?”
America stumbles, before balking. “What? What kind of trouble?”
Thinking carefully, Canada knits his brows. There may be a war, but also, there may not. All of Europe’s intricate alliances could end in a trade dispute, a blockade, or an embargo. The future is nigh impossible to predict, and sadly, no breed of immortality comes packaged with the gift of prophecy.
“Just... any kind of trouble.”
America studies Canada, eyes flicking over his face, searching. “Are you okay? Is there something bad happening right now?”
“Not right now, but in the future, maybe.” Canada shies away, feeling silly under the scrutiny. “I don’t know.”
“What are you worried about?”
Canada shrugs.
Quiet settles in, snatching America’s boisterous laughter and Canada’s happy mood, and in the contrast, Canada suddenly realises how amicable they’ve been today. Things haven’t been this nice between them in a long while, not since America left during his Revolution.
“I would,” America murmurs. Then, louder, a declaration. “Of course, I would!”
Canada jumps. His brother’s gaze is firm, his lips, curved with worry. America steps closer and surges on. “Why do you even need to ask? We share the longest border in the whole world and you’re the only person I call my brother; there’s no one else, just you. And I feel comfortable doing that because we grew up together and because I like you. I like wasting time with you. I like showing you my inventions because you’ll listen to me ramble and then you’ll take me to the hospital when I crash. You joke around with me, you make me feel relaxed, and I can open up with you, in a way that I never can when I’m with someone else. Canada, you’re my best friend! So, whenever you’re in trouble, no matter what it is, you can tell me! Tell me and I’ll help however I can.”
America rests a hand on Canada’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, and the determination, the dedication in his voice makes Canada’s chest hurt. “Okay?”
Eyes stinging, Canada swallows around the knot in his throat. “Okay.”
America beams, banishing the gloom and darkness with effortless ease.
They amble their way to the idyllic farmhouse and Canada allows his heart to rest. It's amazing how far they’ve come from where and who they were a hundred years ago. Somehow, from opposing sides in a war, they drifted closer. In a slow pattern of chance encounters that turned to visits, to friendly invitations, to weeks spent munching on apple pies, to early morning pancakes, and to daydreaming of flying machines.
Canada watches his brother’s broad frame leap up the porch steps two at a time, wind tousling his hair, and hopes that this harmony may endure for centuries to come.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Laurier, as in Wilfred Laurier, was Canada’s Prime Minister from 1896 – 1911. He lost his re-election a couple months after our story takes place.
The Agadir Crisis was one of several events that occurred in the lead up to WW1. It resulted in stronger ties between France and the UK, and further damaged the already strained relationship between the UK and Germany.
The naval arms race was between Germany and the UK. Each side tried to build bigger and better warships at a faster rate than the other. The super-dreadnought class of ships were some of the most advanced navy vessels at the time.
Early flying machines were wild, dangerous, and unregulated. Many inventors lost their lives during flight tests. It was sort of the “wild west” of engineering.
Leonardo Da Vinci designed his own flying machines way back in the 15th and 16th centuries. He designed ornithopters, gliders, and parachutes, but the one our characters talk about is the Aerial Screw, which, along with the Chinese bamboo-copter toy, acted as a precursor to modern helicopters.
#aph america#aph canada#hws america#hws canada#alfred f jones#matthew williams#hetalia fanfiction#historical hetalia#hetalia#hws na bros#my writing
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you restless son
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/p8gm2fG
by solvskrift
'Marc refuses to look up into the mirror. He turns on the tap and splashes some cold water over his face. Watches as the pink water sloughs off and swirls down the drain…
Now that he knows to look out for it, doesn’t have denial and hope clouding his mind, he can sense the telltale signs of Khonshu’s presence. He shudders involuntarily and spits blood into the sink.'
My piece for the Lunar Labyrinth fanzine!
Words: 2070, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Moon Knight (TV 2022)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Marc Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel), Jake Lockley, cameos by Layla and Elias, oh and Khonshu but fuck that guy
Relationships: Steven Grant & Marc Spector, Steven Grant & Jake Lockley & Marc Spector, Elias Spector & Marc Spector
Additional Tags: Post-Episode: s01e06 Gods & Monsters (Moon Knight TV), Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Jake Lockley Speaks Spanish, Self-Hatred, oh no I've got the Moon Boys brain rot again fr
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/p8gm2fG
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Sprocket cosplay that I did last year for a Viewtiful Joe fanzine, wich sadly ended up not happening. The sleeve-gloves were very tricky to sew. The tie ended up being a bit too thick since the fabric was already stiff and I still when and added a lining. I altered a bit the chest area because it felt like IRL is like having two arrows pointing to the center of my breats :’D... but who knows, I might make it accurate next time if it doesn’t fit anymore after my recent weight loss and I feel a bit more comfortable. It did took me this long th gather the courage to make it and wear it after all, ahaha. I managed to shove two bra cups, but I guess bra tape or a nubra would be a better alternative since they wouldn’t shift around.
Also, even tho she was made just for the anime I got a like from Kamiya himself. wich made me glad, but it didn’t really sink in untill a friend of mine pointed out to me what a rare ocurrence that was and said I should feel really proud about it ;w:
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The Rights of Fans Lewes FC Fanzine Issue 20 The 8 Main Articles. Spring 2024
Below are the eight main articles from the Spring 2024, issue 20, of the Lewes FC Fanzine. The Rights of Fans.
A wry commentary on a community club being hoisted by its own petard as the finances crumble, investments fall by the wayside and the fans get pissed off.
Editorial. An overview.
Lewes FC Fanzine Editorial. The Sinking Ship. Feb 2024
The failings of community ownership at Lewes…
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Will you be doing another fanzine next year?
Thank you for reaching out!
While both mods would love to sink our teeth into another project like this one, unfortunately the current obligations in our personal lives will not allow us to run another fanzine of this kind for the time being.
We do appreciate your interest, though!
Perhaps in the future either of us will pick up another zine or fandom merch project again, but that is yet to be determined! In any case, we had a lot of fun with this one and are grateful for the experience!
-mod Chenny
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I posted 510 times in 2022
That's 269 more posts than 2021!
10 posts created (2%)
500 posts reblogged (98%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@midnigtartist
@dndads-are-my-life-now-ig
@electricxmayhem
@awnrii
@etherealbards
I tagged 218 of my posts in 2022
#dadq - 63 posts
#dndads spoilers - 18 posts
#fav - 8 posts
#dndads - 8 posts
#zine - 7 posts
#txt2win - 6 posts
#dungeons and daddies - 6 posts
#sons and sonsability spoilers - 5 posts
#ron stampler - 4 posts
#art2win - 4 posts
Longest Tag: 139 characters
#do not get me wrong i am so excited for season 2 but it is just now sinking in that we’re getting it soooo going on a little art / brainrot
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
i love scary so much she is the world she is the moment she is EVERYTHING !!
37 notes - Posted January 25, 2022
#4
very old ron doodles i forgot to post
106 notes - Posted January 18, 2022
#3
scary marlowe !!
115 notes - Posted July 27, 2022
#2
my piece for the @doodlers-on-3-fanzine ! featuring episode 44: deck pics :) check out the zine and donate to NAMI !!
179 notes - Posted April 2, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
See the full post
764 notes - Posted January 19, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
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Wednesday, 3 August 2022:
Some Small History Portastatic (Merge) (released in 2008)
Mac McCaughan is a busy man. Not only does he run Merge Records in Chapel Hill, North Carolina but he is also the singer, guitarist, multi-instrumentalist and songwriter for Superchunk. Being a rather prolific writer, he begin recording solo under the name Portatstatic from 1993 through 2006. He currently records side projects under his own name. Portastatic has released six albums and an almost endless array of singles and EPs. Some Small History compiles a variety of those singles and EPs as well as compilation album tracks, fanzine tracks and unreleased tracks!
This two disc compilation is a limited set, limited to 3000 copies. Since I bought this directly from Merge 14 years after it was released let’s you know that there are still copies available. I only have one Portastatic album which I bought when it came out in 1995. It is the band’s second album Slow Note From A Sinking Ship which I really enjoyed, so it makes little sense why I never bought any more Portastatic albums. But since I can’t explain why I ignored Superchunk for the first 27 years of their existence (What A Time To Be Alive is when I jumped aboard) it is only fitting I begin investigating Portastatic.
If you think a singles/ B-Sides/ comp tracks anthology is a weird thing to start with, be assured I often buy B-Sides sets from bands I know little about. B-Sides are ways for bands to explore different sides of their musical history/ heritage/interests and often if I like those sides of a band, I will begin to explore their more mundane (that is their musical identity) side: the studio albums.
I’ve been chasing this set for years and I’ve never bought it. I have it on my iPod because I borrowed my brother’s copy so I am familiar with the music here. But now that I am suddenly a Superchunk fan, I’m going a little bit deeper.
Above you see the front of the CD. The second photo shows what this set looks like when you open it. The third photo shows what this set looks like when you open the next two panels. And then you see the back of the digipak containing the track list.
Below are all four panels close up allowing you to check out the credits and text. I start with the credits for each disc’s tracklist.
Then I move on to Mac McCaughan’s essay.
And despite the CDs being standard looking CDs with details minimal yet readable in that second photo above, I’ve provided a close up of each disc.
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The 4 Jacks.
This summer I took part in an illustrated Tarot Deck ! It’s an upcoming project created by the SINK Fanzine. You can play with it, of course, or use it as a divination tool ! It’s composed of 78 cards, and I did the jacks set !
You can pre-order it here !
#tarot#jack#jacks#card#divination#divination cards#illustrated card set#illustration#sink-fanzine#fanzine#art student#animation student#art#illustrator#cg illustration#medieval#middle age#renaissance#costume#color palette#cg student#mopa#drawing#draw#character#character art
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Soirée de lancement du SINK Fanzine le mercredi 29 novembre, de 18h à minuit à Paris, métro Pigalle, au bar à bulles !
Lancement du Tarot Illustré, et de l’ultimate #2 !
Thème de la soirée, Mystique, et venez au couleur du tarot, en bleu foncé, rouge, et vert clair !
Lien de l’event: https://www.facebook.com/events/1949358871985337/
On vous attend nombreux,
Bisous !
(Illustration à gauche par @mathieu-corbin)
#SINK-fanzine#sink#fanzine#illustration#paris#bar à bulles#animation student#tarot#illustré#magazine#ultimate
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Hey! I illustrated the card of the mune for the @sink-fanzine who is working on an illustrated tarot deck ! I made this card for it ! If ou’re interested in buying the deck, you can fill this, so we know how much we print it ! :
Cliquez –> /ICI/ <– pour le formulaire
Click –> /HERE/ <– for the document
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Another piece for the @sink-fanzine, this time, theme was light and I wanted to work with komorebi. It didn’t exactly worked as planed but here you go!
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you restless son
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/mI73Xz6
by solvskrift
'Marc refuses to look up into the mirror. He turns on the tap and splashes some cold water over his face. Watches as the pink water sloughs off and swirls down the drain…
Now that he knows to look out for it, doesn’t have denial and hope clouding his mind, he can sense the telltale signs of Khonshu’s presence. He shudders involuntarily and spits blood into the sink.'
My piece for the Lunar Labyrinth fanzine!
Words: 2070, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Moon Knight (TV 2022)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Marc Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel), Jake Lockley, cameos by Layla and Elias, oh and Khonshu but fuck that guy
Relationships: Steven Grant & Marc Spector, Steven Grant & Jake Lockley & Marc Spector, Elias Spector & Marc Spector
Additional Tags: Post-Episode: s01e06 Gods & Monsters (Moon Knight TV), Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Jake Lockley Speaks Spanish, Self-Hatred, oh no I've got the Moon Boys brain rot again fr
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/mI73Xz6
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A gouache original I made to sell at an exposition for the @sink-fanzine
The theme was “Marine” (Sea and such) and the presentation will be on a boat !! :)
The two songs that inspired me : Boats and birds / 3 Matelots
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My lumière for the @sink-fanzine theme, with tons of late beacause life is complicated
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VENICE WALLS IS NOW ON PAPER (TOO)
The cat is out of the bag!
I am proud to announce that the first issue of the Venice Walls zine is out, published by MFZ Records.
To get your copy message me me or follow this link!
#venezia#venice#streetart#street art#zine#photozine#photo zine#fanzine#sinking city#sinkingcity#small press#mfzrecords#mfz#records#mfzpress#press#venicewalls#thegreatslug#tobia maschio#tobia
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