therealharbingerofdevastation
I Like Dark Sorceresses
Iron Widow | RWBY | Hadestown
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Photo
The black areas represent the remaining natural dark skies in the United States
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don’t panic, but there are actually so many cool and kind people in this world who disagree with you on various issues
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if I wrote a dystopian novel where the corrupt evil megacorporation that controls society has a fucking smirk for a logo, my editor would tell me to use a less heavy-handed metaphor
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Worldbuilding stuff:
If your story has an idle nobility class, their culture shouldn't just be different from the general population, it should be an over-the-top caricature of the common folks' culture. Whatever the population generally agrees is ideal, fair, admirable, or good, the nobility will take into stupid extremes.
Contrary to the beliefs of many, people are actually not at all happy when they're idle - a person with no assigned task or duty will go out of their way to come up with one. And all around the world, whenever there's been an upper class with nothing to do, they've started to compete with each other over stupid shit, but always stupid shit that the culture they live in considers positive qualities.
From the noblemen in Europe challenging each other to a possibly lethal duel over insulting someone's hat, to a Chinese noblewoman being moved to tears by the beauty of someone's calligraphy, bored elites everywhere have always wanted to outdo each other in their expressions of possessing all the noble traits that this culture in particular holds in value.
You can, and should, use this as a way to highlight what the actual values of this society is. In a setting where being religious is held as an admirable trait, there is nobility coming up with new ways to one-up each other in their expressions of worship. Society that values art and music will have them competing over who hires the most artists, and who employs the most talented musicians. Aggressive, war-like people will have fuels to the fucking death over a stupid hat.
Literally anything can be competed in, and bored people with far too much time and money in their hands will become competitive over the most ridiculous things. This isn't just an useful tool in worldbuilding, but also a fun one.
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I FOUND VINTAGE GONCHAROV MERCH?
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I just really gotta talk about how fucking devastating Elon Musk has been for my life, personally.
I had over 1k followers on twitter. This was the backbone of my art career! I had mutuals with artists who are actual honest to god household names, and had regular customers, and while it was still a VERY small business it was still a business in the art world. This new rule of not allowing links to other social media though would kill an artist, because the "marketing funnel" requires links to other sites.
Now? I basically have to start again from almost nothing. Because one oligarch threw tantrum after tantrum. Tumblr is my only real option, and lets be real, its still kinda chugging along. I have faith its getting better but for now its a slog getting any attention for anything.
Anyways please PLEASE i beg you, reblog EVERY small business post you encounter, no matter how small or even not quite what you love. A lot of people are being forced to completely start from nothing again and we NEED new followers to do so!
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I think that we as a society should collectively agree that being a billionaire is embarrassing and we should post about it more. Like we say “oh you’re a billionaire? So you like to make large hoards of money for yourself while paying your workers the bare minimum, contribute to the wealth gap and instead of using that money for good things you buy Twitter and ruin it? Ew dni”
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Hot girl summer is out
Evil wizard winter is in
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Knowledge is knowing Ratatouille was the dish and not the rat. Wisdom is knowing Alfredo Linguini was the human and not the dish.
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Who is? (short horror-like story)
There’s something wrong with the air. You stand in front of your grandmother’s house, arms wrapped tight around your stomach and try to take a deep breath. You remember doing this in your childhood, inhaling the scent of freshly mowed grass, fading curry spices and moonlight with the rough planks of the porch biting into your feet. Your remember the way your lungs filled until they were fit to burst and then watching the way your exploding breath disturbed the spider webs hanging from the gutter.
Now, it seems like no matter how much you breathe in, your lungs are never full.
There’s something wrong with the air.
You wrap your robe tighter around you and go inside. Your grandmother is not newly dead, but she is recently passed. The funeral’s come and gone and all that’s left is to sort her store of treasures and sell the house. Dusty bibles, cracked romances, piles of newspaper and dozens of leather-bound diaries. It seems like she never threw a word away. There’s so much of her voice still here that you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready to sell.
You pass through a cold spot on the way to the kitchen and grimace. Or, indeed, if you could sell. Did you have to disclaim ghosts to potential buyers? And, if you did, would anyone be willing to live alongside the headstrong church-lady that raised you?
Glass shatters in the kitchen as soon as you turn down the hall towards the bedroom. You pause, one foot in the carpeted hall, the other freezing on the foyer’s linoleum. You don’t turn. Even if you turned on the light to better see into the darkened kitchen, you wouldn’t find the culprit. This isn’t the first glass to break and there’s always more trouble to come if you follow where this ghost leads you.
Nana wouldn’t break the glass. Immediate panic. Your grandmother was frugal. She’d never destroy anything if she could help it. Think, fool.
“I know,” you say out loud and then pretend you said nothing at all. Your grandmother wasn’t a kind woman. She couldn’t afford to be. She raised your mother alone and, later, you as well. You know you were loved, but you weren’t cared for. That’s why you’ve been able to fool yourself for so long. That’s why it didn’t bother you that this ghost isn’t kind either.
There’s the sound of heavy footsteps behind you as you continue down the hall. They aren’t your grandmother’s footsteps.You tell yourself that ghosts aren’t obligated to keep the sound of their feet the same after they die. You know that it’s a poor excuse.
Baby, your grandmother’s voice pleads in your mind, think.
You don’t want to think. You’re a child and alone in the world. You came here chasing your grandmother’s memory and you don’t want to admit that the only ghosts she left here are the ghosts she jotted down on blank pages.
There is hot breath against the nape of your neck. You don’t turn and walk into the bedroom. It’s probably from the vents. Maybe you didn’t turn off the heat.
(The company did a week ago when you closed her accounts.)
Your grandmother was a simple woman with simple tastes. Her furniture is all matching oak, her closet filled with earthy gowns and her bedspread a plain green. On the wall is a frame of her favorite psalms and poems.
The frames of each psalm is cracked, the glass spider webbing and obscuring the words. The poems fare worse and the spectral energy that’s inhabited the house sent each crashing to the floor the first day you got here. All except one.
My Spirit Will Not Haunt the Mound by Thomas Hardy
Think, your grandmother wails into your mind.
It’s the newest poem added to the wall. Your grandmother’s last favorite bit of writing as her body failed her. It’s all about how the narrator won’t be found in his grave–he will be found in the best places, the memories and the events he left behind.
Nana isn’t here either, you think. You shake your head and ignore the weight that settles on the opposite side of the bed when you climb in. She has to be. She has to be here because, otherwise…
Who is?
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A woman makes a deal with the devil… but before signing, she actually reads the contract. She is the first to do so.
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POV: Salem hates christmas cause it involves the topic god
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diversity win! horrible fucked up immoral fictional character confirmed lgbt in a vaguely homophobic manner.
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I had a dream about a 1920's actress who fell in love with a miserable director and the night of the movie's premiere she caught him smiling and laughing for the first time at someone else. She felt envious.
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@inneskeeper this seems relevant to your interests
BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE! SHE DOIBLES DOWN!
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One of the most important things I have learned today..
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