Ok, so with the latest update making tumblr utterly pointless and borderline unusable for creatives of all stripes, I figure it's time to start looking at alternatives (again).
In the meantime!
Here's my carrd:
And if you like my writing (Old Gods Vs Aliens, remember that one?) then consider checking out my my Patreon, where I've decided to make the Prologue to Oathsworn: The Nameless free to read! If like what you see and you'd like to read more, then access is only £1 a month.
With that £1 a month, you'll get access to EVERYTHING I've posted, as well as access to a ✨secret✨ section of my discord specifically for chatting about it all. You can ask me questions, be my beta readers, rubber duck for me, and critique my work in this section, and you'll get notified whenever a new piece goes live.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I would like to state for the record i’ve ignored this post the last 50 times i’ve seen it bc i thought it would be some hyper cutsie anime girl voice and i’m overjoyed to report it is instead Weapons Grade Miku complete with war horns that fuck
No the person who tweeted this made me laugh so hard the other day bc people were trying to correct them and they edited their shadow on picsart to keep the bit going
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Read it here! | Read WN from the start | WN on Patreon
He's getting better at that.
White Noise is a longform weekly webcomic about a group of queer monsters trying to make a life against a backdrop of social unrest. Arc 1 is complete and available to read online now!
(Free post) We're returning to the vault this week to breathe new life into a previous post and make it available to everybody.
Sometimes the writing goes easily; the words spring to your fingertips and your creativity flows unimpeded. But other times the flow slows to a trickle and the words refuse to come. How do you reconnect with your creative self when it's hard? Here are a few ideas.
As you know, counting sheeps is perfect for sleep. Sheeps take that job very seriously. But some are still learning. It’s fine, I don’t think Wolf Hunter minds. 🐑🐑🐑
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Saw a headline in the newspapers earlier that was, “why are so many young women using disability aids?”
And the head-ass response seemed to be, “attention,” because that’s the kind of thing we can expect from British media at this point.
It’s not like the entire world just went through a mass disabling event or anything. It’s not like more and more women are finally getting diagnosed with chronic, lifelong illnesses and dynamic disabilities due to advocacy and raised awareness by the people who were left to suffer before them for decades.
No, no. Young lassies just want “attention.”
Fucking ghouls. A plague on your house and yours specifically. The rest of us have suffered enough.
everyone socially awkward is autistic. everyone selfish is narcissistic. everyone overwhelmed is overstimulated. every hobby is a hyperfixation. everyone who is sad has depression. every homebody is an agoraphobe. if theres something different about you, we will give it a name and make a medication for it. dont worry
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(Mouse requested a bedtime story about “nothing.”)
Once upon a time there was nothing, and it lived in the corner of Mouse’s room. There was space between the bed and the cupboard that was big enough for nothing else.
There wasn’t much room for nothing in Mouse’s house. Everything everywhere had something in it, and sometimes more. Everywhere that looked like it might have nothing really had something, like dust or a cornflake or a LEGO head or a shadow, and if it looked like there was nothing for even a moment, someone would come and put something there.
It was very hard to be nothing in Mouse’s house. Every corner had something in it, and if it didn’t, there was a spider living there. Everything was always some colour or another, and usually some noise. Everyone was always putting a book down on you. Or spilling Ribena on you and pretending they hadn’t. Or complaining that there was no room for anything, and shifting about all the other things, but never making room for nothing - only moving it uncomfortably about the house. “Nothing’s ever where I put it in this house,” they’d say, but complaining.
And even when they weren’t doing all that, they were always talking about nothing. Someone would always be tripping over it, and then would yell that they had tripped on nothing - there was no privacy for nothing around here - or they were saying that nothing was wrong. Even when it was quiet someone would say, “did you hear that?” And, “what was that?” And, “it must’ve been nothing.” They would poke it; and then say out loud that they had poked nothing, but never got into trouble for it!
As a result of this, nothing began to feel cross, and put-upon, and uncomfortable. It was also a bit lonely, and wondered if it wanted to be something. So it thought very hard, and was SOMETHING.
This was certainly more interesting, and everyone came and looked at it, and said Look At That Thing, and That Really is Something. They poked it, and said they had poked something, and that something was there. They said, “I can smell something,” but with more interest this time. Then they spilled Ribena on it, and something came out of the corner and ran about the house, and everyone wanted to know all about it, and why the Ribena was in Mouse’s room in the first place.
Something was interested in the attention, because it was true - it really was something. It was chased all around the house now. Everyone said, “it’s up to something.” But instead of sitting quietly, something wanted something to do.
So something followed Mouse, but at a distance, because Mouse was always tripping on something. And Mouse and Mama went out in the pushchair, and something followed them.
Mouse said, “I see something!” And Mama said, “what do you see?”
And Mouse said, “I see GEORGE.”
With that, George had to be George, and was a boy thing. He was puzzled by this, and sat in Mouse’s lap, and was pushed around in the pushchair. “What is a George?” George asked.
Mouse explained that a George was a bit like a monkey, with a tail, red, with a face, a lot of red fur, and small, and smelly. Smelly of sharks.
“I’m smelly of sharks?” George said, quite unexpectedly upset by this. “What do sharks smell like?”
(George had only just stopped being nothing, and didn’t know.)
Mouse explained how sharks (which astute grownups will remember are small BLÅHAJ stuffed toys that mice incidentally shoplifted from IKEA, across which we shall draw the veil of amnesty) smell of bedtime, and possibly Ribena.
“I don’t like that,” said George, and tried being George anyway. George went to the shop, and ran about on the floor for a bit, and everyone said, “what is THAT?” And it was George.
George said, “I want to go home,” so they went home, and went to bed with the shark.
But then George knew the end was coming, and so he said to Mouse, “this is too much. I want to go home.”
and George didn’t fit in his corner any more - because it was big enough for nothing.
So George went POP and turned back into nothing.
Mouse said, “yes,” and nodded. And Mouse talked to George anyway.
And then Mama came and said, “who are you talking to, Mouse?”
