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Actually you SHOULD make problematic content. You SHOULD explore dark or taboo topics. You SHOULD have a space where you can cope with your traumas or explore sensitive topics in a way that doesn't hurt anyone.
Also you should make problematic content for funsies. You don't need to have had trauma or need to be coping in order to explore dark creativity. You can just be a human who wants to explore dark and taboo topics because you want to. That's completely normal, btw.
Every single person on this planet thinks about dark and taboo things. It's literally the most normal thing in the world.
There was something wrong with Robyn Rathburn’s son.
Nothing obvious. He was bright, polite, obedient. He made decent grades, he helped with chores and he did what he was told. But lately there was nothing behind his eyes when she spoke to him, rarely any shows of emotion in the day-to-day.
“Sullen” wasn’t quite the word for it, nor was melancholy (perhaps if she had thought he was sad). But he wasn’t anything, at least not as far as she could tell. It was like these days he lived inside his own head and the rest of the world around him barely existed.
When she’d finished her shift at the diner and pulled into their dirt driveway, the light wasn’t on in his window. 10pm wasn’t that late for him, he’d usually still be up. Most nights she’d find him at his desk scribbling in one of his notebooks or sitting cross legged on his bed listening to a cassette in his headphones while he did his homework.
But when she unlocked the door and walked into their trailer, the only source of illumination was the kitchen light above the sink and his bedroom door was shut, no light pouring underneath. She draped her coat over the back of their couch and stepped out of her shoes leaving them by the door.
As she passed through the kitchen she didn’t see any signs of cooking, didn’t see any clean or dirty dishes by the sink, nothing to suggest he’d even eaten dinner. The laundry hamper she’d brought back yesterday from the laundromat was still full in the hall—unloading it was a Wednesday night chore he almost never skipped.
“Travis, honey?” she called, gently knocking on his bedroom door. There was no answer and when she jiggled the doorknob it wasn’t locked.
“I’m coming in,” she said, pausing a moment before swinging the door open.
An angle of light from the kitchen spilled into his bedroom, everything just like it normally was. Bookshelf overflowing with books, desk messy with papers, boots on the floor by his bed, his bass guitar on the other side of his nightstand. The only difference was the birthday card she’d given him just yesterday, it had presumably fallen from his desk and rested on the floor now instead. “You’re 15!” the card read in cheery blue letters.
The boy himself was curled up on top of the covers instead of under them, still in the clothes he’d worn to school. His back was to her, facing the wall.
“Travis?” she called. “You awake?”
Normally her son was bright and animated when he spoke, normally he’d talk of friends and school, sometimes he’d talk about music.
A moment before he answered.
“Yeah,” he said eventually.
“You’re in bed kind of early,” she said. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah,” he said again flatly.
She wondered what had changed. She’d been going to church more in the past few months and Pastor Billy Nixon had always said to remain ever-watchful for changes in your children; they could be a sign of drugs, of sin, of devil worship. Her son accusing Mack of such awful, unspeakable things last week had been the first slip and the first time she’d ever had to raise her voice at him, she’d never had to before.
“You don’t seem alright,” she said.
He didn’t answer at first, which seemed almost a confirmation but then eventually he spoke again.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just tired.”
“You promise me honey?”
“I promise, mama.”
She could sense no deceit in his tone, but then with him, she could never sense anything.
.
.
.
She couldn’t sense the figure that sat at the edge of his bed. Black and flickering at the edges like flames. She couldn’t sense the way it passed through his thin body, slipped between his ribs and settled there, pulsed like electricity in his teeth and limbs. Oozed and welled up inside, saturating his bones and veins.
She didn’t hear the way it spoke to him. Sing-song and grating, comforting and demanding. It whispered for his attention. It shouted when ignored.
She didn’t see the images it showed him. Corpses on the street. Corpses on the stairs. Corpses in his bed. And if she could see what he saw now, she’d see her own chest cracked open, her own hair stained crimson, her own face splattered with gore. She’d see herself fallen at the bottom of staircases, her neck bent at a horrifying angle. She’d see herself in the mangled steel carcass of their Chevy Blazer, crushed in the jaw of its crumpled skeleton. She’d see herself shot inside the diner, stabbed outside their trailer…and then she’d see her son crouched beside her, fingers and hands and arms sticky with blood.
But she didn’t see it. And she didn’t hear it. But he was often afraid she’d see it, she’d hear it. Afraid that she’d blame him, that she’d hate him. Afraid that if she saw these things, they were real, they would come true.
“They will come true,” the figure said. A smile split across its form, a tear in the void. “And to more than just her.”
I guess the bright side to only owning boots is that when I accidentally wear the chicken shit hiking boots to work, they're indiscernable from the steel toe boots. Just gotta make sure I don't chop my toes off on these days.
Ah, since I'm posting art here again. Drew this one right after I about gave in to the thoughts. Nothing to do with me, just how Theo learned how well Mal plays with its tongue and mouth. Mmmhmm.
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Split-Axe has its share of die-hard fans, some of them even die.
There’s something wrong with Robyn Rathburn’s son…
Something dark and angry hides in his shadow, has been there since the day he was born. Something Travis’s birth mother summoned, but she didn’t pay the price, died before she could.
But these types of contracts are hereditary, you know. Blood oaths are signed and bound and that
Blood
Passes
Down…
This thing wants energy, it wants rapturous, cult-like adoration and devotion. And Travis has a band—the stage could be its altar.
I just released my first few chapters of SplitAxe! You can read it here:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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I should not be allowed to learn color genetics; I use the knowledge for evil. Always have. It's my biggest passion.
THIS is a ... chocolate.
She's definitely a chocolate therefore almost guaranteed to be a jenny. I think she's a ... I really don't know how to tell on poult color. If I had to guess - sweetgrass. But one red gene - fall fire then. She looks semi-pencilled. SO! That would make her a semi-pencilled chocolate fall fire jenny. But if she's Narragansett, too? Idfk. That shouldn't be genetically possible, considering her parentage. Her sire would absolutely be a mottled rusty black 100% het for pencilling, him out of a pencilled red sweetgrass tom and a solid chocolate hen. To borrow language from snake people. And Narragansett would need to be passed down from the tom, so it shouldn't exist here.
She's only two years in the making, but she's entirely what I was going for. I knew it would be a three-four year minimum to build back to where we started before the dog attack. My wife is meh about the chocolate things, but I live for chocolate things in everything I breed. It's like an obsession for some reason. I need chocolate. And since I learned how to manipulate turkeys to make the colors I want for my wife to have the colors she likes (ie pencilled lilac sweetgrass but she's enamored with the semi-pencilled tri-colored blue palm that popped out last year specifically too), she's stuck with chocolate. Unless she wants to learn what I know, but I cannot emphasis enough how not normal I am about genetics. Eventually I'll make the flock entirely fully pencilled things for my wife. Again. It's up to her if I breed things out. Namely, red or Narragansett. But without Narragansett, there's no palm.
Damn. Remember HARPG on dA and the geno-bomb horses? These turkeys are real life those, but birds.
As for the chicken side of my genetic obsession (no one should have taught me chickens follow normal mendelian genetics), I made this. I didn't expect to make this in year two of the project. A properly laced, well feathered blue laced silver. Pullet! (She's not the only one just the oldest one.) Ugh, just look at that wing carriage! <3 Those beautiful middle toe feathers! <3 Those soft hock feathers!! <3 No gold leakage (yet). She's better than my normal silver laced pullets this year. That's bullshit.
Blue laced silver is a ... side quest. It was just an easy detour. My real goal will be lavender laced silver alongside normal silver laced. But my lavenders need to get brought up to snuff first. Blue doesn't breed true is the only thing. Lavender does. Lavender is also simple recessive whereas blue is incomplete dominant, so way way harder to work with in many ways.
Still. Augh. She's beautiful.
Oh! Oh! Since this post got out of hand anyway! My other passion project (besides solid chocolate cochin - wow surprise) is going really, really well, too! Some of these buff laced cochin growing up this year are STUNNING.
This is only year three on this project. I had yellow legs and single combs last year. This year, I'm seeing some real soft tails and nice feathering on the middle toe and down the shanks. Look at the tail and cushion on that top pullet!! The lacing is all over the place, but a couple pullets and cockerels are showing some real promise. And I have so many to choose from!!! Heheeee.
I had to bring in a buff laced wyandotte to a gold laced cochin to get these. So far, I'm the only person in the world playing with them, as far as I know. I'm trying to keep them mostly on the DL. My dad has them and adores them, even if he'll never understand how I got them. Because the first thing I'm always going to do is share chickens with him. A guy that buys a shit ton of my project birds off me all the time just picked out a pair today from my culls knowing full well what he was buying, even if these aren't necessarily public yet. So I can get them back if I'm wiped out. The dominant white gene doesn't naturally exist in cochin and I'm never getting a chicken from the lady I got the wyandotte from again. But I know they're going to be one of those sensational colors (like BLRW) when I do finally let them out and I want to make sure they a) look like a proper LF cochin first and b) breed true and fair. Because they can't breed true yet and they're not breeding fair. I get lucky with nice lacing now. The speed at which they turned to cochin is surprising, though.
(Kifu, how do you have all of these projects? I have a few hundred birds leave me alone.)
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