Me... Fangirling on an unpopular tumblr blog

So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”

Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.

You may have liked your artwork or you may have been like 'meh, not my best work', but literal hundreds of generations after you died, a person speaking a language you cannot understand, living in a future so alien to you that you couldn't possibly imagine it, made a sculpture of your art and shared it with thousands and thousands of people on a communication network that uses lightening inside flattened rocks and invisible waves of light that travels to where the stars live and back. And they all love it. Everyone who sees it is like 'aww, that's nice' or 'holy shit I love this'.

They never knew. They, their kids, and their kid's kids never knew that this would happen to that art.

Inspired by the fabulous @dragonnan's Blood and Romance (included by permission)

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Too old for this: my first half-thought as I flail and thrash my way back to consciousness. I’m underwater, aching to breathe, but I’ll die if I do; but it isn’t cold enough, I’m not wet, where the hell I hurt all over and something’s wrong, it’s dark where is Sherlock

If I’m not under water, I can breathe; I open my lips a hair and no water floods in, so I take a careful breath and it’s air. Not sweet, God no, tastes like mould and sewage, but definitely air, and shakily I suck it in.

I blink and try to focus but can’t see anything. Where the hell am I, and where is Sherlock? There—a second complete thought, even if it’s just the ragged scraps from before stringing together into sense, that’s got to be a good sign.

Okay. Okay. Stop, where am I. Listen.

In a silence so loud, a darkness so complete, I can hear my racing heartbeat even over my ragged panting—but nothing else, not close by. I can’t breathe through my nose at all. I try to shift to generate some sound, get some idea at least of what kind of surface I’m near or on. Take stock: everything hurts but I can’t tell from what, I can’t gather any sensory data to extrapolate anything from. (Sherlock would say, deduce. I’m not Sherlock. He’d know what to do to get some clarity here; I’m just starting to panic.)

finish reading on AO3

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A Thousand Words: A picture's proverbially worth a thousand words and often inspires them, though the words may be many more or many fewer, as the Muse decides. Each chapter is a one-shot, inspired (so far) by @kettykika78, @justanobsessedpan, @stephdrawsjohnlock, @bluebellofbakerstreet, @petite-madame, and now dragonnan: more to come.

Thank you to all the artists who do fanworks: you are a  constant inspiration. And to the betas (@copperplatebeech for this ficlet) you are a godsend. And to the readers: we wouldn't be posting our stories without you.

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Wrong!!!

I think that Asylum seekers and Migrant workers and The Undocumented and Everyone Else should get free healthcare too

SIR. RESPECTFULLY...WHAT THE FUCK