The rainstorm left a little pool
Outside our girlhood home.
The newborn sun doth shine twice bright
And warms the dampened loam.
You flick your fingersĀ oāer the pool;
The surfaces sets to life.
The waves form pairs and dance across
A surface free of strife.
I set my hand upon the brine;
The sunlight seems to dim.
The crystal dancing stagnates to
A color vague and grim,
Reflecting only me.
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The first thought that came to her mind was that the rule stating that hot air rises was bullshit-- if anything, it was colder on the snow-frosted shingles of the roof than it was at ground-level.
(That is a lie; rest assured, it is the only one to be found here. She had many thoughts before, after, during, around, within, and without that āfirstā thought, but that single thought is what took precedent in her mind while everything else jumbled around her subconscious like the agitated atoms of gas molecules in the great wide container called The Universe which were, in the case of those found in her present vicinity, comparatively un-agitated and the air comparatively cold.)
She lowered herself down to lie against the slanted roof. She shivered at the touch of the snow, and a worry arose that a wet spot might form across the back of her jacket and the butt of her jeans-- a worry was quickly drowned by a sea of more (or less) pertinent worries. From just underneath her back came the slightest vibrations of music, mostly the low tones of Bing Crosby or men who clearly wanted to be Bing Crosby. The lyrics were completely muffled, but a few strings of all-too-familiar melodies could still be made out.
She took in a deep breath and, upon exhaling, watched the fog from her mouth ascend to the cloud-hidden heavens. She breathed in again, then out again, then in, but a little too sharply, a touch unevenly, and the fog sputtered from her lips. She closed her eyes, and the next breath was a forceful sigh.
āGod damn it,ā she said. After a moment, she added,Ā āItās so fucking cold.ā
From between the clouds, the eyes of the sky that could see her among of the millions that could not turned to look down (relatively speaking) at her, and the sky said,Ā āThere is heat just below you. If you seek it, rise, and you shall find it.ā
She blew a stray strand of hair from her face and watched the thin cloud of her breath rise to meet its brethren.Ā āNah, Iām... Iām fine.ā
āDo you find fault in it?ā said the sky.
āI-- sorry, find fault in what?ā
āThe heat. It is possible that you do not find the current level of agitation in the air acceptable in the confined location you have left.ā
āNo, no, the heat-- it feels fine in there. I mean,ā she sighed,Ā āPhysically, itās-- itās fine.ā
āFor what do you expose yourself to that which you are not designed to sustain?ā
āI just-- look, man, I just donāt wanna be down there right now.ā
The sky was awkwardly silent, but the vibrations from the building below continued, which was, in many ways, far worse than silence alone.
āMy aunt and uncle showed up to the party,ā she said,Ā āAnd, you know, everyone was like,Ā āOh, itās so nice to see you! Itās been so long! Howāre the kids?ā And they were all smiling and laughing and digging in to this fucking egg salad they brought-- egg salad. Egg-fucking-salad. My aunt and uncle bring fucking egg salad every goddamn year to Christmas, and everyone always eats it-- like, the only ones who donāt eat it are me, obviously, and my cousin, because she actually has some fucking sense, I guess-- but couldnāt they, just once, bring, like, a glazed hamĀ or something? You know, something people like? Or is being likable just too low on their damn radar because everyone else showers them with love anyway?ā
A breathās pause.
āAnd I guess I shouldnāt be so fucking-- I dunno, ungratefulĀ for it, because I sure as hell didnāt bring anything, but Iām not expectedĀ to, and bringing that egg salad is... Itās almost as bad as not bringing anything. I mean, I fucking showed up. I put on a smile. I hugged a billion people. That probably took as much energy and time to do as it took them to make that egg salad.ā
āYou feel the work you perform is undervalued,ā said the sky.
āI mean, I guess? Thatās, like, a bigger issue.ā
āThe impulses of your brain are firing off in more directions than what is normal for brain activity. Your mind is cluttered and unclear.ā
She ran her hand down her face, eyes closed.Ā āYeah, thanks for reminding me.ā A sigh.Ā āI blame that fucking song.ā
āWhat song?ā
A pause.Ā āThereās this... Christmas carol, I guess, that comes on the radio every year. Itās stuck in my head. Itās just really annoying. Itās hokey and old and supposed to be aĀ āclassic.ā I thought Bing Crosby sang it, the bastard, but I think it was just some dude who sounded like Bing Crosby. Probably some imitation.ā
āTell me about Bing Crosby. You seem to have a distaste for him.ā
āYeah, thatās one word for it.ā She put her hands behind her head, feeling the melted snow in her hair with her palm and the powdery snow on the roof with the back of her hand.Ā āHe was this dude from the... Fucking... The 40s? Or somewhere in there. He sang fucking everything. Christmas carols. TV specials. Love songs. I guess people liked him because he had this cool, relaxing voice or whatever, but he was also a fucking womanizer and a prick. So then all these other dudes, who were probably also womanizers and pricks, start making bank off Christmas songs by singing like Bing Crosby, and the whole thing just feels so hokey, yāknow?ā
She did not know if the sky knew, but the whole expanse of interconnected clouds seemed, almost, to nod.
āAnyway, I donāt think Bing sang this one, but he might as well have. Like, when it came on, my cousin actually said, āIs this Bing Crosby?ā Actually, she says that to every Christmas song that comes on. Sheās the only bearable thing about this party.ā
A pause.Ā āWould you sing it to me?ā
āWhat? No, Iām-- Iām a crappy singer.ā
āAs am I. I sing through frequencies of sound created by the slightest of collisions of matter within my form, often too soft to be detected. Otherwise, I sing through colors outside of my control, given to me by stars beyond my reach whose light is ancient and arcane enough to grant me sight so I may gaze down at you. You would hear this particular song if you listened, but I do not know if you would like the sound as much as the sight. Most often, you hear my singing in the melody of raindrops, the crash of thunder that follows behind the lightning-- the brightest light I make myself-- or in the percussion of hail. You may hear my voice on the wind of the gale. I do this in hopes of granting you many things vital to your life and comfort, but I fear that the destruction inherent taints the song, and for that I am unsure of the quality of my singing.ā
She looked wide-eyes up to the stars, then turned her attention to the clouds, feeling that to be more intimate. She saw that snowflakes had settled on her eyelashes, and they reflected the light near her eye like minuscule crystals. āO-oh. Um... Wow. I...ā
She sighed. Then, she sang.
āThereās... No place like home for the holidays...Ā āCause no matter how far away you roam... When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze... For the holidaysĀ you canāt beat home sweet home.ā
She gulped down the following lyrics and some cold night air. The vibrations underneath her seemed to subside.
The air was silent.
āThey were, uh... They were playing that right before my aunt and uncle walked in, and all I could think about was... Was when my cousin came out to the family half a year ago, and I overheard my uncle talking to my aunt about... About her. About those āfucking dykesā and how they āruin everythingā and...ā She grit her teeth. āOther things. Like he had any fucking right to talk about her like that. Like he has any fucking rightĀ to talk about myĀ cousin like that. And then he walks in with his fucking egg salad, and everyone smiles, like there wasnāt someone in the very same house who had tried to open up to her family, her loved ones, about something important to her and was met with nothing but disdainĀ from this one motherfucker whoās only good for egg-fucking-salad!ā
It wasnāt until a few moments later that she realized she was seething and sitting up, her fists clenched and red and cold and digging into the shingles on either side of her, yet she was still staring at the sky.
ā... I have that song stuck in my head, and Iām thinking, God-- I donāt even have a home to go to. Thereās a house, sure, and maybe Iām ungrateful because Iām not satisfied with that, but a homeĀ is different. The closest thing I have to a home is my cousin, and I donāt get to see her all that often anymore because of her college, and when I do see her, Iām surrounded by these idiots who donāt support her-- who donāt reallyĀ support her. And, yāknow, I donāt even know who I am. Iām questioning myself too. Would they support me if I was different? You--ā she took a sharp breath--Ā āYou said earlier that Iām not designed for this weather. What the fuck am I designed for? Who designed me? Why is it so hard to fucking design myself?ā
Her face fell then, and she wiped away at cold, wet streaks that had begun to descend down her cheeks. She choked down something between a yell and a sob.
āLook at me.ā She did.Ā āI am here. I am here, just above you, in every direction, always. I am a being just as I am a place just as I am a protector. You seek a home. Know that I hold in my grasp a limitless number of potential homes for your choosing. When you have the chance, you may explore to your heartās content until you find a home that suits you. Until that time, know that you are under my protection, and I shall be your home, if you would let me.ā
A pause accompanied by a growing smile.Ā āYeah. Yeah, I... I think Iād like that.ā
āYou are not a being of any one design. The code that forms your body is one matter. I am unsure of what designed that code if anything, just as I am unsure of my own design. Your soul is another matter, as are your thoughts. You may feel helpless in controlling your thoughts at times, but know that your actions and your actions alone determine your design.ā
Smiling wide, she lay back against the roof, watching the clouds roll past and reveal the remaining stars, and a wave of warmth rolled over her.
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Itās here! After a year and a half of hard work, we are both so excited to finally share our film with you. Thank you all for your support and encouragement - this film means the world to us, and your kindness and enthusiasm has made this journey all the more meaningful. It is our great pleasure to share with you this labor of love, and we hope with all our hearts that you enjoy watching it as much as we did making it.
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the boysā reactions when told to make a joke about millennials
justin: adds a funny specific to a pretty standard stereotype to create a bizarre & delightful mental image of ferrets running wild on an airplane
griffin: just⦠just, righteous fury. this is his crusade and he cannot believe that it has found him again, on television of all places. he will never know peace until the very concept of thinkpieces has been erased from living memory
When Ron, frustrated with studying for NEWTs and with Hermioneās anxious sixth-year nagging, explains to her what reading is like for him, Hermioneās breath catches.Ā āRon, youāre dyslexic,ā she says, softly, and instantly regrets every snide comment sheās ever made towards his study habits.Ā
Soon, by asking around, Hermione amasses a list of spells for Ron to try - some stilling the page, some changing the font of books for easy reading, some going after Ronās temporal lobe directly.Ā
These help, a little, but not as much as knowing thereās a word for why reading is so hard for him. That itās normal, that heās not stupid, and that Hermione suddenly helps instead of criticizes, looks for solutions rather than complains, praises instead of gloats.Ā
#listen tho what if #muggles are terrible about disabilities#but wizards are even worse#they donāt even have the terminology that muggles do#itās all ākinda loonyā or ājust dimā or (most often) ānot a talented witch/wizardā#and ofc ~everyone knows~ that all illnesses can be cured with magic#(except for some magical illnesses that canāt be cured at all)#but as ron talks more with hermione and other muggleborns#and researches the spells hermione gets him#and realizes that most of the spell creators probably also had dyslexia but had no word for it#he realizes that what āeveryone knowsā isnāt true at all#after abt a year of this he talks to mcgonagall abt changing his career goals#goes into healing with a concentration on research#and a secret concentration on finding out what muggles know and bringing it into the wizarding world#(his dad is so proud of him and prolly helps out a lot too)
Sometimes i think about the idea of Common as a language in fantasy settings.
On the one hand, itās a nice convenient narrative device that doesnāt necessarily need to be explored, but if you do take a moment to think about where it came from or what it might look like, you find that thereās really only 2 possible origins.
In settings where humans speak common and only Common, while every other race has its own language and also speaks Common, the implication is rather clear: at some point in the settingās history, humans did the imperialism thing, and while their empire has crumbled, the only reason everyone speaks Human is that way back when, they had to, and since everyone speaks it, the humans rebranded their language as Common and painted themselves as the default race in a not-so-subtle parallel of real-world whiteness.
In settings where Human and Common are separate languages, though (and I havenāt seen nearly as many of these as Iād like), Common would have developed communally between at least three or four races who needed to communicate all together. With only two races trying to communicate, no one would need to learn more than one new language, but if, say, a marketplace became a trading hub for humans, dwarves, orcs, and elves, then either any given trader would need to learn three new languages to be sure that they could talk to every potential customer, OR a pidgin could spring up around that marketplace that eventually spreads as the traders travel the world.
Drop your concept of Common meaning āenglish, but in middle earthā for a moment and imagine a language where everyone uses human words for produce, farming, and carpentry; dwarven words for gemstones, masonry, and construction; elven words for textiles, magic, and music; and orcish words for smithing weaponry/armor, and livestock. Imagine that itās all tied together with a mishmash of grammatical structures where some words conjugate and others donāt, some adjectives go before the noun and some go after, and plurals and tenses vary wildly based on what youāre talking about.
Now try to tell me thatās not infinitely more interesting.
Concept: fantasy world where dragons are A Thing⢠but instead of them being these rare, semi-legendary creatures who exist solely to terrorise and wreak havoc and mayhem and burn inconveniences to a crisp theyāre like⦠dogs⦠vaguely domesticated catsā¦
They come in loads of sizes and itās a common thing to hear them scritching across your roof or rummaging in your garbage. You pass by like four every time you go to the market.
Thereās even some snoozing at market stalls and strays playing with children and stealing scraps of food that fall in the street, with mottled scales and mixed textures of feathers and mismatched jewel colours.
Your favourite baker has three tiny western diamondtips who are in charge of keeping the ovens fired up and donāt always eat all of the bread. Sometimes.
Linda Bagshot on the corner has a ground rooster who canāt fly but always reaches up and stretches her neck out as far as she can to try and scrounge pets as you pass her garden wall.
A local inn is named after its summer aura who is the length of the room, all careful length and soft scales, with breath perfumed like spring breeze and scales that emanate just enough warmth to comfort, just enough that you wonāt fall asleep, just enough that itās tempting nonetheless.
The school you went to has a forest guardian older than the town itself who spends all his time slowly ambling down the corridors, and his favourites are the kids learning their first letters who like to read to him, sound out letters and marks that donāt have any correlation just yet, and you know that nobody has conclusively proven that dragons understand human tongues but you also know that if anyone understands, itās him.
Thereās a festival of dragons, a public holiday where banners are strewn and candles glow even into the wee hours and rainbow confetti and paint clogs the streets and maybe some overexcited babies set things alight but thatās ok, the town prepared better this year, far fewer people will lose their gardens and eyebrows this time, they promise.
And yes ok, there are big dragons. Ferocious dragons. Dragons that only come out once every ten years to feed and pillage. Dragons who rule the seas and shake mountains, who take flight and block out the stars. There are reasons you donāt go into the woods at night, reasons some wells are avoided, reasons entire villages up and vanished without a trace.
But there are also dragons who curl up with your children to rock them to sleep, and ward off nightmares. There are dragons who open doors and fetch supplies and guide those without sight. There are dragons who mimic words and whistles and delight in your joy when they get them just right.
There are dragons who adopt orphaned piglets, kittens, lambs, calves, puppies, ducklings. There are dragons who sunbathe and dragons who need kept on ice and dragons who climb atop weather vanes in storms to conduct electricity. Dragons who sparkle like jewels in the light and dragons who glow in the dark and dragons with flora creeping in and around their scales and dragons who sound like windchimes when they fold their wings.
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