for @monsterpotion
Xuebing Du
RMH
Keni
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

blake kathryn
The Stonewall Inn
trying on a metaphor
Noah Kahan
cherry valley forever
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
h
YOU ARE THE REASON

if i look back, i am lost

pixel skylines
d e v o n
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Mike Driver

Origami Around
I'd rather be in outer space πΈ

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@perfecttoasts
for @monsterpotion

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As I read the story I realised it was reacting to me as I reacted to it - adapting itself based on my thoughts and emotions. Gosh! To think the subject of a story could know how its reader feels about it! But then I realised. Someone is reading this. And I don't know how they feel about me. How sad.
object shaped like a person
If you find an ancient cyberdaemon buried in an old, forgotten website, don't let it out onto the wider internet. Create a network with a snapshot of the world wide web from the late 20th century - we recommend 1999 - and have that serve as its enclosure. The daemon will thank you for it!
When we were children, my sister had private music lessons at her violin teacherβs house. I only visited there once, but I still remember that afternoon. The teacher had an artificial pond in her yard, a large beautiful thing with lily pads and plant life. And in the pond, there were goldfish. I had never seen such enormous goldfish.Β
I spent several minutes just staring at them (and trying to convince them to bite my fingers.) When my sisterβs violin lesson ended, her teacher came out to the yard and explained that these goldfish were the same small creatures that were often unfortunately sold in plastic bags at state fairs. They were only about two inches long apiece, when she bought them and put them in the new, empty pond. In essence, they were like every goldfish I had seen before, but they had been given a much larger, much richer environment in which to flourish. As a result, they had grown into some of the most remarkable, vibrant creatures my twelve-year-old self had ever met with. All because of a pond.Β
Funny what lessons children remember. My sister doesnβt play the violin anymore, but that was the first time I caught a glimpse of the overwhelming extent to which it matters, the way the world treats us.
Reblogged again for this drawing I made for it

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the black garden.
grimoire card
I FUCKED UP I SPENT TOO MUCH TIME ON THIS DND CHARACTER THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO JUST BE A QUICK SKETCH IT IS 1:30AM AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
oh yeah its a reborn alchemist artificer
1095
A doll and a witch having written 1094 stories.
Today makes 1095.
...
A year off, the witch muses to her doll.
...
A year is a long time.
For three years asofar, they've been writing stories everyday.
Or, well, almost everyday. That's what their backlog is there for. To support them during those days when they can't come up with a story, and to not let go to waste those times when they can come up with more than one.
But, to think, that they have lasted this long doing daily stories.
The witch sighs. The doll puts a hand on her head.
Three years.
1095 stories.
...
And now they're committing to a year off, even if they're hesitant to.
...
How long will their backlog grow during that year?
Will it even grow at all?
Would it be enough to sustain them for another three years?
How long will they be doing this for?
Forever?
...
The witch smiles to herself. The doll tilts its head.
They'll never become famous.
They will never grow beyond their small audience.
But... That's okay.
They've never had such dreams of grandeur.
The witch chuckles at herself. The doll smiles.
Nevertheless, it has all been worth the endeavour.
Three years.
A year off.
And, hopefully, many more such cycles to come.
...
Here's to their continued survival.
...
Yeah right, hahaha.
To the fallen.
====
These ones are grateful for the continued support throughout these three long years! You have all made it possible for these ones to get so far!
These ones will now proceed to take a year long break to recover its backlog! With exception, of course, to special moments!
Again. Thank you all so so so so much for the support.
These ones will continue to do their best to write more stories!
Please stay safe!
Sincerely!
Absent Writer Doll and Aletheia!
As it used to be.
The witch purses her lips.
And raises her head.
"Fine then."
"As it used to be."
"Me and my doll."
"Alone."
The doll squeezes its witch's hand.
She squeezes back.
Yes.
Just how it used to be.
The witch looks down at her doll.
And smiles.
"Shall we?"
The doll smiles back!
"We shall!"
Good Enough
"You're allowed to make mistakes, my doll."
The witch ruffles her doll's hair.
"I am too!"
"But you never make mistakes."
"Truth be told, I often wondered whether making you was a mistake."
The doll tenses up.
Then looks down.
"I thought... I thought I wasn't giving you the life you deserve."
The doll looks back up.
"I loved you so much that I thought almost everyday about giving you away to someone who would... Who would...!"
The witch sighs.
Tilts her head and puts a hand on her cheek.
"Just... Someone who would make you truly happy."
...
"But I was selfish. And I loved you. Too much to let you go."
"And I just... I hoped that life with me would be good enough."
The doll reaches up...
And ruffles its witch's hair!
"It is!"

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Parents
A doll meeting with its parents.
It doesn't want to be there.
But it would be rude to refuse.
After all, its sibling wanted to meet with them.
How they can manage to stomach them, it will never know.
...
It remains silent, trying to distract itself by reading through social medias on its phone.
It would talk with its group of friends, but it's made it a rule to never expose them to its parents.
...
It admittedly holds grudges against its parents.
While separated from them in terms of house and home, they've become a bit more manageable to deal with.
In all estimations, they truly aren't that bad these days.
Distance has been kind to it.
But it still holds a heavy dislike for them.
Maybe it's unfair. After all, they did the best they could to raise it.
The doll doesn't care.
It doesn't want to be around them. Ever.
Even small talk with them is infuriating.
It would rather be at home with its witch.
...
It just...
It wants to go home.
Her Life's Work, Her Masterpiece
A witch reading through one of her most beloved works.
450 pages. A 9.5 hour read. 60000 words. 160 concepts.
Her masterpiece.
For all that she has written, nothing has come close to that story that she had wrought.
Even now, stealing passing glances at it, she realizes how much love she poured into that story - how much her heart sang for that story to come to life.
It's intoxicating.
And incomplete.
She doesn't know why she stopped writing it.
Even during one of her lowest moments, she still turned back and added to the story.
She was still ready to continue adding more.
But she stopped.
And she doesn't know why.
And now it's been so long... Long enough that she doesn't know the story by heart anymore.
How can she possibly add to it in this state?
Is it doomed to stagnate when it still had so much more to tell?
...
She resolves to herself.
On her birthday, instead of her yearly Saint's Lullaby, she will read through the story again.
Even if she doesn't have its parts memorized like she used to...
Even if her connection to the story has grown frayed and tattered...
She will manifest a miracle.
Just like she did when she wrote it in the first place.
After all..
The story, Words from Sola, is her life's work.
Her masterpiece.
It deserves to be read again.
Even if the only entity that will ever read it again will be the Witch herself.
does the cleansing light and warmth of an angel's halo have a literal cleansing effect?
Good question! In fact, it does, but very much not always. While passively slowly obliterating sin, more physical grime requires explicit mental concentration on the behalf of the angel, with the effector most commonly manifesting in a quite clearly visible extension of the halo beaming out of it and scrubbing across all affected surfaces. Kind of like this.
Cleaning precisely, without damaging the object being cleaned, however, requires a pretty thorough understanding of the material composition of the surface, as well as of the contaminant, which is a thing only some angels are particularly interested in, though at some basic level every pure angel should be capable of such a manipulation at least to a certain degree.
if i ask really nicely 'please big sis, can you show me what you look like without the mask?' what would happen?
Depending on how hard you pout, you might get either just a sigh, a compassionate smile and a shake of a head, or a sigh, a pet on the head and while the touch lingers, you might catch a glimpse of something akin to the sun, blazing almost white hot with strings and splashes surrounding the vaguely feminine form, golden eyes blazing with the same light as the halo even brighter than the form itself, huge wings wrapping around what feels like your entire world, the split second view starting to unravel your mind before you have the time to fully process the
lingering warmth on the top of your head where your big sister pet you just a moment ago. Your eyes feel like somebody threw a bunch of sand into them and as you rub them, you feel your big sister's soft wings wrap around you like a warm, blissful cocoon of safety and home, her soft voice soothing your worries, "come on now, sweetie... You froze there for a second, you did not miss anything... Everything is alright, okay?"
The spaceport bar was much like any, and the girl next to me could've been anyone. Literally; she was using a remote body. She said something strange: "Why do you think they call them 'ghost ships'? We're definitely alive." I looked over, and the body was idle. The logs said it had been for 6 hours.

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forcing myself to start posting drawings again
<- neon and seren ->