forget writer’s block. let’s talk about reader’s block. you’re sitting there scrolling through your marked for later, scrolling through your favourite tags, scrolling through your bookmarks, scrolling through your favourite authors’ profiles and no matter what you do you can’t find anything you want to read

even though you are surrounded by things you would love if you could only frickin’ start

Les sphinx au dictionnaire   -   Francine van Hove

French b.1942-

would love to see more non-sexualized nudity like this in art. this, right here? this is every woman: just at home relaxing with her tits out. she doesn’t have her tits out to please anybody but herself–she’s lounging around, she’s hanging out with her cat, she has her tits out just because. that’s a whole mood. that’s relatable, realistic, and very human. and it’s so superior to the massive amount of art we have of women frolicking around with their backs arched to appeal to the male gaze. lady just doesn’t wanna wear a bra. just wants to lounge around with a book and a cat and her tits just hanging. respect

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.

This is amazing!

Beautiful

The last bit is new, and is beautiful!!!

me: haha oh god this is so bad im making so many unsupported claims and pulling all this analysis out of my ass

my prof in the margins: excellent analysis!

me: 

when i was in high school i used to write my papers thinking wow i’m just bullshitting all of this. then like a week before my senior year ended after all the grades were set, i was talking to my english teacher and told him you know i just bullshitted every paper i wrote. he told me that while i may have thought i was just pulling it all out of my ass, i genuinely knew what i was talking about and made well-supported analyses. i only thought i was bullshitting because it didn’t take much effort and it all seemed obvious to me. if you do well on your essays even though you think you’re just making it up as you go, chances are you’re not pulling it out of your ass. you’re just a genuinely talented analyst, even if the analysis that you’re making comes from a subconscious understanding of the material rather than a conscious effort to study it. give yourself some credit. 

anything you pull out of your ass had to get there somehow

Anything you pull out of your ass had to get there somehow

we should take the “does it spark joy?” question to social media. go through your facebook, remove friends that do not spark joy, go through instagram and unfollow people and pages that do not spark joy. don’t surround yourself with things that don’t make you happy.

Marie Kondo your dashboard 

[Image ID: a tweet from user wigglestwiggles, which reads “If college being free for everyone would make a college education worthless you are blatantly admitting a college education exists to be a class gateway” /end ID]

i’m assuming it’s actually a shout out to Ursula Vernon for that time she knocked him over for the Hugo Awards taco bar and nobody can tell me different XD

...yeah, that makes complete sense

Overheard while wheeling through a crowd, from someone who ricocheted off the side of my chair:

“She didn’t stop!”

No I did not. Abled people do not have right of way over people in wheelchairs. We do not have to stop for you. Get the hell out of my way or get run over.

Disabled people don’t have the right of way over abled people either. If you see someone coming, it’s advised to move faster or move back; intentionally failing to get out of the way can lead to damages, not just physical injury but also they can sue you. And you would run others over? So, you’re not apologetic about what otherwise could be an accident? That’s…a little concerning, to be honest. It’d be one thing if it was an accident, but the wording makes it seem you don’t care about whether it was an accident or not.

Re: Being disabled doesn’t give you the right of way. Neither does being abled. The person was right to say you didn’t stop, and saying you’ll run someone over if they are in your way is not a good thing. 

If you ricochet off the side of a moving pedestrian, YOU ARE AT FAULT.

If you ricochet off the side of a moving wheelchair, YOU ARE AT FAULT.

But apparently because you’re Abled you’ve decided to go ahead and try to Ablesplain this situation to me.

Because in your Ableist reality the disabled person is responsible for speeding up or slowing down while the Abled person plows right through in a straight line.

Which is exactly the point I was making.

Abled people do not have right of way over people in wheelchairs.

Your expectation that all disabled people should part like the Red Sea to let your Abled ass through is Ableist, and one of these days you’re going to get run over by a wheelchair, and you will deserve it.

Power or manual chair, do these people think that we can just stop on a dime? Hell, even with scooters, walkers, canes, just about any mobility aid we use, we have right of way. You have no idea how hard it is to gain/keep momentum, much less STOP. It is literally dangerous sometimes. One example being; if someone with joint hypermobility suddenly tries to yank a manual chair to a stop for your abled ass, they can, and probably will, dislocate both their wrists, if not worse. I have SEEN it happen.

You don’t get to bitch that we didn’t stop when you come out of left field and crash in to us/our mobility aids.

Seriously, just… Fuck abelists

This expectation Ableds have that disabled people should get out of their way is exactly the same as the expectation men have that women should get out of their way. Men walk in a straight line through a crowd and expect women to dodge them. This phenomenon is called Manslamming, and women have run some pretty interesting experiments over the years with what happens when you stop stepping aside for men. (Source) (Source)

I stopped making way for men a long long time ago (back when I was walking), which if you haven’t tried it makes for a lot of collisions and a lot of pissed off entitled assholes.

Pro tip: when colliding with entitled men, lead with your shoulder.

It’s interesting how women can see that this is an issue when men do it, but somehow Ableds are still going to Ablesplain to me how disabled people should get out of their way. I’m no more interested in the entitlement Ableds have towards disabled people than I am in the entitlement men have towards women.

If you think I’m going to make way for Ableds now that I use a wheelchair any more than I made way for men when I was walking, you’re in for a surprise.

I will move aside/make way for young children, the elderly, disabled people and anyone else less mobile than me. Ableds OTOH can learn some goddamned manners.

My mum always tells my siblings and I to make way for those less able to move than you.

And in the vast majority of cases, an abled person can move easier and quicker than someone in a wheelchair.

So fucking do it.

I can’t just teleport out of your way. You will get run over. You will end up with bruised shins. Even when doing an emergency stop I still continue moving for 2-3 meters before stopping. If I’m on a hill it can be dangerous for me to do an emergency stop.

The amount of people who walk BACKWARDS into my wheelchair after I give them room then try to yell is exhausting. I’ve taken to rolling off (I give a lot of room okay? I am prepared for you to take two steps back if you decide to stride backwards like you are a power walker you don’t get to complain about who you barge into it’s your fault)

And yes we can’t stop immediately - if you step in front of me and stop imma run you over while trying to stop. Your fault.

Again the amount of abled who step in front of me and then stop with nothing in front of them is annoying. Have a bit of awareness and maybe you wouldn’t be run over!?

Also, I am done with swerving around these oblivious assholes. When I swerve, I end up running over some innocent person who didn’t do anything wrong. If you cut me up or step in front of me and stop, I’m running over YOU.

You need to be aware of who is around you and how you may need to move out of their way. 

-FemaleWarrior, She/They 

SMom was in a manual for a longass time, and then a power chair for a while too. Power chairs are fucking ASSHOLES ok. I saw how much of a pain in the ass hers was for her, wanna know some of the bullshit this thing did ON THE REGULAR? It did a thing we called “power surging” aka she did not have her hand or anything anywhere near the control mechanism and the fucker would NYOOM FORWARDS AT TOP SPEED. It also would randomly stop because it didn’t feel like moving I guess. It also took forever for her to get moving when her chair wasn’t deciding to POWER SURGE INTO THE NEAREST ANYTHING.

This was all in her power chair, the thing that was supposedly meant to make her life easier! The kicker though? ALL OF THIS WAS CONSIDERED NORMAL TO THE PEOPLE WHO BUILT AND DID REGULAR MAINTENANCE ON HER CHAIR. APPARENTLY THEY JUST DO THAT SOMETIMES.

I’ll admit, there were plenty of times I should have moved and didn’t, asked or not asked, because her chair had a mind of its own. I ended up with many a bruised toe and shin. I dealt with it, because that’s the reality of living with someone who’s paralyzed/in a wheelchair and unable to get out of it. The only time I ever actually complained was when her chair surged into my ankle, which I had sprained about a month earlier because OW THAT HURT A LOT and I was crying, and even while crying and limping I didn’t get mad or blame mom, because it was an accident.

Other times where she warned me to move, I didn’t, and got swiped by one of her footrests? My fault. Times where she warned me of where she was going and I wasn’t quite to the side enough and ended up with a squished toe (in my shoe, because I wore my shoes around her pretty much all the time bc of the aforementioned power surges)? My fault! I would apologize to HER because her life was entirely difficult and everything was fighting against her constantly.

So yeah, it’s a hell of a lot easier to step out of the fucking way when you see a person in a wheelchair (or any disabled person) coming than it is for them to get out of your way. Obviously there are times where it’s not right for a person in a chair to just barrel through people, but NEWSFLASH THEY KNOW THOSE SITUATIONS JUST AS WELL AS YOU DO BECAUSE THEY ARE PEOPLE WITH BRAINS WHO UNDERSTAND THOSE SITUATIONS TOO! Mom would have never run into people when waiting in a line or crowd or whatever, and if she needed to get through? She’d be very polite and ask people to let her go through, like literally ANYONE ELSE trying to get through a crowd. If she did bump anyone she apologized to them, just like you would if you accidentally stepped on someone’s toe when you were trying to get somewhere you needed to be.

The difference though? People would actively ignore her and not move, or even move INTO HER WAY!! Even when she asked politely! And that’s when she’d end up just pushing her way through one way or another, because if these people weren’t gonna respect her enough to move to the side so that she could get through to where she needed to go, then they were gonna get their toes smushed.

People with disabilities have a hard enough time getting the rest of their lives to cooperate, just make one thing a little easier on them, especially something THAT EASY for able people to do.

All of this except I am going to point out that power chairs should not just be starting or stopping by themselves. Something was wrong with that chair and whoever told her that was normal was lying and I hope they get run over by one of their own out of control wheelchairs.

I’ve had a hip replacement

and a knee realignment

and I’m heading towards needing the other hip replaced

and I’m still a helluva lot more manoeuvrable than someone in a wheelchair!

Look upon the field in which I grow my fucks, and observe that it is BARREN

“Gaelynn Lea is transforming our cultural understanding of who can be a musician.”

petition to call “fanservice” something else bc i am in fact a fan and that type of thing does me a DISservice

proposed alternate term: “perv pandering”

pros:

@bikiniarmorbattledamage

Agreed 100% I was always hesitant to use the term “fanservice” for what is clearly just perv pandering. Because as I learned it first, it meant exactly what the name implies - rewarding fans with a creator’s nod; pleasing the audience.  

References to continuity, cameos of beloved characters, canonizing popular ships - those are examples of fan service. Gratuitous sexualization of female characters isn’t really that. That’s just erotica, plain and simple. Let’s not imply that wanking to a skimpily-clad fictional heroine requires being her fan first. 

~Ozzie 

good job everyone

we’re doing great guys keep it up

Society: Capitalism and the free market is great because it lets customers CHOOSE who’s the best company and then that company makes all the money while lesser companies have to improve or die.

Millenials: *boycott companies that benefit off exploitation of people and natural resources*

Society: WAIT NO NOT LIKE THAT

Conservatives: Let the free market decide!

Millenials:

<3

Is the “fluffy one shot” pig doing whip its with those cans?  Cause that feels accurate.

@skyholdherbalist Yup! XD

@frozensnares

Then… where do I go? I’m just at home muttering

into the void of an open word document.

@valkyrien Oh but there’s more to this party than sugar and sweets~ ♥︎

Fluff Fest on RedBubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/36582633

Dark Side on RedBubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/36634358

THE PIG IS EATING PINE TREES IN THE PINING I CAN NOT DEAL.

IT GOT BETTER

Where’s the lemon buffet

Third Comic, featuring the citrus-themed juice bar~ @alltheusernameiwantistaken

Available on RedBubble at https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/37192337.

Wow this is the best thing I’ve ever seen

*[evil cackling]*

OMG THIS IS PERFECT XD

@pileofsith

ark-shifter replied to your post: Oh, is it that time of year already?

http://tormenthouse.org/Main.htm is the main site I’m aware of - my faves are Death and Dragon and Demon of Justice, but alas both are currently unfinished. There are a number of one shots and shorter works as well, but I love those two long ones, even unfinished. they’re the comfort food of fics :)  @melredcap is there somewhere I’m not aware of you’re posting these days? 

Nope, I just checked and everything is up at tormenthouse.  :)

have you ever started reading a book and just put it down and thought “i have read better fiction by fifteen-year-olds with microsoft word and a fanfiction.net account”

yes

Absolutely

Frequently.