Jeremy Miranda (American,b. 1980)

Tide Pool

Acrylic on panel

[AVOID THE TEMPTATION TO MAKE CHOICES THAT ARE FAMILIAR BUT NO LONGER SERVE YOU]

Professors are always like "make sure the scope of your project is narrow so that completion is feasible" ok well what if I want to know everything

gonna buy this god-forsaken web site and charge all y'all $8 a month to edit reblogs.

'oh he's so funny now.'

mf i was always funny.

Bottomline is – of course I want to be loved. Luckily for me, I AM loved, too. So don't you go worrying about me "not being loved".

One of the funniest things about enemies-to-lovers ships is how they’re almost always obsessed with each other. Like if a character actively chooses to interact with another character over and over again instead of simply ignoring them? Throw darts at it all you want, but you still printed out a picture of them to hang on your wall

"Throw darts at it all you want, but you still printed out a picture of them to hang on your wall." - This is a raw line.

Another unfinished thought: 

The Lord of the Rings isn’t just a blend of narrative styles, it’s a melding of narrative paradigms. The Elves are in a tragic story; events that involve them are characterized by beauty and sorrow. The Men are in a heroic story; their elements are weakness and strength. The Hobbits are in a comic story and their elements are fear and comfort.

Further: Merry and Pippin, having spent most of their story with Men, get an ending in the heroic paradigm: triumph, coronation, social order restored and renewed. Sam gets the hobbit ending: marriage and homecoming. And Frodo just walks straight off into an Elvish story.

E.R. Comics, Ryan Pequin

one time my friend had surgery on her hip/knee and we went to visit her in the hospital and she was like “hey guys, check out what i have! it’s this cool button that, when I press it, it gives me more morphine!” and sure enough she had a little tube with one end attached to her IV or whatever and one end with a button on it, and every time she pushed the button it gave her morphine

and she just kept pressing it and pressing it and giggling and getting loopier and loopier, so we went to ask a nurse if that was OK or if she was just going to overdose herself

and the nurse said that the morphine button is on a self timer limit and she had already maxed it out and won’t be able to get more for a few more hours, but she can just press the button as many times as she wants and thanks to her already being on the max dose of morphine she was just placebo effect-ing herself into the fucking stratosphere

it was a great image, my friend over there high as balls like I HAVE UNLIMITED MORPHINE POWER!!!! *press press press press* and the nurse like “nah that button isn’t doing shit but she’s having fun”

got blood work done today and i just remembered a time i got blood work done as a teen. after the nurse drew like 6 vials of the stuff, i asked him “is all that mine?” and he said “not any more” and walked off

"I am going to get a good grade in ___________, a thing that is both normal to want and possible to achieve" drifts through my brain with positively alarming regularity.

Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.

The thing the recruiters don’t tell you about space battles is that you die slowly.

Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks.  Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that?  In the computer core, or the communications hub?  You just lose power.  And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.

If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.

It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost.  Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.

Most fleets give you something, of course.  For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass.  I looked at the vial.

“It’s too soon,” Traav said.

Kvala gestured negation, shakily.  She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now.  Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive.  “You know we’re losing the war.”

They couldn’t deny that.  “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”

“Doesn’t it?  The Chreee have better technology.  Better resources.  And they have their warrior code.  They don’t care if they die.”

“We can’t give up!” Traav protested.  They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told.  “Any heartbeat now—”

There was a clunk.  Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.

“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.

Kvala exchanged glances with me.  The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors.  What was the point, after all?

The Aushkune did.

There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here.  They were supposed to hide in nebulas.

But if there were—

If there were, we were too late.  The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—

Footsteps.

Bipedal.  The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.

And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it.  My first thought was, robot?  That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . .  But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.

Who wore suits?

“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala.  “Urgent treatment.  Evacuation.”

“Who are you?”  Kvala struggled upright.

Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners.  “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain.  Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.

“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?”  Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.

“Not Chreee,” the sound system said.  “You Man.  Soil Starship Nichols.”  The being hesitated.  “Rescue Chreee as well.  On ship.  Will separate.”

“You what?” I said faintly.  Who would do that?

“Oath,” the being explained.

“What kind of oath?  To what deity?”

The shoulders of the being moved up and down.  “Several different.  Also none.  For me, none.  Just—oath.”

I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was.  I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.

The being scanned me.  “Have water,” it said.  “Recommend.”

Raithari have fast metabolisms.  I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.

“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”

“Raithari to Raithar.  Chreee to Chreeeholm.”

“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.

The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad.  Sometimes lie.”

We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?

“And you—what?” I asked.  “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”

The being seemed to consider this.  “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.

Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense.  Did it worship soil?  But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .

Madness.

On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it.  So why not embrace madness and see what happened?

“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.

“Yes.  Soil Starship Nichols.”

I followed the being in the suit.

Took me well over a minute to realize "low frequency right angle shape" was Red Cross.

I love how this shows the weirdness both of language and of culture. Excellent writing!

"Soil Starship Nichols"

This is what took me a moment.

Earth Starship [Nichelle] Nichols

The Beast that Bothers

You were the caretaker for the mythical beasts of the royal family. Yesterday they decided to replace you with some incompetent noble, before kicking you out of the castle. You then spent the night in a nearby forest. However today you were awakened by the beasts who chose to follow you.

I’m not good with people.

I never have been. I’ve tried, but I’ve never been good with people. I’m always saying the wrong thing, and usually I don’t know what the wrong thing was until a lot later, until I’m thinking about what I said. In the town I grew up in, I was known for being simple.

I don’t think I am, but I understand why they think that- I’m not good at making the words in my head match the words I say.

But I am good with animals. Always have been. Lots of people are, I’m not special, or anything. Mam taught me.

Animals speak their own language, and it’s a lot simpler to figure out. They’re not people, they don’t understand us. A lot of people who are bad at animals expect that. They think an animal should understand them perfectly. They think animals have human impulses, human urges, a human understanding of the world.

And they don’t.