Ingrid Sundberg's Colour Dictionary - Writing Help

autochthonous (adjective)

First Draft Excerpt

I have finally moved from the plotting to writing stage for my novel!! I would love to know if there any improvements or if it sounds interesting enough.

Esther

Fire warmed the last of the halcyon days, its lilting rhythm crashing into the cold whipping winds of Praelia. Freezing. Esther grumbled. The chill of early dawn seeped bone deep into her bare fingers as she plucked her identification card out of her wallet. She flashed it to the security guards and stepped into the dormitory. 

The freezing white puff of air melted as she breathed in the scent of ground coffee and ruby hawthorns scattered along the hallways. Warm. While Esther’s university expected perfect command over the tangible natural elements – wood, metal, water, and earth– it seemed they had a pixie in the basement controlling the fire to leave it toasty but never stifling inside. 

The ground floor hosted multiple mahogany doors dotted along the corridors like an inn. In the corner, A student who looked to be in the same year as her squinted against his heavy lids at a little reception area-and-kitchenette. The square clock above an empty coffee pot struck ten past five. At quarter past five, the boy had slumped face first onto his desk. 

Stifling a yawn, she walked past him. She could practically feel her blanket and the warmth of her bed, and she scurried down the hallway. 

The hallway split into two, and two automatic elevators opposing each other sat between the intersecting corridor and the reception in front of her. If she took the stairs smelling like burnt curry next to the entrance, she’d have to climb 8 floors to reach hers. No thank you very much. 

If she didn’t get enough sleep to wake up in time for Professor [___]’s class, she’d be kicked out for snoring half-way through the test.

When she turned around to push the elevator button to avoid the climb, alternating her weight on each foot, a bright turbaned man entered through the door inconspicuously. As inconspicuous as anything the campus had seen. In a school selecting the students with egos that rivaled their intelligence, a dozen peacocks preening their feathers in the monsoons would be far more subtle. So, Esther didn’t really have much to stand on.

The man nodded once to the guard, flashing a rich black envelope. The brief glint of gold gleamed under the buzzing electric bulbs. 

A light rune peeked from under his collar, contrasting with his skin, a little darker than hers which made Esther wonder if he was from Ignis as well. Stiffly, he took long strides straight over to the heavy door in the middle, knocked once, and entered, closing the door behind him.

Esther turned around, hopping on her foot, frowning when the dial stayed at the 6th floor. It would take ages and it would not do anyone good to leave her alone with a mystery. Deciding she had nothing better to do, she leaned back against the cool wall nearby, down on the vinyl seat, and looked at the door. 

While she wasn’t a warlock, she still squinted her eyes at it, hoping it would reveal the conversation with the interesting man and the dean herself. The golden seal embossed in the letter– the serpent on a bed of hyacinths – was the same one stamped on documents overflowing her mother’s desk.

Someone yanked the doorknob harshly. The door opened, and out stepped the man, pocketing a letter in his coat pocket, somber. The dean stepped into her view, her sepia colored hair pulled into a bun twisted as tight as her face when she noticed Esther. She looked paler than usual.

‘Mishra,’ the dean’s lips pressed into a thin line, ‘Inside. Come to my office, Ms. Mishra.’ Esther hadn’t even done anything yet. 

She jumped out of her seat, fumbling to put her ID card back in her wallet, and scuttled into the room promptly. Did her mother call or complain? Esther doubted she would. Advising her closest friend, Praelia’s own Queen, the upcoming coronation had swamped her mother. Esther swore she saw an entire strand of hair on her mother’s head out of place one time.

 ‘I have reviewed your proposal requesting for Opaca’s research,’ she stated, crossing her legs and looking Esther directly in the eye. Esther fixed hers on a little bundle of lint on her jeans.

That wasn’t a question but a verdict, and Esther was feeling oddly guilty. But for what?

The Dean – Esther never remembered her name – always regarded her coolly since her start in April. And while Esther never caught onto the minute twitching of muscles to decipher emotions, the woman before her bore a face frozen by the winds of Galacian mountains. 

Esther slunked back in her seat, levitating just enough to keep her toes from reaching the carpet. A question on the tip of her tongue, “It was approved already.’ She said hastily, ‘The advisor did– approve the research– I mean.’ 

The Dean’s desk shook, the sinewy branches that formed the top of an oak, clustered to resemble a desk. It twisted behind her, its rich yellow leaves stretching through the space behind. 

“I am aware.’ She motioned with a flick of her wrist over to the mischievous desk. A tiny tendril of a branch, as thin as a twig, reached up to deposit a stack of papers in front of the Dean. At the top lay Esther’s messy signature and a smudge of copper spilled in the lab.

‘However,' she continued, ‘in light of recent developments, I am sorry to inform you, but this project can no longer be pursued-’

‘The deadline was this week if first year students wanted to graduate with the research distinction. I cannot get the approval from an advisor so quickly for a new project.’ 

The Dean’s eyes sharpened, and the tip of the fountain pen clenched tightly in her fist began to bend. ‘Elixermerra Institute of Biotechnology prioritizes student safety. I am appalled you would like to begin a career in research with the Lower Isles.’

INTANGIBLES DYING OF INVISIBLE PLAGUE and OPACAN PORTS CLOSED FOR TRADE read newspaper headlines in the bookshop Esther had visited to pick up her textbooks. The owner had overcharged her after reading the title of the books, but she had left with a research idea and a lighter wallet.  

‘They’re dying. There are dozens of ships passing through to make it perfectly safe.’

‘Nonetheless,’ the Dean spit out, making Esther look up. Silver eyes, sharp as her father’s blade, shut all of Esther’s arguments, ‘Due to the lateness of the rejection, I will be expecting your proposal at the end of winter break, ready to be signed on my desk on the first day of the new semester. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Esther ducked her head meekly. 

The branches of the desk began rearranging themselves, her research flung into the farthest corner of a drawer, the fountain pen back to its normal shape, and Esther’s chair landed softly on the ground. 

‘The Institute will be closed for all students and faculty tomorrow. Please pack your bags with the addresses labeled for the cargo trucks and someone will arrange your departure in the evening. The announcement will be held shortly,’ she spoke after a while. The dean adjusted her blazer’s button and turned her gaze to the pile of paperwork helpfully provided by the tree. ‘You can shut the door on your way out.’ 

now say it with me: authors/artists dont owe you moral purity. an author/artist job is not to hold you by the hand & tell you exactly what is Good™ & what is Bad™. you should be able to think for yourself

my friends r so talented. rb if ur friends are talented

PROOF IN CASE YOU NEED IT

THE ERA OF VANISHING HAS BEGUN

They are not arresting people. They are vanishing them.

Rumeysa Ozturk wasn’t read her rights. She wasn’t told why she was being detained. She was walking to break her fast in Somerville, Massachusetts when masked men in an unmarked SUV pulled up, took her phone, slapped on handcuffs, and dragged her into a vehicle like she was some kind of national security threat.

She’s a doctoral student. A Fulbright scholar. A trauma researcher. But in Donald Trump’s America, she fit the profile: Muslim, foreign-born, sympathetic to Palestinians.

Now she’s locked in a for-profit detention center in Louisiana, hundreds of miles from her lawyer, after a federal judge specifically said she wasn’t to be moved.

They moved her anyway. Because rules no longer apply to those with badges — real or fake.

A MOVEMENT BUILT ON CHAINS AND COWARDS

Alireza Doroudi is gone too.

He’s a doctoral student at the University of Alabama, born in Iran, studying mechanical engineering. No criminal record. No warning. Just scooped off the grid.

ICE refuses to say where he’s being held. No public charge has been announced. His only crime appears to be existing in the wrong body, from the wrong country, in the wrong era.

Mahmoud Khalil was next — a Columbia student, arrested for leading pro-Palestinian protests. Trump labeled him a “radical foreign Hamas sympathizer” on Truth Social. Days later, he was gone.

Jeanette Vizguerra was taken from her Target shift in Colorado, chained at the waist.

Alfredo “Lelo” Juarez, a farmworker organizer, was dragged from his car at dawn in Washington. His window was smashed by federal agents. His voice silenced.

These aren’t isolated incidents. These are deliberate acts of political intimidation.

They are testing the system — testing us — to see how many people they can disappear before we stop calling it democracy.

WHEN ICE IS A BADGE — AND A COSTUME

While the real ICE disappears scholars, organizers, and mothers, the fakes are circling like vultures.

In South Carolina, Sean-Michael Johnson posed as an ICE officer. He pulled over a van of Latino men, screamed slurs, jiggled their keys, and knocked a phone out of someone’s hand. “You’re going back to Mexico!” he shouted. He wasn’t an agent — but he played one with conviction.

In North Carolina, Carl Thomas Bennett used a fake badge to sexually assault a woman at a motel. He told her if she didn’t comply, he’d have her deported. He held up a counterfeit ID and pretended to be the state.

And in Philadelphia, a Temple University student in an “ICE” shirt tried to storm a dorm building with two accomplices. They were dressed for the part, intoxicated by the illusion of authority, emboldened by the climate.

This is what happens when the state makes cruelty a brand. When a badge becomes a fetish object. When the line between enforcement and cosplay disappears altogether.

THE WHOLE SYSTEM IS THE CRIME

Let’s stop pretending this is a coincidence.

This is a unified strategy. The Trump administration is using ICE like a personal strike force — targeting international students, protest leaders, organizers, and mothers with surgical precision.

They invoke secret designations. They bypass due process. They manufacture pretexts out of thin air and rely on the fog of bureaucracy to hide the blood on the floor.

The point isn’t law enforcement. The point is deterrence. Spectacle. Control.

This is what political cleansing looks like when it’s dressed up in the language of national security.

They’re showing the world that resistance has a cost — and the cost is your freedom, your voice, your visibility, your future.

SILENCE IS CONSENT. AND WE ARE LOUD.

There is no middle ground here. No fence to sit on. No neutral position when people are being kidnapped in the name of the state.

ICE doesn’t need your applause. It needs your silence. Every time a student vanishes and the media shrugs, every time a woman is cuffed and the public looks away, the machine gets stronger.

They are daring us to ignore it. They are counting on our numbness. They are betting that we’ll keep scrolling.

We cannot let them win.

This is not border policy. This is not visa enforcement. This is not safety.This is authoritarianism with a PowerPoint presentation.This is fascism disguised as formality.

This is the state stripping people from the land and pretending it’s order.

Let the record show:

They took people.

And we did not look away.

We saw it.

We named it.

We raised hell.

And we did not stop.

(I didn’t write this. Credit goes to Fear and Loathing: Closer to the Edge)

https://secured.heritage.org/the-heritage-doge-survey/

civic duty

This is a neutral post

Feel free to stop here and rest before journeying to the posts below.

Reblog this post to ask mutuals to tell you their weirdest theory about u

If any of y’all didn’t know, there’s a free online library, aka

https://openlibrary.org/

and I found like, twelve ebooks I’ve been wanting to read on there, and blasted through like three of them during the course of a boring-ass shift.