Latest Posts by pluckedchicken - Page 7

speechless. the pose. the expression. this should be a painting.

THIS

[Image ID: Screenshot of a repost from kelpforrest depicting tags reading "I refuse to be mocking towards any generation but especially younger ones. I will not become a hateful old fuck." End ID]

I must not mock Gen Alpha. Mocking Gen Alpha is the mind killer. Mocking Gen Alpha is the little-death that brings total generational solidarity obliteration. I will engage with Gen Alpha lovingly. I will permit them to be cringe. And when they grow up I will turn my eye to their accomplishments. Where mocking has gone there will be nothing. Only generational solidarity remains

Lillium has thoughts about his new roommate

[Characters from CTC]

Let's take it from the top

Concerning Hobbits

There was a time when I lived in an apartment above an abandoned business space. The apartment leaked and let drafts in among other things, but it was my home for a time. My first summer there, I worked early morning shifts and had the afternoons off. I was not a fan of the early mornings, but loved being able to enjoy the warm summer sun. One afternoon, I lay on my air-mattress-couch with soft blankets draped over it, reading while different instrumental songs from a variety of places and times played in the background. The sun poured through the open window and warmed my skin, accompanied by the sounds of passing of traffic, pieces of scattered conversations from the occasional people below, and the rhythmic ting of metal against metal from the blacksmith hammering away down the block. Eventually a song titled Concerning Hobbits came on. The arrangement of stringed instruments, mixed with the blacksmith outside and a good book in my hands transported me to a time and place so familiar and nostalgic, yet somewhere I had never been. In that moment I felt so peaceful and calm, like all was right in my little world. For those two minutes and fifty seconds I felt like a hobbit.

.....and everyone lived happily ever after :)

“Please stop writing! The very next thing you write will actually happen!”

You're 19? Do you think things will get better or worse from here?

i think i will grab things by the throat and make them what they need to be

I write for myself

*checks AO3 every few hours to see if I got any new kudos, comments or subscriptions*

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, to listen to doctors and get my flu vaccine and any shots i could because they remembered Before.

then they started fighting Covid precautions.

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, that the ozone was disappearing and the earth was dying and we needed to recycle and save the planet.

now my parents think climate change is a myth.

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, that racism was a plague, that we had to love and accept everyone, that we should never judge before walking a mile in their shoes.

then they told me that protesting for my Black siblings was wrong.

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, that we needed to give to the poor. working at soup kitchens. making quilts. collecting food and money and supplies. building houses. because it was the christian and just plain right thing to do.

now they look at me, on food stamps with their grandchildren, and lament the "welfare state".

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven and that any rich man, especially an immoral one, should never run our country.

you can guess who they voted for.

i remember adults telling me, as a kid, so very much.

when did they forget?

life's too short to write for an imaginary critic that you fear will hate what you wrote

sometimes you meet a man who you swear hung the sun. you meet a man who makes you want to turn back time to undo every mistake you've ever made, to be as perfect to him as he is to you. you meet a man who scares you down to your core. you meet a man who is unable to imagine a life without you, who you speak to one time and the initial connection is so powerful that he draws you right out of your shell, and reveals bliss in the discomfort. you meet a man who you like, who entertains you, who listens to you, and who you want to entertain back, for hours, and whose stories you could hear until you're able to build a clear image of his entire life in your restless head. you meet a man who you make smile, who you cut off in the middle of a joke to kiss for moments, minutes, hours, and whose eyes hold every other star in the galaxy that they have yet to hang. you sometimes meet men like this, and the suns they catch and hang come from you. they draw the heat you hold inside your smoldering heart from your chest, and suspend it over you and the world, warming everybody with the warmth you've given to him.

Random worldbuilding idea: a culture where everyone is a goth, but for perfectly sensible environmental ressons.

Wearing mainly/almost exclusively black clothing because either the dye protects them/the fabric from something in the environment, black clothes are the most convenient ones to maintain, or then a century ago black dye was extremely difficult and/or expensive to produce and only the wealthiest of society could afford it, but now a cheaper dye method has been invented and after a huge trend of Now Everybody Can Wear Black, it just stuck and nobody even remembers why all clothes are dyed black. It's just tradition.

Everyone wears demonia-style platform shoes because the climate is wet and cold, and for most of the year the ground is either muddy or covered in icy slush, so knee-high tall boots are simply the most pragmatic way to keep the rest of your clothes reasonably dry and clean.

Silver and leather jewellery is widespread because the land is rich in metal ore - while the rich can afford to buy/commission delicate silver threads, even the peasants can afford some sort of rough iron chains and studs on their wristbands. Studded leather is more sensible than having metal rings touching skin directly, due to the cold weather. Studs and chains also double as armour and weapons which technically speaking don't count as such, allowing people to circumvent any "can't openly carry weapons during peace time"-laws. Law enforcement could not confiscate someone's bling without causing public riots.

Everyone is about as pale as their natural complexion allows since the climate is cold and dark and the sun does not rise much during the winter. Cold dark winters are also the reason why the culture is so morbid in general - in the heart of the darkest months there's fuck all else to do than write poetry about the moon's silver light and the howls of wolves and the beauty of death, while polishing your iron chains until they shine like silver.

Domesticated ravens are more covenient for messenger birds than doves are, as they're hardier and can manage the climate better. Even if more modern messaging technology has been invented, people prefer sending letters by bird because it's more romantic and poetic. Sending someone a raven message poem about how you'd like to be buried in the same grave together one day is a very standard way of flirting.

can’t focus on work. can only think of that one lesbian poem about chivalry

Oh no, I've been listening to my music on shuffle for hours. How about the next 10 songs I listen to?

1. Blue eyed girl - Arcadian wild

2. Someone to you (acoustic) - BANNERS

3. NFWMB - Hozier

4. Big bowl in the sky - Cavetown

5. Happier - Olivia Rodrigo

6. She's always a woman - Billy Joel

7. Lisa listen - Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories

8. Anarchist (unplugged) - Yungblud

9. 888 - Cavetown

10. Way down we go - KALEO

All chiller stuff because it's the middle of the night and I need to be not awake lol

Poke poke @punkgandalf and @s-3lliot I guess?????

got tagged by @kigner (thank u ;-; ) to post the ten songs I last listened to!! I gotta tag other people too so I tag @midbyte @neverendingford and @constantlyuncertain!

now all I have to do is remember music I have listened to recently

(starting with least recent)

1. Furry - Patricia Taxxon

2. *Equips Sunglasses* - Hot Mulligan

3. Apartment - Modern Baseball

4. computer exploder - Oso Oso

5. As The Romans Do - Theo Katzman

6. Reconstruct - LOW-PASS

7. Idaho - Slow Pulp

8. The New Year's Resolution - Spielbergs

9. Can't Win - PUP

10. Aisle (or Window) - Pet Symmetry

mostly high energy stuff cuz it's from my running playlist lol

via indiarosecrawford

Frog Paints a Water Lily Pond 🪷🎨🐸

𝑓ₒᵣ ⲕᵢ𝑛𝑔 ₐ𝑛𝑑 𝑐ₒ𝑡𝑡ₐ𝑔ₑ

BUT WHO COULD LOVE ME? I AM OUT OF MY MIND // IVAN & TILL

pinterest // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube) // Anne Sexton Complete Poems of Anne Sexton, "The Papa and Mama Dance" // Fall Out Boy Hum Hallelujah // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube) // Ernest Hemingway The Garden of Eden // Florence + the Machine Grace // Elliot Wake Black Iris // The National Daughters of the Soho Riots // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube) // Mitski I Guess // Adam Silvera They Both Die at the End // Lorde Writer in the Dark // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube) // Margaret Atwood Cat's Eye // Chris Abani Dog Woman // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube) // Warsan Shire Souvenir, "Our Men Do Not Belong to Us" // VIVINOS Alien Stage, "ROUND 6" (via youtube)

Broke:

Belle has Stockholm syndrome because she falls in love with the Beast, her kidnapper.

Woke:

Stockholm syndrome was coined to slander a woman who had been in a hostage situation but openly criticized the poor police response which recklessly put her in more danger and escalated the violence. She was then belittled and discredited publically by the police for this.

So. Yeah. Maybe Belle does have Stockholm syndrome actually.

I love reading stories and different things that are centuries old, written by someone from an entirely different part of the world, who lived a life completely different from mine, doing, feeling, and saying the same sorta stuff I would

It's comforting to know that people have and will always just be people

To be perfectly honest, I have never felt more connected to some ineffible greater whole than when I'm tracing the history of this stuff. It is comforting and a bit profound to know that 2000 years ago there was some dickhead sitting in a temple library doing the exact same shit I am right now. It's nice that both of us are idiots who are wrong about everything, but we are doing our best to fix that. It feels close to an act of worship, but not to anything in particular.

Imagine a bee rn in a hive muttering "the beekeeper is not real because he is not intervening or helping me at all with this disastrous relationship I have with another bee". now imagine that's you talking about the good lord. now imagine a dog with a propeller hat on

but what happens when we collectively reach the boop limit. What do they do to us

*BOOP* ME IF YOU DARE; COLLECTION

"have you learned how to drive yet" i have the spirit of friendship in my heart. the joy of lifes little things in my soul. the whimsy of magic. the beautiful enjoyment of nature. the answer is no though

There's a number of people going after the artist for encouraging or glorifying self immolation or suicide, and others outright encouraging people to follow Bushnell's example of self-sacrifice. I want to try to say this so it will reach a couple more people.

This is not being shared to glorify or encourage self immolation or suicide in the name of protest. This is being shared so more people don't have to die trying to spread the same message. This is being shared so Aaron Bushnell's death was not in vain.

"Bodies upon the gears," but only the living can fight and remember the sacrifice of those who are gone. It is up to the living to continue the fight for those who are gone. This goes for Aaron Bushnell, and every single Palestinian lost in this genocide, and everyone else who has lost their life for what they believe in or for simply existing.

This has already been said better in this post and I'm sure plenty of others, but his message was not aimed at the government so they would stop aiding the genocide. His message was aimed at other military members, because without the military the government has no power.

[Comic excerpt from Fisheye Placebo by @yuumei-art and can be read here]

"free palestine," he shouted until his last breath. aaron bushnell, we will never forget you.

as much as bushnell's actions has moved us all, please seek other ways to take actionable measures against the injustices we face in the world. none of us wanted him gone, and the least we can do is prevent another such tragedy by supporting each other in our efforts to enact lasting change.

Fuck hostile architecture, I want unhostile architecture. I want benches to be designed to be as easy as possible to sleep on. I want little places for pigeons to nest to be purposefully put on buildings. I want people designing public spaces to think about what they'd be like to skateboard on. I want "Please loiter" signs. I want people to be kind. I want...

"I would kill for you. I would die for you" would you take a break for me? Would you sit down and rest? For a day, a week, a year? Would you let others take care of your needs for me? Would you let yourself be held for me? By me?

u ever see someone with extremely fucked up views (or actions) and think wowww if a couple of things in my life went the tiniest bit differently that would have been me

Reblog if you also think Toph shouldn’t have been a cop.

I want to see how “unpopular” this opinion really is outside cop-worshipping Reddit.

Let me kiss your scars.

I know it won't fix or erase the pain that caused them, but maybe, if only for a moment, it will make you forget.

Maybe, if only occasionally, you will see those scars and remember how much you are loved rather than the hatred and fear that put them there.

Let me kiss your scars.

Let me kiss your stretch marks.

Let me kiss all the things you hate most about yourself.

Let me make you feel as beautiful and precious as you are in my eyes.

I know I can't erase how the world has hurt you, but maybe, if only for a moment, it won't hurt quite as much.

Please kiss my scars.

My skin is a mosaic of scar tissue, all from my own choices, many from mistakes.

Please kiss my scars.

It won't erase the pain that put them there, but maybe, if only for a moment, looking at them won't hurt quite so much.

Please kiss my scars.

Make me feel as beautiful as you say I am.

Love and Nature

Osdea, the god of love, fell hopelessly in love with the god of nature, Ezella. Osdea tried everything she could to have the indifferent god acknowledge her, but Ezella never gave her the time of day. Osdea tried helping the flora and fauna, hoping to appeal to the god of nature through kindness. She tried befriending the different nature spirits, attempting to learn anything about Ezella. She tried just being in the same area as Ezella often, so maybe they'd take an interest in her, like she had in them.

Finally, when Osdea had given up hope in all else, she brought Ezella a small bouquet of flowers, ones she had seen them care for, and tried talking to the god. Ezella curtly turned Osdea down, but Osdea saw this as progress, for she had finally gotten Ezella to acknowledge her! And so Osdea brought another bouquet of flowers the next day, with the same result. She continued bringing flowers every day, each time with the same result.

On the fourth day, Ezella, growing steadily losing what little patience they had left from the frequent irritations said, "Every day you cut and bring me flowers that I have grown. Every day I turn you down, but that still does not seem to dissuade you. Your young naivety seems to know no bounds, so let me put this as plainly as possible. For as long as you continue bothering me and cutting the flowers I have grown and calling it a gift, I will never return your affections."

Osdea, stunned, watched as the god of nature swiftly turned and walked away, her eyes never lingering from their back, not even when her face grew warm or when the world in front of her clouded too an unrecognizable blur of colours. Only when Ezella was long out of sight was Osdea able to move, collapsing to her knees, and crushing the flowers.

She didn't even remember dropping them.

Hastily, she tried straightening the broken stems and rightening the misplaced petals, but the tears and her shaking hands only worsened the damage until her lap was covered in flower petals and leaves. She held the broken and baren flower stems to her chest, head in her lap and arms wrapped around her trembling body.

Gradually, slowly, her tears sprouted new flowers, wrapping first around the edges of her feet, then her dress and legs, her torso, her arms, her neck, her hair, her head. Oh so gradually, the suffocating pain in her chest took on a new shape; a shape that made more sense. Oh so slowly, her tears did dry, and the flowers clinging to her form began to bloom.

The forest nymphs were the first to find her. The rising sun painted her skin a brilliant golden colour through the shadows of towering trees and their vibrant green leaves. The delicate white of fresh blooms sparsely covering her form seemed to sing at their first sight of light. The god's chest rose and fell slowly as she laid sprawled across the forest floor, as if asleep. The nymphs, simply relieved that the poor god was no longer weeping, left her to sleep.

Osdea was not asleep. How could she sleep with the ceaseless, creeping pain inside her chest?

As the nymphs left, tears escaped and trickled down their familiar path over her skin and in between the delicate flowers.

The nymphs returned at sundown, the god's chest still steadily rising and falling, eyes closed to the world. The white flowers from before now more thoroughly covering her, and new flowers blooming at the edges of her face, there was very little of the god that was left untouched now. Small pin-pricks of blood scattered across her body where the flowers weaved their way through her skin.

Still, the nymphs left Osdea to her slumber. Still, Osdea was not asleep. She was paralyzed, as if the flowers had taken root in her muscles, rendering them completely useless. If nothing else, the whites and greens of the flowers and their stems, set against the dimming light of the falling sun brought some small glimmer of happiness to the sorrowful god.

'Perhaps,' thought the god 'this is the true nature of life; holding onto the smallest glimmer of hope and joy, no matter the cost.' Tears welled along her eyes once again, now hidden beneath a thin layer of foliage.

The petite white flowers weaving and sprouting through her skin were not what troubled Osdea. What troubled her was the feeling of small, sharp barbs being dragged through the inner linings of her being. Treacherously slowly, the talons clawed their way up her chest and into her throat. Every tentative rise and fall of her chest, every movement, no matter how small, pressed the stabbing blades in further.

Osdea learned what she could and could not do quite quicky. Movement was strictly forbidden. The god was still allowed to breathe, but gradually even that privileged had been restricted until her breaths were slow and shallow and her head grew light. She was not allowed to speak. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to croak out even a single word. But she was fine with that. She had no one to listen to her words anyways.

The stars above shone so brightly. Somehow, they seemed brighter than usual, almost as if they wept for the god, their small lights ever so slightly growing before trembling and shrinking again. The stars and their weeping slowly began to fade away as dawn drew near, and clouds covered the sky like a heavy blanket. Osdea could feel the plants blanketing her body still in anticipation. The world around her seemed to hold it's breath as she swam in and out of consciousness. She could still breathe. She didn't know why she was struggling. Her head felt so heavy.

The clouds were painted a brilliant ruby red, painting the forest in hues of pink. Osdea had never seen a sky quite like that, and she knew she never would again. A faint smile spread across her lips. This much she was still allowed.

She couldn't breathe.

The world fluttered in and out of existence, as if a butterfly were sat on her nose.

She was okay.

The sun began to crest its head over the horizon, vibrant scarlet to match the clouds above. The birds did not sing, nor did the deer begin to stir. The nymphs would not visit this morning.

She would be okay.

In and out, the world faded and re-ignited repeatedly. Dark crimson shadows fell over the forest. White flowers were painted pink.

It would be okay.

The world of reds and dark shadows swam in front of Osdea's eyes. From the darkness, her eyes landed on one figure, slowly approaching. The darkness encroached and consumed her vision. She pried her eyelids open, even if only once more. She would not let herself be robbed of her sight. Not yet.

She was out of time. She was not okay. She didn't want to die.

Light returned to the god. A soft face filled with love and sorrow stared down at her. For a moment, Osdea forgot about the tearing thorns in her chest, about the flowers covering her body, about the air missing from her lungs. For a moment, Osdea felt like she was dancing through the forest again, wanting nothing more than for Ezella to turn their attention to her.

Osdea watched as Ezella's lips moved, but no sound ever reached her ears. Why couldn't she hear the god? Why couldn't she hear the one person who's voice had rung through her head for days now?

Osdea opened her mouth, but the words she wanted to say were torn apart by the thorns within before they ever knew the breath of life. The scene before her clouded to a blur of reds again with only Ezella remaining in focus.

Ezella leaned down, filling Osdea's vision. Soft lips found her forehead, as if the flowers had parted specially for them. A drop of water rolled down her temple. It was warm. It was cold.

The clouds faded from her vision, and the thorns in her lungs disappeared. The god of love no longer felt the pinpricks of flowers weaving through her skin.

The god of nature rose with the rising sun, and began their daily care for the earth and its creatures.

The sun rose on the second morning. Where had previously laid Osdea, the god of love, now laid a beautiful flower bed, alive with dusty blues and pure whites. Sat in the center of the bed was a bush of roses, petals and thorns dyed the same blood-red colour.

When we were kids we dreamed of discovery and exploration. We dreamed of exploring the furthest reaches of the universe and the darkest depths of the oceans. We dreamed of technological advances only explored in sci-fi.

Then we learned.

We learned about unjust hatred between neighbors and families for how one person might be born. We learned about fear and greed and the destruction it leaves in it's wake.

The more we learned, the smaller those dreams grew. Now very few of us dream outside of sleep, and even our dreams are plagued with nightmares. Many of us have learned it's easier - safer - to kill our dreams than to let the disappointment consume our last shred of hope.

When we were kids we dreamed.

Now, we only dare hope to make it through the year alive.