Credit To: User

In regards of the Trump government scraping all trans inclusion in its queer information portion of its websites I have made this thing. Spread the word. Don't let them pretend we never existed.

P.S: Don't like! Reblog! <3

EDIT: Well this got a lot of attention! I got a few users asking to print or repost my art and I am unimaginably grateful to everyone's interest, especially since it's a really simple drawing I made on a whim haha! Anyone who is looking to print these out to hang or hand out or repost on another platform is free to do so, although I ask you to credit me and let people know it's from my Tumblr profile! If anyone wishes to do anything else with my art or post and wants to clarify what I consent to then they can message me privately and I'll explain! <333 all my love to my queer siblings

The faint sound of classical music can be heard through the huge oak doors that are in front of me. The musician's native tongue slips between her teeth in smooth whisps as she sings to entertain the masses.

I tentatively push on the doors; however, they seem to be unbudging, so I push harder, and I would have fallen through them and down the marble stairs if it weren't for the strings holding me by the arms and legs.

Hundreds of people waltz together their exquisite suites molding with the large and extravagant ballgowns of their appointed partners. The colours of the different shifon, cotton, and silk weave together to create a sea of complementary colours that shift in uniform waves. Individual strings entertwine with one another as they pull everything into its place. The sweet melodies that are now no longer muted lull me in. They sound like my mother's voice; they sound of the sweet spring and fleeting but beautiful romance. They are utterly entrancing.

My body moves, the strings are slack, and they follow behind me as I take my first step towards the bouncing crowd. The strings pull tighter on me the further down the steps I go, almost pulling me off the ground, adding to the whimsical scene and making me feel as if I could fly. By the last step, the strings are tight enough to control my movements. They lead my body into position, and a new song begins. My strings find someone else, and we start our waltz in time with one another, our strings leading us as if we have practiced for years. Our bodies almost mould into one as if we were an old married couple who can just work together based on muscle memory alone.

My body feels weightless as the strings lift me into the air. I see all the women being lifted into the air with me, the men forced by their necks to look up at the soaring birds above them, and their arms forced to catch us lest we die from our descent. My partner catches me with ease, but some are not so lucky.

The couple to our left consists of a boy no more than 14 and a woman probably in her mid-twenties. The boy had no chance of catching her. Their bodies collide, and he catches her fall, but the sickening crack of his legs is horrific, and not even the homely music could sooth my mind as the gut-wrenching noise reverberates off the wall. The strings, however, keep us all from turning our heads, but my eyes travel to the dammed pair as they get spun into a mix of limbs and a red string. Their mouths are wrapped in string, and they are unable to scream, almost as if they are poor little bugs trapped in a spider web. The last I see of them is the boy's terrified eyes that scream at me to help him before they both are slowly hung by their necks, pulled towards the ceiling with a jolt. They are gone, and the crunch of their necks is incorporated into the angelic music.

To my horror, they aren't the only bodies up there in the heavens. Hundreds of people hang from the rafters, their colourful clothing tainted by red string, and their eyes lifelessly stare down at us. They are forever watching us. The music still plays and the strings pull, but now it feels invasive. No longer do I hear my mother's voice, and no longer do the people look as though they are having the time of their lives. Now they smile to their ears, the corners of their mouths lifted by the string that binds us all, but their eyes show all their terror and exhaustion. The tightness of the strings no longer makes me feel as though I'm flying, and instead I feel as though I'm tethered to a noose that's ready to break my body into shattered pieces. I can't die like this.

I've been twirled and waltzed for what feels like hours. My body aches, and my head spins as if it is a child's spinning top being forced to spin until it drops. The band has run out of music, so they have started again. The arms of the drummer boy look sore and heavy, the wind instrumentalists look as though they may drop their faces blue from lack of oxygen, and the string players fingers have been bleeding for a while, staining their instruments in varying shades of red, yet the strings continue to force them.

The only person in this whole room who's free from the binds that hold us is the vocalist. She still sings and smiles, her eyes not holding an ounce of terror but instead shining with power and hunger. She looks like a spider about to eat its captured prey. She must be the puppeteer here.

The song changes, and so do our partners. He's a young boy; he looks to be twelve. He, like us all, is unable to scream or speak, but tears cascade down his face, and his shirt is damp from his tears. I don't think he'll last very much longer.

At the chorus, the young gentleman who is playing the lyre plays the notes wrong. The singer turns, her smile dropping. She motions towards him, and his body flies upwards. His body cracks, and I can see the bones of his fingers; his flesh has been pulled off by the constant vibrations of the lyre chords. My mouth fills with bile, but the strings keep my mouth clamped shut, and I'm left with no choice but to swallow it back down. The viperous woman turns back to the audience and drags the closest man from his partner; he is now the one playing the lyre. His unfortunate partner is the next to be taken as a victim of the creature. She had unluckily been dragged out of line and was punished for it.

The music is back to what it was: forced comfort flowing softly through waves of people, contrasting the absolute horror its recipients face. Our bodies are carried by the strings, no matter how hard we try to escape. We have no choice but to accept our fate. The song changes; it's the first one I danced to, and I know it's my turn. So does my partner, because tears start to fall from his eyes with more vigor. And I cry with him. We both know that he can't catch me. Our fate will be the same as the first couple I witnessed get taken. A silent and painful death. The singer knows this too. She smirks at us from across the hall and licks her lips. I glared at her the whole time. If I have to die like this, she will not see my fear.

The song nears its last note, and my body is slowly lifted by the carmine strings that suffocate my body. They have become a part of me now. I try my hardest to stop them. I fight them and frash against them, but it's no use; they just get tighter and cut my skin. My blood drips to the floor below. The drop is harsher than before, and I can hear the boys legs snap as I land on them. His and my limbs tangle into one puzzle, and my ankle burns after landing on it at an angle; it is undeniably broken. Bodies twirl around us, and the boys eyes shut. He's fainted from the pain.

Not unlike when I entered this choppy sea, my strings have returned to being slack. The only difference now is that they start to drape around me, strapping me in like ham, ready to be cooked. As they pull me off the boy, I see the damage my body has caused him. His bones are visible through where his knee cap was, and blood red covers his bottom half. My strings stop and wait for his to catch up, and we ascend together.

We are raised high above the sea, and the colours of different fabrics melt together; they all look like a beautiful show that is on its last performance. Everyone around me is slack. This is it. I take my last moment to glare at the musical villain; her voice flows like a gentle river, matching the sea below me. She looks back at me, and with a swish of her finger, I'm jolted up by my neck. The last sound I hear is a crack, and her voice is muffled, but there she is forever singing.

Silco and his terror of a daughter

something something despite the all horrors and tragedies of the world, love was there and that's all that matters

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# Harvey is so cute with his leaf

in honor of shark week starting tomorrow 🦈

Petitions - UK Government and Parliament

Petition: Do not stop transgender people from receiving care in mainstream hospital wards

The previous government proposed changes to the NHS constitution which would mean transgender hospital patients in England may not be treate

Well fucks? Get to it!

Ah yes, the 3 genders. Male, female, and “what the fuck are you, a cop?”

as an optimist i dream of a beautiful world where people are fucking normal about aromanticism