Frank: ‘Have you ever heard the attic demos? Because that’s all I heard when I first joined the band. The attic demos? It’s not together, nothing is in tune, but there’s just something about it where you can imagine what it would sound like put together, and it was really really good. My band would listen to that demo to and from shows, like it would get us psyched up to play.’


    Nah earthbenders had something to do with this


    Postpiles like this occur when large pools of basalt cool under a glacier. The lava freezes on all 6 sides, and then slowly cools on the interior. But because it shrinks as it solidifies (unlike water), that puts the interior under tremendous internal stresses, which tend to break along hexagons (with occasional pentagons and septagons thrown in) because that’s a shape that tesselates while also minimizing perimeter to area ratio (ie the least amount of high-energy cracking needed per volume). And then at some point something weathers the top and sides so you can see it. And yes they are this cool in person.

    This formation is close to a glacier. Not sure which one, but you can tell from the telltale blue-green water, which indicates a high concentration of the type of superfine sediment that you get in glacial runoff. And that is also amazing to see in person (water is actually fairly rarely really blue).


    Thanks for the explanation! Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland/Southern Scotland is another example.




    This Big Boy is a Brahma, the largest breed of chicken.  They’re also one of the gentlest and tamest chickens out there, a bit like the Great Danes of poultry.  He lives in Kosovo with his (very proud) owner Fitim Sejfija, and two hens, where he is a good and gentle man and very loved.

    Brhamas typically don’t get quite this big (He’s 16.5 lbs and almost 3 feet tall. most are closer to 14 lbs and 2′6″) but they’re really nice and cuddly birds.  


    I’m sorry but scientifically, that is categorized as a friendly fluff dinosaur.




    thats not a chicken thats a fucking dinosaur


    At 18, everyone receive a superpower. Your childhood friend got a power-absorption, your best friends got time control, and they quickly rise into top 100 most powerful superheroes. You got a mediocre superpower, but somehow got into the top 10. Today they visit you asking how you did it.


    “Power absorption?” you ask him over your pasta, which you are currently absorbing powerfully. in the background, a tv is reading out what the Phoenix extremeist group has done recently. bodies, stacking.

    tim nods, pushing his salad around. “it’s kind of annoying.” he’s gone vegan ever since he could talk to animals. his cheeks are sallow. “yesterday i absorbed static and i can’t stop shocking myself.”

    “you don’t know what from,” shay is detangling her hair at the table, even though it’s not polite. about a second ago, her hair was perfect, which implies she’s been somewhere in the inbetween. “try millions of multiverses that your powers conflict with.” 

    “did we die in the last one?” you grin and she grins and tim grins but nobody answers the question.

    now she has a cut over her left eye and her hair is shorter. she looks tired and tim looks tired and you look down at your 18-year-old hands, which are nothing. 

    they ship out tomorrow. they go out to the frontlines or wherever it is that superheroes go to fight supervillains; the cream of the crop. the starlight banner kids. 

    “you both are trying too hard,” you tell them, “couldn’t you have been, like, really good at surfing?”

    “god,” shay groans, “what i’d give to only be in the olympics.”

    xxx in the night, tim is asleep. on the way home, he absorbed telekinesis, and hates it too. 

    shay looks at you. “i’m scared,” she says.

    you must not have died recently, because she looks the same she did at dinner, cut healing slowly over her eye the way it’s supposed to, not the hyper-quickness of a timejump. just shay, living in the moment when the moment is something everyone lives in. her eyes are wide and dark the way brown eyes can be, that swelling fullness that feels so familiar and warm, that piercing darkness that feels like a stone at the back of your tongue.

    “you should be,” you say.

    her nose wrinkles, she opens her mouth, but you plow on.

    “they’re going to take one look at you and be like, ‘gross, shay? no thanks. you’re too pretty. it’s bringing down like, morale, and things’. then they’ll kick you out and i’ll live with you in a box and we’ll sell stolen cans of ravioli.”

    she’s grinning. “like chef boyardee or like store brand?”

    “store brand but we print out chef boyardee labels and tape them over the can so we can mark up the price.”

    “where do we get the tape?” 

    “we, uh,” you look into those endless dark eyes, so much like the night, so much like a good hot chocolate, so much like every sleepover you’ve had with the two of your best friends, and you say, “it’s actually just your hair. i tie your hair around the cans to keep the label on.”

    she throws a pillow at you. 

    you both spend a night planning what you’ll do in the morning when shay is kicked out of Squadron 8, Division 1; top rankers that are all young. you’ll both run away to the beach and tim will be your intel and you’ll burn down the whole thing. you’re both going to open a bakery where you will do the baking and she’ll use her time abilities to just, like, speed things up so you don’t have to wake up at dawn. you’re both going to become wedding planners that only do really extreme weddings.

    she falls asleep on your shoulder. you do not sleep at all.

    in the morning, they are gone.


    squadron 434678, Division 23467 is basically “civilian status.” you still have to know what to expect and all that stuff. you’re glad that you’re taking extra classes at college; you’re kind of bored re-learning the stuff you were already taught in high school. there are a lot of people who need help, and you’re good at that, so you help them. 

    tim and shay check in from time to time, but they’re busy saving the world, so you don’t fault them for it. in the meantime, you put your head down and work, and when your work is done, you help the people who can’t finish their work. and it kind of feels good. kind of.


    at twenty, squadron 340067, division 2346 feels like a good fit. tim and you go out for ice cream in a new place that rebuilt after the Phoenix group burned it down. you’ve chosen nurse-practitioner as your civilian job, because it seems to fit, but you’re not released for full status as civilian until you’re thirty, so it’s been a lot of office work.

    tim’s been on the fritz a lot lately, overloading. you’re worried they’ll try to force him out on the field. he’s so young to be like this.

    “i feel,” he says, “like it all comes down to this puzzle. like i’m never my own. i steal from other people’s boxes.”

    you wrap your hand around his. “sometimes,” you say, “we love a river because it is a reflection.”

    he’s quiet a long time after that. a spurt of flame licks from under his eyes.

    “i wish,” he says, “i could believe that.”


    twenty three has you in squad 4637, division 18. really you’ve just gotten here because you’re good at making connections. you know someone who knows someone who knows you as a good kid. you helped a woman onto a bus and she told her neighbor who told his friend. you’re mostly in the filing department, but you like watching the real superheroes come in, get to know some of them. at this level, people have good powers but not dangerous ones. you learn how to help an 18 year old who is a loaded weapon by shifting him into a non-violent front. you get those with pstd home where they belong. you put your head down and work, which is what you’re good at. 

    long nights and long days and no vacations is fine until everyone is out of the office for candlenights eve. you’re the only one who didn’t mind staying, just in case someone showed up needing something. 

    the door blows open. when you look up, he’s bleeding. you jump to your feet. 

    “oh,” you say, because you recognize the burning bird insignia on his chest, “I think you have the wrong office.”

    “i just need,” he spits onto the ground, sways, collapses. 

    well, okay. so, that’s, not, like. great. “uh,” you say, and you miss shay desperately, “okay.”

    you find the source of the bleeding, stabilize him for when the shock sets in, get him set up on a desk, sew him shut. two hours later, you’ve gotten him a candlenights present and stabilized his vitals. you’ve also filed him into a separate folder (it’s good to be organized) and found him a home, far from the warfront.

    when he wakes up, you give him hot chocolate (god, how you miss shay), and he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t smile at the gift you’ve gotten him (a better bulletproof vest, one without the Phoenix on it), or the stitches. that’s okay. you tell him to take the right medications, hand them over to him, suggest a doctor’s input. and then you hand over his folder with a new identity in it and a new house and civilian status. you take a deep breath. 

    he opens it and bursts into tears. he doesn’t say anything. he just leaves and you have to clean up the blood, which isn’t very nice of him. but it’s candlenights. so whatever. hopefully he’ll learn to like his gift.


    squadron 3046, division 2356 is incredibly high for a person like you to fit. but still, you fit, because you’re good at organization and at hard work, and at knowing how to hold on when other people don’t see a handhold.

    shay is home. you’re still close, the two of you, even though she feels like she exists on another planet. the more security you’re privy to, the more she can tell you. 

    you brush her hair as she speaks about the endless man who never dies, and how they had to split him up and hide him throughout the planet. she cries when she talks about how much pain he must be in.

    “can you imagine?” she whispers, “i mean, i know he’s phoenix, but can you imagine?” 

    one time i had to work retail on black friday,” you say.

    she sniffles.

    “one time my boss put his butt directly on my hand by accident and i couldn’t say anything so i spent a whole meeting with my hand directly up his ass,” you say.

    her eyes are so brown, and filling, and there are scars on her you’ve never noticed that might be new or very, very, very old; and neither of you know exactly how much time she’s actually been alive for. 

    “i mean,” you say, “yeah that might hurt but one time i said goodbye to someone but they were walking in the same direction. i mean can you imagine.”

    she laughs, finally, even though it’s weakly, and says, “one time even though i can manipulate time i slept in and forgot to go to work even though i was leading a presentation and i had to look them in the face later to tell them that.”

    “you’re a compete animal,” you tell her, and look into those eyes, so sad and full of timelines you’ll never witness, “you should be kicked out completely.”

    she wipes her face. “find me in a box,” she croaks, “selling discount ravioli.”


    you don’t know how it happens. but you guess the word gets around. you don’t think youlike being known to them as someone they can go to, but it’s not like they’ve got a lot of options. many of them just want to be out of it, so you get them out, you guess.

    you explain to them multiple times you haven’t done a residency yet and you really only know what an emt would, but they still swing by. every time they show up at your office, you feel your heart in your chest: this is it, this is how you die, this is how it ends. 

    “so, like, this group” you say, trying to work the system’s loopholes to find her a way out of it, “from ashes come all things, or whatever?”

    she shrugs. you can tell by looking at her that she’s dangerous. “it’s corny,” she says. another shrug. “i didn’t mean to wind up a criminal.”

    you don’t tell her that you sort of don’t know how one accidentally becomes a criminal, since you kind-of-sort-of help criminals out, accidentally. 

    “i don’t believe any of that stuff,” she tells you, “none of that whole… burn it down to start it over.” she swallows. “stuff just happens. and happens. and you wake up and it’s still happening, even though you wish it wasn’t.”

    you think about shay, and how she’s covered in scars, and her crying late at night because of things nobody else ever saw.

    “yeah,” you say, and print out a form, “i get that.”

    and you find a dangerous woman a normal home.


    “you’re squadron 905?” 

    division 34754,” you tell him. watch him look down at your ID and certification and read your superpower on the card and then look back up to you and then back down to the card and then back up at you, and so on. he licks his chapped lips and stands in the cold.

    this happens a lot. but you smile. the gatekeeper is frowning, but then hanson walks by. “oh shit,” he says, “it’s you! come right on in!” he gives you a hug through your rolled-down window.

    the gatekeeper is in a stiff salute now. gulping in terror. hanson is one of the strongest people in this sector, and he just hugged you.

    the gate opens. hanson swaggers through. you shrug to the gatekeeper. “i helped him out one time.” 

    inside they’re debriefing. someone has shifted sides, someone powerful, someone wild. it’s not something you’re allowed to know about, but you know it’s bad. so you put your head down, and you work, because that’s what you’re good at, after all. you find out the gatekeeper’s name and send him a thank-you card and also handmade chapstick and some good earmuffs.

    shay messages you that night. i have to go somewhere, she says, i can’t explain it, but there’s a mission and i might be gone a long time.

    you stare at the screen for a long time. your fingers type out three words. youq erase them. you instead write where could possibly better than stealing chef boyardee with me?

    she doesn’t read it. you close the tab. 

    and you put your head down. and work.


    it’s in a chili’s. like, you don’t even like chili’s? chili’s sucks, but the boss ordered it so you’re here to pick it up, wondering if he gave you enough money to cover. things have been bad recently. thousands dying. whoever switched sides is too powerful to stop. they destroy anyone and anything, no matter the cost.

    the phoenix fire smells like pistachios, you realize. you feel at once part of yourself and very far. it happens so quickly, but you feel it slowly. you wonder if shay is involved, but know she is not.

    the doors burst in. there’s screaming. those in the area try their powers to defend themselves, but everyone is civilian division. the smell of pistachios is cloying. 

    then they see you. and you see them. and you put your hands on your hips.

    “excuse me, tris,” you say, “what are you doing?”

    there’s tears in her eyes. “i need the money,” she croaks.

    “From a chili’s?” you want to know, “who in their right mind robs a chili’s? what are you going to do, steal their mozzarella sticks?”

    “it’s connected to a bank on the east wall,” she explains, “but i thought it was stupid too.”

    you shake your head. you pull out your personal checkbook. you ask her how much she needs, and you see her crying. you promise her the rest when you get your paycheck.

    someone bursts into the room. shouts things. demands they start killing. 

    but you’re standing in the way, and none of them will kill you or hurt you, because they all know you, and you helped them at some point or another, or helped their friend, or helped their children.

    tris takes the money, everyone leaves. by the time the heroes show up, you’ve gotten everyone out of the building.

    the next time you see tris, she’s marrying a beautiful woman, and living happily, having sent her cancer running. you’re a bridesmaid at the wedding.


    “you just,” the director wants to know now, “sent them running?” 

    hanson stands between her and you, although you don’t need the protection.

    “no,” you say again, for the millionth time, “i just gave her the money she needed and told her to stop it.”

    “the phoenix group,” the director of squadron 300 has a vein showing, “does not just stop it.”

    you don’t mention the social issues which confound to make criminal activity a necessity for some people, or how certain stereotypes forced people into negative roles to begin with, or how an uneven balance of power punished those with any neurodivergence. instead you say, “yeah, they do.”

    “i’m telling you,” hanson says, “we brought her out a few times. it happens every time. they won’t hurt her. we need her on our team.”

    your spine is stiff. “i don’t do well as a weapon,” you say, voice low, knowing these two people could obliterate you if they wished. but you won’t use people’s trust against them, not for anything. besides, it’s not like trust is your superpower. you’re just a normal person.

    hanson snorts. “no,” he says, “but i like that when you show up, the fighting just… stops. that’s pretty nice, kid.”

    “do you know… what we are dealing with…. since agent 25… shifted….?” the director’s voice is thin.

    “yeah,” hanson says, “that’s why i think she’d be useful, you know? add some peace to things.”

    the director sits down. sighs. waves her hand. “whatever,” she croaks, “do what you want. reassign her.”

    hanson leads you out. over your shoulder, you see her put her head in her hands. later, you get her a homemade spa kit, and make sure to help her out by making her a real dinner from time to time, something she’s too busy for, mostly.

    at night, you write shay messages you don’t send. telling her things you cannot manage.

    one morning you wake up to a terrible message: shay is gone. never to be seen again.


    you’re eating ice cream when you find him.

    behind you, the city is burning. hundreds dead, if not thousands.

    he’s staring at the river. maybe half-crying. it’s hard to tell, his body is shifting, seemingly caught between all things and being nothing.

    “ooh buddy,” you say, passing him a cone-in-a-cup, the way he likes it, “talk about a night on the town.”

    the bench is burning beside him, so you put your jacket down and snuff it out. it’s hard sitting next to him. he emits so much.

    “hey tim?” you say. 

    “yeah?” his voice is a million voices, a million powers, a terrible curse. 

    “can i help?” you ask.

    he eats a spoonful of ice cream. 

    “yeah,” he says eventually. “i think i give up.”


    later, when they praise you for defeating him, you won’t smile. they try to put you in the media; an all-time hero. you decline every interview and press conference. you attend his funeral with a veil over your head.

    the box goes into the ground. you can’t stop crying.

    you’re the only one left at the site. it’s dark now, the subtle night.

    you feel her at your side and something in your heart stops hurting. a healing you didn’t know you needed. her hands find yours.

    “they wanted me to kill him,” she says, “they thought i’d be the only one who could.” her hands are warm. you aren’t breathing.

    “beat you to it,” you say. 

    “i see that,” she tells you. 

    you both stand there. crickets nestle the silence.

    “you know,” she says eventually, “i have no idea which side is the good one.”

    “i think that’s the point of a good metaphor about power and control,” you say, “it reflects the human spirit. no tool or talent is good or bad.”

    “just useful,” she whispers. after a long time, she wonders, “so what does that make us?”


    it’s a long trek up into the mountains. shay seems better every day. more solid. less like she’s on another plane.

    “heard you’re a top ten,” she tells me, her breath coming out in a fog. you’ve reclassed her to civilian. it took calling in a few favors, but you’ve got a lot. 

    “yeah,” you say, “invulnerable.”

    “oh, is that your superpower?” she laughs. she knows it’s not.

    “that’s what they’re calling it,” you tell her, out of breath the way she is not, “it’s how they explain a person like me at the top.”

    “if that means ‘nobody wants to kill me’, i think i’m the opposite.” but she’s laughing, in a light way, a way that’s been missing from her.

    the cabin is around the corner. the lights are already on. 

    “somebody’s home,” i grin.

    tim, just tim, tim who isn’t forced into war and a million reflections, opens the door. “come on in.” xxx squadron one, division three. a picture of shay in a wedding dress is on my desk. she looks radiant, even though she’s marrying little old me.

    what do i do? just what i’m best at. what’s not a superpower. what anyone is capable of: just plain old helping.


    Aliens have invaded and are taking over. Their technology, intelligence, and power is unstoppable. They just didnt plan on one thing: The old gods returning.


    When they first arrived, we were overjoyed. Proof that we weren’t alone in the universe, that there were other races to share and exchange technologies with! Their arrival brought about world peace - with other life forms out there, we needed to present a united front. World hunger and poverty was solved within a decade, a demonstration to our new friends that we were worthy of the responsibility of exploring the galaxy. 

    They disagreed.

    They accessed our histories, they saw everything, and they recoiled in horror. They could not fathom the world we had created, and the solutions we had brought about not because it was the right thing to do, but to impress them.

    They were not impressed. They told us, regret tinging the translators, that we could not be trusted as keepers of this world. The damage we had done was coming close to being irreparable, and for our own good they’d need to take over.

    I have to say, I agreed – humans are terrible. But the funny thing about humanity is, even if something is right, if it means giving up our control, it is wrong.

    We fought back.

    At first we fought back democratically. This race that had descended from the stars was peaceful, never seeming to favour violence. We didn’t think they’d start killing indiscriminately. We didn’t think they’d take inspiration from our own history books.

    As with so many other things, we were wrong.

    An extreme group of humans succeeded in ambushing and killing several of their high-ranking Xenos. Human lives were lost in the process, but the extremists saw that as a necessary sacrifice, a means to an end. The Xenos had been shown that we wouldn’t tolerate their kind here, that they should leave and let us get on with things how we always have.

    Within days, war had been declared, and we learned why we should have tried harder. Had they decided to simply fight the moment they touched down, to systematically advance and wipe out every human life they came across, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Their weapons, armour, tactics, the sheer firepower and the size of their armies were beyond comprehension. Out of rage and grief, they marched over us, and began the slow process of wiping us out. Bullets couldn’t pierce their armour and shields, rockets fell to the ground lifeless, and even nuclear devices were somehow disabled mid-flight.

    Still we fought back. Humans never have figured out how to give up when all hope is lost.

    There was no formal resistance of rebellion, we simply gathered, fought, and survived where we could. When something new happened, it took weeks, months, to reach every last survivor.

    And then, something unbelievable happened.

    Stories started filtering through to the pockets of us in hiding, strange stories – a freak electrical storm in Greece that appeared from a clear blue sky and wiped out a thousand of them in less than 15 minutes; Xenos impaled on braches of rare trees, some kind of grisly warning that we chalked up to particularly violent survivors in that area; whole armies frozen to death because the temperature around them had dropped too quickly for their environmental suits to keep up with. Freak weather patterns that worked in our favour, violent survivors, terrain they couldn’t navigate. That’s what we told ourselves when the stories filtered through.

    But then they got weirder. There were stories of Xenos being swallowed by the ground itself. A pack of wolves, larger than anything ever before seen appeared from a crack in a mountain range to storm through an encampment and kill every last Xenos. There was a massive surge in the number of corvids around the world, and they always seemed to congregate where the Xenos were thickest… days before something killed everything. Then they’d vanish, and more corvids would appear somewhere else. Harbingers, just like the old tales.

    One day a massive seafaring vessel chasing a fishing trawler was pulled under the water – no reefs or icebergs in the area, and the sea mines had long been disarmed and deactivated. I spoke to a man who had been in the sloop running from the Xenos ship, and he swore blind the Kraken had got it, the tentacles alone bigger than the tiny boat he’d been huddled on. He shuddered and drank too much, and I put it down to hallucinations caused by a bad batch of moonshine. There was no such thing as monsters.

    Then we heard about warriors. We heard about chariots, of all things, chasing down whole platoons of Xenos in Egypt, chariots so bright it felt like staring into the sun; a huge hound with three heads was spotted in Greece, a man in shadows and a woman of light removing the leash as Xenos advanced on them; a woman showed up in Iceland standing head and shoulders above the tallest man there, with an army of her own. They didn’t seem to fall in battle, and pushed the Xenos back, fighting with sword and shield and spear, a fury that our alien invaders couldn’t match.

    Humanoid creatures with eyes of fire supposedly began granting wishes over in Syria, as long as your wish was for them to kill your enemies. There were sightings in Ireland of pure white horses, horses that once ridden wouldn’t let you off, that dragged people into bogs and rivers. Tales came out of  brazil of monstrously large snakes, sometimes with the faces of women, dragging aliens into the gloom of the rivers and rainforests.

    But there’s no such thing as monsters.

    I finally believed when I saw three women facing down the largest army of Xenos I’d ever come across – at least twelve thousand by my counting. I’d been running from a scouting party, and when I stumbled out of the treeline onto a road I realised they’d chased me right into the path of the oncoming horde.

    The moment you face your death is a strange one. Everything felt calm except the thundering of my pulse in my ears, and the crows that seemed to come from nowhere to blot out the sun.

    Then three women strolled into the road in front of me, placing themselves between me and the advancing army. A young woman, barely out of girlhood; someone who could have easily been my mother; and a woman so old she was almost bent double. It was the oldest who strode towards the mass of Xenos without any fear, leading the other two towards their deaths, and the din of the crows got louder.

    The youngest one glanced my way and smiled playfully, and something from my grandmother’s tales made me flatten myself to the ground, hands clamped firmly over my ears.

    The scream started low, in the back of the old woman’s throat, travelling through the ground and making every bone in my body shudder with the vibration. Realisation began to dawn on me as Maiden and Mother joined in with their Crone, and the scream climbed to a crescendo that could have shattered glass. Even with my hands tight over my ears it pierced me to my core, a screaming agony that made me want to curl in on myself and die.

    I survived because it wasn’t meant for me.

    The Xenos, however, felt the full force of the rage these women contained. An entire planet’s worth of grieving poured out of them in this shriek, rooting their enemies to the ground with the difference in tone and pitch between these three women telling their stories.

    The mother stood tall and resolute, screaming her grief at these invaders, a mother mourning all of her children.

    The crone’s low snarl was that of war. Weary of the fighting but always ready to defend what’s hers, she growled her challenge, and the Xenos couldn’t stand against it.

    The maiden was hope, the only act of defiance in a world on the edge of ruin. When everything was dust, when the last stragglers of humanity were contemplating giving up, she was the hope that kept them fighting.

    Part of me wondered how many shirts they’d washed, how many rivers they’d wept together, before standing up and saying “no more.”

    The scream stopped abruptly, leaving me feeling like the breath had all been sucked out of me, a void in the air around me that rushed back in and filled my lungs with a long, shuddering gasp.

    I opened my eyes to carnage. The Xenos had died where they’d stood, their organs haemorrhaging, what passed for blood pouring from every orifice, their eyes turning to liquid in their skulls. Bodies were everywhere, and the crows circling overhead had fallen silent, uninterested in the feast this must have surely been for them.

    The Morrigan was one woman now, ageless and terrifying.

    “Get up, child.” She commanded, and I had no choice but to obey, trembling legs pushing me to my feet. She reached out a hand, and gently wiped a trail of blood away from my ear. “Did you really think we’d abandoned you?” She murmured, and the crows descended, carrying her to the next battle.

    Monsters are real, and some of them look like people. But the Gods are also real, and they still believe in us.

    So I’m still fighting, and my battle cry is full of hope. 


    Like I get that it’s a dick move if it’s not necessary. But if you break down in tears because you have to actually go to work you’re a massive fucking pussy.


    It’s more like they were given a brief, happier, healthier alternative to being stuck inside a small space for 8 hours a day for a year and a half and going back to that is realizing how awful it really is.


    Calling someone a “pussy” for breaking down in tears over being subjected to fresh, unreasonable misery is contributing to the problem of letting corporations dictate our lives and sounds a lot like deep throating the boot. (Aside from the casual misogyny of saying tears, Feeling Things, and apparently not wanting to go to work are feminine and not something a manly man would do).

    Dude literally had a year of freedom. He could go outside, go to the park, stay home, just generally go where he pleased. Like a fucking adult who understood he had work to do, and obviously still got it all done because he hasn’t been fired or “laid off”. Now he’s got a collar back on his neck and a chain keeping him at a desk between a set of beige walls and an equally boring ceiling, which was there before, but now he sees it for what it is. And why is it there? Because his boss has a deep insecurity about letting people work without oversight. Because his manager starts to look a little redundant if people can do their jobs without touching base, attending meetings, and generally doing stuff that makes said manager look like a Leader. Because there’s people who think “this is the way my parents did it, and their parents did it, and presumably (but actually not) how their parents did it, so it’s good enough for me and you, and let’s have no more talk of this change nonsense”.

    This is why there’s talk of a literal Great Resignation coming, as people who’ve come to appreciate their freedom give the bird to unreasonable bosses who want them back in an office. And other people who actually preferred the structure and routine of the desk look for another one when their own bosses decide to keep the work-from-home model coming. Covid has caused a cultural shift, and ridiculing our fellow man for wanting something better is the stupidest thing you can do.


    The whole year proved that people still get enough work done without going in person and we know all that commuting is hell on the environment. There actually ought to be a push to “ban” physical office work; absolutely no business should be able to force you to go somewhere if your work can be done from anywhere at all.

    I say this as someone who has never had an office/cubicle job myself, but holy shit the notes are an absolute trainwreck of people thinking office workers have “cushy” jobs they should appreciate better. No, no they do not, office workers have a high suicide rate for a reason. More to the point, you shouldn’t be making any worker’s rights into a “who has it worse” race.


    Do you ever think you'll stop drawing fanart? No offense it just seems like the kind of thing you're supposed to grow out of. I'm just curious what your plans/goals are since it isn't exactly an art form that people take seriously.

    Ah, fanart. Also known as the art that girls make.

    Sad, immature girls no one takes seriously. Girls who are taught that it’s shameful to be excited or passionate about anything, that it’s pathetic to gush about what attracts them, that it’s wrong to be a geek, that they should feel embarrassed about having a crush, that they’re not allowed to gaze or stare or wish or desire. Girls who need to grow out of it.

    That’s the art you mean, right?

    Because in my experience, when grown men make it, nobody calls it fanart. They just call it art. And everyone takes it very seriously.


    It’s interesting though — the culture of shame surrounding adult women and fandom. Even within fandom it’s heavily internalized: unsurprisingly, mind, given that fandom is largely comprised by young girls and, unfortunately, our culture runs on ensuring young girls internalize *all* messages no matter how toxic. But here’s another way of thinking about it.

    Sports is a fandom. It requires zealous attention to “seasons,” knowledge of details considered obscure to those not involved in that fandom, unbelievable amounts of merchandise, and even “fanfic” in the form of fantasy teams. But this is a masculine-coded fandom. And as such, it’s encouraged - built into our economy! Have you *seen* Dish network’s “ultimate fan” advertisements, which literally base selling of a product around the normalization of all consuming (male) obsession? Or the very existence of sports bars, built around the link between fans and community enjoyment and analysis. Sport fandom is so ingrained in our culture that major events are treated like holidays (my gym closes for the Super Bowl) — and can you imagine being laughed at for admitting you didn’t know the difference between Supernatural and The X Files the way you might if you admit you don’t know the rules of football vs baseball, or basketball?

    “Fandom” is not childish but we live in a culture that commodified women’s time in such away that their hobbies have to be “frivolous,” because “mature” women’s interests are supposed to be marriage, family, and overall care taking: things that allow others to continue their own special interests, while leaving women without a space of their own.

    So think about what you’re actually saying when you call someone “too old” for fandom. Because you’re suggesting they are “too old” for a consuming hobby, and I challenge you to answer — what do you think they should be doing instead?


    This whole modern approach is also seriously undermining just how important fanfiction is - from a historical standpoint.

    The concept of fanfiction formed and forged the earliest stages of literature in Europe. Because the majority of authors in France, Germany and Great Britain looked at that funky little Celtic dude Arthur and thought “hey, he’s neat. I wanna write about him”.

    The entire concept of a book outside of religious purposes was born out of fanfiction in my country.

    There is no “first canon” for Arthur where he came as the prince of Camelot, with his sidekicks Lancelot and Merlin and his endgame love interest Gwen.

    Arthur was some random hunter when he started out.

    Someone’s fanfiction made him a prince.

    Someone else’s fanfiction gave him a round table.

    Someone else’s fanfiction gave him Merlin at his side.

    Someone else’s fanfiction gave him Morgana, gave him Gwen, gave him his swords.

    And, to this day, we still write Arthurian fanfiction. Literally last year there was a movie adaptation that is, by all intends and purposes, fanfiction, because it wasn’t even close to a literal adaptation of the source material (The Kid Who Would Be King). Heck, BBCs Merlin, itself an Arthurian fanfiction, remains one of the biggest fandoms that people today write for on AO3.

    You were a joke in the middle ages if you tried to write your own stuff. Who’s interested in your stuff? You were only a respected author if you wrote fanfiction. The most famous medieval German authors are famous because they wrote fanfiction about some knightly OCs they created who served on Arthur’s court. That is the literary legacy of the middle ages. Arthurian fanfiction.

    Yet somewhere along the way, this concept of “I find x story/element cool and want to elaborate on it more, shift the focus onto an aspect of this original source material” has gotten this “eh, it’s fanfiction” connotation and lost respect.

    Even though this very concept is still being used - even outside of the actual medium of fanfiction - and it is still being used for the very same purpose it was used for in medieval times. Original movies often don’t get as much recognition as adaptations of existing source material that the audience is familiar with. People see a movie about a character they’re familiar with and seem more inclined to buy a ticket to see the 10th new interpretation of Batman or Superman or Snow White. How are these new interpretations of familiar source material that usually add to the lore, reinterpret characterizations and dynamics, any different from fanfiction?

    But heaven forbid we call The Dark Knight Nolan’s Batman fanfiction. No, fanfiction is that silly thing that we can’t take seriously, but that new Joker movie, that however is high-end art.




    This. Fanfiction is variations on an existing theme, simultaneously making use of and satisfying people’s existing love for a story that they’re happy to consume more of, and cultivating the synergy between an existing story/mythos and a new author who, in interacting with characters they’d never have created themselves, creates something that neither they nor any of the story’s previous tellers could have made all by themselves.

    Fanfiction is the new whole being greater than the sum of its parts, and fanfiction is the story being made limitless, retelling by retelling, and it is wonderful.


    It’s also worth noting that Batman himself only came into being because of The Scarlet Pimpernel, a series of books about an extravagantly rich foppish playboy by day, daring hero in disguise by night (I mean, loosely. He also fopped by night and heroed by day, but you get my drift). Written by a woman no less.

    Batman is a transformative work with a modernised crime-fighting SP but also borrowing strongly from earlier comic books, and yet it is seen as definitive.


    Coming back here to say that I think the derision for fanart also has some of its roots in our capitalist hellscape.

    It’s the age old “If thing not make you money, why you care about thing?” that’s so prevalent in the system. Of course some people do make money with their fanart, but I think that is still part of the scorn. 

    It’s supposed to be something you do not just for fun, but for practice, people like this think. Once you’re good at it, you can drop it and make money by focusing on your OCs and original work!


    use a horizontal rule instead of special characters if you'd like your fic to work for people who use screen readers


    [Video description: a TikTok made by ao3commentoftheday explaining how to add an accessible line break to an AO3 work. The video is of the fic writing page of AO3, showing a row of asterisks separating "lorem ipsum" text with captions that match what is being spoken.

    "Let's talk about scene breaks and accessibility.

    If you're writing your scene breaks and you do something like this, a screen reader will actually read out each one of these symbols.

    Screen readers are software that's used by visually impaired people, dyslexic people, and people who like to listen to their fic instead of read it.

    And screen readers will take a look at this list of asterisks and they'll actually say asterisk, asterisk, asterisk, asterisk, etc. Not something you want to be listening to in the middle of a fic."

    The image on the screen cuts to a zoomed out view of the same page with the rich text formatting options visible at the top. The captions include two pointing up emojis directed at the section break button, a small square button with a single horizontal line. The video zooms in on this button as the speaker continues.

    "Instead of using a series of symbols, you can use this feature here in the Rich Text menu, and it will put a horizontal bar between one scene and the next, so you get that visual separation without making life horrible for people who use screen readers."

    The speaker clicks the button, causing a thin horizontal bar to appear in the text box where the row of asterisks had been."

    The video ends with the TikTok end screen featuring the user's name and profile picture. /end video description]

    It seemed ironic to me that a video about how to make your work accessible didn't already have a video description, so here you go


    Does the horizontal line get read by the screenreader as any separation at all? Is there a good way to accessibly indicate scene transition?


    I wish everyone who was ever into knock down drag out fandom fights would direct all that energy towards their city council, I feel like that would transform society overnight.


    like. You know how if you keep tabs on council meetings and your councilor says something dumb as hell and you not only get to call them on it, but grab all your friends to dogpile them??? and if you do it enough you can actually find a replacement for them who won’t say as much dumb shit and will actually allocate funds for the unhoused and pressure the police chief to stop lying? wayyyyyy more fun than going uncorked at some teenage rando with an untagged incest ship.


    I remember a while ago someone was interested in the pirate version of the Shia LaBeouf song that I mentioned so I finally got my shit together and took a video of it. It’s pretty brilliant.


    There was no way I was not going to share this piratical version of That song. You know of what I speak.


    I thought you might have been kidding. oh my god.


    “That’s the real ending, you can clap.”


    I posted this two years ago and it just got reblogged holy shit how is this still going around?


    #when is chris evans not steve rogers though


    I have


    no idea

    what you’re

    talking about


    i do believe this is my fifth time reblogging this


    apart form sebastian though he goes from this to this


    seb’s the weird cousin


    This is amazing oml


    Seb’s the fanboy they grew to connect with the audience


    @snowyseba This explains everything!


    I’ve only seen this post in screenshots on pinterest. I love it.


    I think you missed the other fanboy…


    Everybody says Seb isn’t like Bucky… but he IS. He’s Bucky without a mask on. Bucky’s always wearing some sort of mask. Even around Steve. Seb is what Bucky would be like if he’d had the chance to just ~be~.


    Um we’re forgetting someone…




    Not to forget our “Wizard”:




    I’ve found it. I’ve found the perfect post.


    it’s on my dash jdnckdmd


    these dorks lmaoo


    I love everyone omg they’re all so amazing???


    Don’t forget


    Chris looks so hot in that first gif set


    Omg I found THE original post! Holy shit I’ve only ever seen screenshots of this!


    This post pops up on my dash every few months and I will never not reblog it.


    This is too good to not reblog


    Everybody see this, this is the quality trash I came to Tumblr in the first place.


    This post is ALMOST perfect, but we’re forgetting someone:


    how i sleep knowing i will pirate every single thing released on disney plus


    how y’all gonna sleep after your computers are infected with a bazillion viruses and the feds gon’ bust your asses


    how i sleep when I'm pirating disney with a vpn and anti-virus protection.


    How I sleep after pirating everything from D+ while using an antivirus, VPN or proxy, and a cantenna to rip off the free wifi at Downtown Disney. If you can’t get wifi directly from the house of mouse McDonald’s will do.


    How I sleep knowing I’m pissing off all the Disney bootlickers by pirating:


    Oh no! What a terrible thing to do, this information should't be spread by reblogging it, that's for sure.


    Okay, I have to admit, using Disney's own wifi to pirate Disney Plus shows is a stroke of absolute GENIUS


    The sign of high quality is the fact the book was banned by the government. Trash literature NEVER EVER had any troubles with the law.




    That’s the reason it’s on the bloody list.




    The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

    The Autobiography of Malcolm X


    Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (this was the only free version I could find, and it’s a downloadable thing, so do so with caution)

    The Call of the Wild

    Catch-22 (it was either this version or one where the entire thing was in comic sans font)

    The Catcher in the Rye

    Fahrenheit 451

    For Whom the Bell Tolls

    Gone With the Wind

    The Grapes of Wrath

    The Great Gatsby


    In Cold Blood

    Invisible Man

    The Jungle (personally I don’t like this formatting, but the site doesn’t look sketchy so…) - theres also this which is the proper book format in a pdf, but it’s directly photocopied so it might be hard to read some of the print

    Leaves of Grass

    Moby Dick

    Native Son

    Our Bodies, Ourselves (we learned about this one in APUSH!)

    The Red Badge of Courage

    The Scarlet Letter

    COULD NOT FIND Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (the ebook is 47 fucking dollars??? and i can’t even find sketchy websites that’ll let me download a pdf. if anyone manages to find a link, lmk please)

    Stranger in a Strange Land

    A Streetcar Named Desire

    Their Eyes Were Watching God

    To Kill a Mockingbird

    Uncle Tom’s Cabin

    Where the Wild Things Are (this is a slideshow!!!! how fun)

    COULD NOT FIND The Words of Cesar Chavez (however I did manage to download the first 71 pages of the book from EBSCO and I put ithere but I couldn’t get the rest. sorry y’all)


    rebloggan 4 links


    fanfic speedrun: write the scene you want to write and skip the rest of the fic

    (same goes on the reader side of things)


    I'm seeing people on this post who think that what I'm saying is, "Write out of order, starting with the things you enjoy most." And while that's fine advice, it's not actually what I said.

    What I said was, "Only write the thing that's fun, and don't write the rest."

    Write one shots. Write drabbles. Write ficlets. If you have 5 interesting scenes but you can't figure out how to tie them together into a fic, then write 5 separate ficlets, post them in a series, and when you get another idea for that series just plop it right in there and rearrange the works into the right order.

    You don't have to write longfic to write fanfic.

    The infographic above (courtesy of Yalla! Let's Talk) was posted only six days ago and now Palestine is trending once again following Israel's new airstrike against the people of Gaza in the middle of the night.

    Besides being a violation of the "ceasefire", which Palestinians themselves said would not resolve the core issue, this new wave of bombings is once again a reminder that a free Palestinian state cannot be achieved through lukewarm, inconsistent coverage and activism.

    Here is a few resources, feel free to add more:

  • Build Palestine has provided a list of charitable organizations you can donate to, many of them are providing critical medical/ humanitarian aid to Gaza in particular.
  • The BDS Movement's Action Alerts, resource articles and images, and list of what to boycott and how to do it effectively.
  • A playlist of Abby Martin's Empire Files reports from Palestine
  • Working Class History's podcast on the history of Zionism, Settler Colonialism in Palestine, and Anti-Zionist Activism: Part 1 & Part 2
  • Article on how mainstream media and social media companies have targeted or marginalized support for the Palestinian cause