In A World Where Gods Are Very Casually Involved In Most Aspects Of Life, But There Are Also Very Powerful

Green ribbons of light danced across the darkened rural sky to the song of stringed instruments coming from my phone. The gentle melodies punctuated every sudden arch and smoothed each long stretch. Somewhere off in the distance, the sound of my friends spinning, running, and laughing on the dirt road and through the overgrown ditches. Even further off, the howl of coyotes gives warning to some unfortunate creature.

The song changed.

I lean back on my elbows in the truck box so I'm not craning my neck as much. I watch the sky light and darken as the green strips stretch and compress, appear and dissappear.

I found a place among the souls who offered me a rope, thankful for the day my journey came across the boat

I glance over at the friend next to me, their breath fogging from the cold night air as they try to take a picture of the sight in front of them. A picture can hold a thousand words, and will always far outlast our memories. The last time we watched the sky like this, we were laying on rocks beside a bridge, both being lulled to sleep by the song of a foolish man, enchanted by a forest spirit. I had never known rocks to be so comfortable until that night.

The song changed.

I went back to watching the sky, the ribbons of light greatly diminished from when I last looked. Now, they seemed to be painting a picture of a snowy tundra, briefly illuminated by pine trees, putting emphasis instead on the stars above the green light. I traced the constellations I knew, recalling the stories and different names I knew for each one; wishing I knew more of their names, shapes, and histories.

I know you'd break your neck just to see the stars

I chucked and rubbed the back of my sore neck. If nothing else, the song got that right. The two friends seemed to tire of their galavanting and ran back over to join us at the truck again, watching the stars and northern lights. The ribbons seemed to take that as their cue to take center stage, once again filling the night sky. The lines between each fold and spike grew and shrank, boldened and blurred. We watched the spectacle in awe, music having returned to the familiar, calming strings.

A flash of orange, red, and yellow streaked through the performance, there and gone in an instant. For a moment, all that could be heard was the stringed instruments. My friends began exclaiming their shock, estonishment, and excitement, one regretfully saying they didn't make a wish. I sat there, stunned, replaying the sudden flash of light - a meteor, we agreed - desperately trying to commit it to memory. I didn't want to forget it or that night. The friend next to me suggested I make a note of it on my phone, so I did.

The night drew on, and songs continued to change. Eventually, we moved the truck around so we could watch from inside the cab, as most of us did not dress warmly enough. The friend and I talked about the last time we stargazed like that and of bringing blankets next time. We talked about the people we liked and of people we wished to love.

After what might have been hours, the show did end, and the four of us left our little spot in the country so we could all sleep before work the next day.

(the original note from that night: Fucking commet while watching Northern lights with buds)

Songs referenced are (in order): Journey to Wherever We May Go by Grand Commander, The Willow Maid by Eurtan, Archer by Novo Amor. The referenced string music is from Astronomy, Vol. 1 by Sleeping at Last.

Pictures by @/alyssamoggy on Instagram

nurse feratu and dr. acula are ready to see you for your blood tests

It’s weird to grow up in a family where you know you’re loved but you don’t feel loved. And then later in adulthood you understand how almost impossible it seems to cross that distance and let yourself experience closeness, how otherworldly love feels now and how love feels unbearable at times. You flinch when someone tries to wholeheartedly love you. And over and over you see so clearly how you cannot be loved unless it's from afar and love is mixed with that familiar sensation of distance and coldness.

I bought a nice storage box at an estate sale without looking inside, and it was full of 8mm home videos.

It should be the start of a horror movie, and it kind of is, in the way that we see the past.

The films were made by a young, rural father throughout the 40s-50s filming in excessive and loving detail his baby son and homely but sweet-looking wife. The things that he chose to film belie this idea of “traditional family values” and masculinity, especially in the American and Canadian West (it’s unclear what side of the border they were living on.)

This young man was trying creative and artistic ideas with his hobby (his camera), like filming his wife doing her hair through the mirror, lots of landscapes, and flowers growing in their tiny garden.

The thing that struck me so much was the complete adoration of his family, in a way that might not be “50s Dad-Husband.” He’s spending hours of film taking care of and documenting teaching his son to garden. He sets up the camera to film himself and his wife laughing while doing the dishes. He gives her a gag gift of an apron for Christmas and she throws it at him while laughing. Her real present was a pair of hiking boots, which she is adorably delighted by.

This family was working poor, with a tiny rural house, and the home films capture warts and all. Instead of “Leave It To Beaver” dynamics, we have a family who should embody what people think of as the worst (or best) of 50s families, but absolutely do not.

The 50s weren’t the glossy advertising version that conservatives want to “return to”. This family was poor, and the camera was clearly the one hobby that the husband allowed himself. The young parents are delighted but exhausted. They are sharing housework. The homely but adorable young mother has terribly crooked teeth and wears overalls in the garden. Dinner parties include a surprisingly diverse group of friends.

I think the estate sale was after the death of the (now elderly) little boy in the films.

We can’t go back to an era that didn’t exist in the way that we assume it did. Even the 50s were full of complex and interesting people who weren’t just Suzy Homemakers and Pipe-smoking Fathers.

My point is that history is more complicated than we think. We can’t go back to a world that only existed in advertisements, and there were people living and loving each other throughout history.

I was struck by how much this young father loved his family and was so invested in his child and partner. He wouldn’t fit into any “traditional masculinity” molds, but he was delighted by his camera and capturing the things important to him. I’m so glad that I got to see his life through his eyes.

With one simple trick, you can turn a 20 hour game into a 100 hour game

It's called being bad at video games

Having mad artblock rn

"Are you a boy or a girl?" I'm gay and tired as hell idk man you decide for me. Flip a fucking coin. Kiss me and find out ://

using "what were YOU doing at the devils sacrament" to mean "yeah i made an embarrassing reference but you understood it which is also embarrassing" is very funny to me

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.

you cant even begin poems with "i will sodomise and facef uck you" anymore. because of woke .