This is just really for any little stories I come up with. Stay strong, lovelies, you'll be ok. (Ask is always open xx) Some NSFW stuff and trigger warning as what I write about may contain sensitive stuff.
This is my main blog.
Now take away any and all numbers (1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,0), take away the letters F, Z, M, Q, L, H, B, T, P, E, A, Y, S, B, D, and X, take away all dashes (-),
What’s your new fucked up version of your url?
crustycreature
crucrur
for anyone who has a hard time figuring out which letters to take away, here they are in alphabetical order (dyslexia gang rise up)
A, B, D, E, F, H, L, M, P, Q, S, T, X, Y, Z
anyway nice to meet yall im rocvrir now which is KIND OF BALLER
In my weak defense I’m in a lot of smaller or old fandoms and you take what you get. Also i don’t usually use the exclude option and i love when the crack is treated seriously.
rb and put in the tags your username without using the middle row of the keyboard
see I like bullshit like this more than those “the first letter of your name” things because this one literally can’t harvest data because everyone’s username is definitionally already public
Text: We used to talk through the wells, a whisper carrying to every farm that had one. There is no one left to send well whispers, and yet I hear one, on a dark, gray afternoon.
Warning: Blood, self harm, human and animal death, horror themes, discussion of new magical systems.
Note: this started out as a simple creepy story and then the world-building just overflowed.
#
Whispers used to pass from farm to farm, messages that crossed miles, an old magic that no-one understood anymore. Raising the ghost trees requires space, untouched earth, and height. Our farms are hundreds of miles apart, each high on its own mountain. The wells are the only way we can contact each other… or they were.
I’m not sure what happened to some of the farms. I was too young when it happened. I know that some families left, betraying their trust, and some died out, and some just went silent for no reason we ever knew. This is the last farm still being tended, as far as I know, and I am the last farmer.
I need to find someone to help. I know I do. I should find young people to join me, teach them to tend the trees so that they can go to the other farms and re-seed. But I have never left my farm, and the thought frightens me. When my cousin Gilly died, I was so young, only sixteen, and the last. It’s been twenty years, and I’ve kept the farm going, but I have never dared to leave. What if something happens to me? What if I don’t come back? These are the last ghost trees. I have to care for them.
Every full moon at sunset, though, I come back to the well. The well that is the heart of the farm. The well whose water glows pale gold in darkness and poisons everything but the ghost trees…. or those who have eaten their shoots.
I feed the spring shoots to my goats and my birds, every year, and eat handfuls myself. They tasted bitter to me, the first year, and the animals that haven’t tasted them before have to be forced to swallow. After that first taste, though, we all learn to love them. Bittersweet and rich, they taste like sunset on snow and the smell of spring. I suppose I could avoid the whole process - there’s a spring of ordinary water - but it freezes in winter, and why go to all the trouble of thawing tasteless, dull water from the spring when the well water never freezes or even grows too cold to drink safely, when it tastes so much better and makes us so strong?
I drink the well water. And every full moon I come back to the well to whisper news into it, or the names of my family, or of the farms that existed once and are now lost. I whisper, because a voice that’s too loud will echo and distort. I think that’s why. I’m not so sure any longer.
Then, one evening in early autumn, I hear a whisper coming back. “Antorune… Antorune…”
Antorune is the name of the mountain, and the farm, and though I’m shaking and sick with shock, I remember how to answer. “Antorune is bright,” I whisper. “Who are you?”
“Antorune…” The voice is eerie and hollow, and I can’t remember if they always sounded like that. It’s been so long. "Antorune, they’re coming. They’re coming.“
"Who’s coming? Why?”
“Yours is the last farm. The last trees. Do you know how to scatter?”
My mouth goes dry. Scattering is a terrible thing. Gilly told me stories about it. Scattering is the last act of a farmer under siege, the last desperate hope for the trees and for the world. We all know how to do it, and all pray we’ll never have to. “I know. Is it time?”
“It is time.” The hollow voice sounds very sad. “Be brave, Altorune. Be resolute. You must save the trees.”
“I must save the trees,” I repeat, and then I pause. “Voice… my name is Tula. I am the last farmer. I… I wanted someone to know my name.”
“I will remember your name, Tula.” The whisper was fainter now, but I heard it. “I will remember your name…”
Science fiction is full of first contact stories, but is there a such thing as LAST contact? Decide exactly what that means, and write about it.
It was too late, when the humans came. They were a young species, still
exploring outwards, vital and thriving.
We… were not.
War had ravaged us,
and sickness, and war once again, until our population dwindled beyond the
point of recovery. We struggled against that, of course… we used genetic
manipulation, and cloning, and even more desperate measures. None succeeded.
When the humans came, we were sinking into apathy, only a few tens of us left.
We had begun to discuss whether we should commit a mass suicide, or simply wait
to fade away.
And then the young
species came, in their clumsy ships, and they asked us why we were so
few.
“We are becoming
extinct,” we told them. “We have passed the point of recovery.”
It is custom to avoid
the races that are dying – once a species reaches the point of inevitable
extinction, even war is suspended, and the fiercest enemy pulls back. The
custom was born of plagues and poisons that could be carried forth from a dying
world to afflict a healthy one, but it has the implacable weight of tradition
now. After we are gone, after they have waited for the prescribed period of
quarantine, there will be a fight for our world. Habitable worlds are few, and
this is a good one, with plenty of free groundwater and thriving vegetation. It
is a bitter thing to be grateful for the custom that allows us to die in peace,
but we are grateful.
But the humans don’t
know that custom, and they do not leave. They seem distraught, when we tell
them we are dying, and try to offer their aid - but their technology is behind
ours, and it is too late. When they realize that they can’t save us, though,
they do something that bewilders us.
Hi, hello, this is your standard “my dash is dead” post. I need more amazing writers to follow. If any of the following applies to you, leave me a comment or a like and I’ll check out your blog!
If you are a writer who:
• deals with chronic pain or illness
• is neurodivergent and/or disabled
• is 18 or older. I’m in my mid-20s; it’d be Not Okay to befriend minors at
• write primarily fantasy and soft sci fi. Light horror and romance are cool, too.
• are sharing stories that feature found family, morally grey main characters, epic love stories, nuanced takes on current world issues in a fictional setting, magical creatures, elaborate and vibrant prose,
• tend to center queer, poc, disabled characters
• are open to participating in aak games, swapping comments on our work, and generally interacting on tumblr
not to be a fucking boomer but holy motherfuck i’m so tired of young queers on social media having temper tantrums about flags and words and fanfiction and just shit no one gives a fuck about in real life.
here’s a list of things i’ve encountered in irl queer spaces that no one batted an eye about that i have seen nuclear level freak-outs about on tumblr:
- trans man calling himself a lesbian
- trans man calling himself a femboy
- lesbian being married to a trans man
- trans man and trans woman calmly and respectfully talking about reproductive transphobia (me and my voice teacher who i adore)
- gay men in puppy masks simply existing
- trans woman not doing voice training/feminization because she likes her voice the way it is and somehow not “tRiGgErInG” the women around her with her scary deep Male VoiceTM
- queer people saying slurs in normal speech when we talk about history or community or for self identification
- talking about how cishets are shitty to us no matter how we identify and not policing other people’s language when they talk about their personal experiences
i am far from the first person to say this but oh my god go outside. meet other queer and trans people in person at queer events. if you can’t do that, see if there are any streaming events you can attend. but just get off social media. stop thinking of the queer community as this nebulous online thing with rules and regulations created by and for white tumblr teens. it’s a real living breathing group of people that has infinitely varied experiences that a 20 yr old white tumblr user will never be able to succinctly boil down into a one liner. definitions mean nothing. stomping ur feet on tumblr bc u saw a trans man use a word u don’t like or a trans woman like a thing u think is gross and bad is stupid and u should not do it. grow up and go do something fun.
amid the celebrations about the queen probably dying soon, we need to remember how this will negatively affect the country. there will be millions spent on a funeral and charles’s coronation while we are in the middle of a severe economic crisis and working class families are having to choose between heating and food. it will take attention away from all the important politics and parliament may be suspended. all news and television will be about her death and her reign — it’s been said that comedy programmes will be cancelled for potentially up to a fortnight out of ‘respect’.
yes, celebrate this news. but her death does not erase the fact that the monarchy exists, and it will be a spit in the face for working people when the money we all so desperately need is spent on her and the rest of her family
