Banzai

no mermaid for today but have a gym leader sona as a break from coms!

Havent updated in forever, but I figure I can catch up by spreading my love of Dragalia Lost. Instead of pranking us with false hopes, it gave us the most adorable shootem up bullet hell with Notte!

Work Drabbles - Space Arm!

Made off of a random idea, which is like most of them. A tale of a space 

...

"And so your first thought was to stick your arm into it?" Dr. Fel'o said, running the DNA scanner over the officer's glossy black arm.

"To be fair," Officer Dent said, "It was just my finger and it sort of crawled up from there."

The medbay of the intersteller ship had been quarantined due to Officer Dent's malady. The scanner beeped and an image was brought up on the monitor on the other side of Dent's bed.

"It crawled up?" Fel'o said walked around to inspect the monitor.

"Yeah, you know like the way frost covers a window when it gets cold out?" Dent said gesturing with his left hand. His right arm remained motionless.

The doctored made a non-commital sound, looking over the diagnosis. "Well, it might be a parasite. Or a fungus." He stroked his chin. "Does it hurt at all?"

Dent shook his head. "It tingles once in a while but it doesn't hurt." He looked down at his arm, "What's the verdict doc?"

Fel'o ran his finger across some intricate readout data and sighed, "As a surprise to no one, I'm sure, we have no data on this." He tapped a few components to start up a new file, "I would like to take a sample."

Dent cleared his throat, "You gonna," he hesitated at the word, "Amputate?"

"I am tempted. Seems like the simple solution." Said the doctor, picking up a handheld tool with a long blade. "But I would rather we didn't do that." He set the tool down, "This is usually the part where the hapless scientist gets eaten by the parasite monster trying to protect its host."

Dent frowned at his arm, "It seems harmless enough. Juda accidentally slammed it in the airlock and it didn't eat anyone."

Fel'o turned sharply, "Slammed it in the airlock? Like," He smacked his fist against his arm, "Bam."

Dent nodded and made the same motion, smacking his fist against the arm. It continued to be glossy.

The doctor looked back at the data readouts. "Then maybe." He stepped away from the monitor and paced around a little. "Okay, let's try something else." He walked to his desk and grabbed a smooth, silver ball. He clicked a few buttons on it and it started to hum. He clicked again and the humming stopped.

"We are going to see if vibrations do anything interesting." Fel'o put the ball into Dent's hand. When he let go, the ball fell to the floor.

"Sorry, the hand can be finicky." Dent shrugged.

Fel'o picked up the ball, "But you said you can still move your arm."

"It jerks around sometimes. Like, when Juda went to slap me for getting my arm stuck, it just sprung up." Dent said, poking his arm with his other hand.

"I see," said the doctor. He held the ball over Dent's hand, "Okay, this time I'll have you catch the ball."

Dent sighed, "I dunno if I'll catch it, but I'll try."

Fel'o nodded and just as he dropped the ball, he screamed. A sharp, quick scream that made Dent tense. His hand clenched around the ball as it fell.

"There we go," Fel'o said. "I better note that it responds to reflex stimuli." He walked back to the desk and scribbled his notes.

Dent relaxed his shoulders but tried to focus on keeping his fist flexed around the ball. The hand remained clenched. Fel'o came back wearing a heavy lead protector and a plexipolymer mask. "Alright, let's try some medical science." He tapped a button on a remote and the silver ball began to hum again. Dent screwed up his face and shivered.

"Now that is a strange sensation." He said.

"Does it hurt?" Fel'o asked.

Dent shook his head, "Not really. More tingles. But less of a 'bam' and more of a wave. Like, ocean wave stuff." He said.

Fel'o nodded and observed the arm. It was still glossy but there were ripples spreading across the surface. Then, the ripples began to bubble and small spines were rumbling up from the surface. Little mountain peaks pinpricked across the arm and rose upward.

"Remarkable, it's like a non-nutonian liquid." Fel'o said, shaking his head. "Incredible."

"I think so too, but it is also kind of unnerving." Dent said. "Since, you know, it is my arm."

"Oh right. Let's end here for now." Fel'o clicked his remote and the ball stopped humming. He returned to his desk to scan the mountain of data.

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

The Wreckers - Cashing In

Another round of thugly antics. Again, check out Puckarooni for her Pokemon Superhero AU. Cool jams, friendos.

Alolan Joe - Alolan Ratata Leader and self proclaimed mousestache afficianado

Ben - Spearow Brawn of the group of Bachelor of Thuganomics

Zach - Zigzagoon Dunno what he’s doing, but he’s doing it well

Sherman - Sentret Newbie, but he makes up for it with heart

~~~~~

Zach handed the sturdy box to Ben, who nodded and set it in the center of the table in the backroom of the Thrifty. He crammed the edge of the crowbar under the lip of the metal lid.

“Alright, you got it, Sherbet?” Ben said to Sherman, who took hold of the bottom of the box.

“Sherbet?” Sherman said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Said Ben, inclining his head down. “You. Got. It?” He held a stern face.

“Uh,” Sherman adjusted his grip and help tight. “Yeah, I got it, Be–uh. Bu…,” He looked around the thrifty and his eyes settled on a row of candies. “Bu–ttercup?” He looked back to Ben.

Zach snorted from the couch he had plopped down on. Ben shook his head, “You got a lot to learn, rookie.” He squared his shoulders, “Just, hold onto the damn thing.”

“Yes sir,” Said Sherman, his punctured ego dedicating itself to his task.

Ben worked at the crowbar, prying a little more of the lid back and setting the crowbar deeper. Once he was satisfied, he gave the crowbar a swift jerk that popped the edge of the lid off. The shrapnel flew across the room. Joe stepped into the doorway with impeccable timing.

“Gentlemen, I- Gah!” Joe squeaked as he narrowly missed the chunk of metal box that zipped past him.

“Oh, I see now. So it has come to this,” Joe straightened up and put up his fists. “Mutiny. I knew this day would come. But you’ll have to best me in combat, fiends. Come on then, let’s do this!” Joe began to hop around, waving his fists in front of him.

Sherman popped up, “Whoa wait! It was an accident, Boss. We were just trying to–”

“Finally,” Ben said, shouldering his crowbar, “Been waiting for a chance to knock that cheesy smirk off your face.” 

Ben charged at Joe, swinging the crowbar down towards Joe’s head. In a flash, Joe brought up his hands to catch the blow, the two locked eyes and grit their teeth.

“Oh, Heck Yeah!” Sherman said, eyes sparkling. He scurried over to the couch and hopped into the spot next to Zach. “This is gonna be epic. Don’t you think?”

Zach shrugged, “Maybe.”

Joe and Ben tussled for a bit. They wrestled and rolled and tumbled, finishing with Joe having taken the crowbar from Ben.

Joe pointed the crowbar at Ben, who crouched on the ground catching his breath.

“Will you yield?” Joe said.

“Yeah yeah,” Ben said, bruised ego kinda killing the mood. “I will honor the code of the thug and serve your blah blah blah.”

“Perfect,” Joe said and tossed the crowbar back to him. “Whew, almost got me that time.”

Ben caught the crowbar and stood up, “Oh blow me sideways, bristles. You hold back every time.” He scoffed out his nose and went back to the table. “Hey, Sherbet, we opening this thing or what?”

Sherman, stars in his eyes got up from the couch, “You guys are so cool. Like, when you were like, ‘Whapam! Take that’ but then Joe just did that thing where he, you know, just ‘Whoosh, bam!’ and you went flying and…” He flailed his arms. Zach leaned away to allow Sherman room to embellish.

“That’s enough, Sherman.” Joe said, “What are you opening anyway?”

“Dunno, Zach found it in the junkyard and couldn’t open it.” Sherman said “He even did his–” He wiggled his fingers and flip flopped his wrists. “Stuff.”

Zach also wiggled his fingers and then shrugged.

Joe stroked his ‘stache, “A rather tricky treasure trove, it would–” He paused, “t-uh, tantamount to tremendous tantalizing trophies for this team.” He smiled at his cleverness.

Ben scoffed, “You are such a dork.” He glared at Sherman. “Come on, hold this sucker down before I use this crowbar to vent all that hot air in your head.”

Sherman hustled over and gripped the box again. Ben got the edge into the lid again and gave it a adrenaline-fueled push. The lid peeled back like a tuna can and revealed the contents within. Ben tossed the crowbar aside as they all gathered to peek inside the box.

“Oh,” Said Zach with a neutral voice.

“Whoa,” Said Sherman with a hint of wonder.

“Hmm,” Murmured Joe, contemplating.

“Oh, goodie. More junk.” Ben said, his shoulders slumping down.

“What? This isn’t junk,” Sherman reached inside and pulled out a handful of the contents. Play cards. A bunch of them, haphazardly scattered inside the box. They had colorful pictures of monsters on one side and a big logo plastered on the other. “Don’t you remember Pouch Gremlins? For the Game Lad?”

Joe snapped his fingers, “Ha, I knew they looked familiar.” He took a few of the cards out of the box. “I used to play a shared copy of Powgrem with my brothers and sisters way back when.” He started flipping through the cards. Zach also began to dig through the contents of the box.

“Feh,” Ben said looking over the couple that Sherman had fished out, “That baby game about little kids making friends with super powered monsters and battling them. All the designs looked so lame.” His sharp eyes landed on a shiny card in Sherman’s hand, he snatched it and nodded. “Except this guy. He was awesome.”

Joe and Sherman looked at the card. Sherman smiled, “Oh yeah, Psycat. The legendary survivor of psychic experiments. The lore said that he was a loner Powgrem who killed off his old master. Pretty dark stuff.”

“Yeah, super edgy and took no shit. I liked him.” Ben said.

“My favorite was the one you could start out with, Grassasaurus Rex!” Sherman said, pulling out the relevant card, “His solar cannon attack was unbeatable!” He looked to Joe, “Oh, who was your favorite, Joe?”

Joe dug into the box and nodded, pulling out another shiny card, “This one.” He held it up, “The trickmaster, Ghostgar.” He laughed, “When I would play against my siblings, they would actually ban me from using him cause he was too good.”

“How about you, Zach?” Sherman asked, “Did you have a favorite?”

Zach was organizing the cards by color and rarity. Without looking up from his work, he muttered, “Yup.”

Joe chuckled. Sherman pressed on, “Such as…?”

Zach paused, looked over the stacks of cards before grabbing out a fairly common looking card and holding it up. “This guy.”

“Oh,” Sherman said, a little disappointed, “I guess Joltling is pretty popular.” He looked back to Joe, “I mean, it was the mascot of the series.”

Joe nodded and regarded the box again. “Hmm…what do you suppose these were doing in such a secure box?”

Ben scoffed, “Loser probably wanted to hide his shame when he moved on to something better.” He was gathering up all the copies of Psycat and silently judging the edginess of each one.

Sherman looked at the box, “Maybe they were special and he wanted to keep them safe?”

Zach finished sorting and stacking and said, “Resale.”

Joe, Ben and Sherman all looked up, struck by the idea.

Joe caught it first. “How much do you think these cards are worth?”

Ben smirked, “I hear things get more valuable over time, if you collect enough.”

“And look at all of these shinies.” Said Sherman, “They’ve gotta be worth a fortune.”

“Zach, gather up those little treasures,” Joe said, stroking his mouse-stache, “We’re headed to town!”

Ben and Sherman cheered, Zach packed the cards away.

“Gentlemen,” Joe said, “Let’s go make some money.”

…

“50 bucks?” Ben said incredulously. “Are you serious?”

He leaned over the counter of the hobby shop, making the cashier back away slightly. From behind the counter, he gave his big, friendly, Snorlax smile, “Yup, 100 even. Pretty—impressive collection, though.” He said through a yawn. “So, will that be cash or store credit?”

Joe managed to pry Ben away from the counter. “Uh, excuse my friend here. I am pretty certain there were quite a number of rare cards in there. Surely they would fetch a handsome price?”

The cashier shrugged, “Maybe a bit ago, but not anymore.” He turned in his swivel chair and grabbed another box of cards. “Everyone’s moved on to Data Goblins.” He showed them the box. Though the designs were slightly different, it seemed like the exact same game. “People just aren’t buying Powgrem anymore.” He set the box back, “So, 50.” He smiled again.

Ben wrestled out of Joe’s grip and got uncomfortably close to the cashier. “Listen, tubby, how about you grease these pockets before I grease up your face?”

The cashier held his smile and opened one of his eyes just enough to glare at Ben. The sight sent a chill down the young thug’s spine. “Fifty. Dollars. Even.”

…

Ben and Joe shuffled out of the hobby shop.

“Hey guys,” Sherman said, hustling up to them. “How’d it go?”

Joe looked at Ben, who scoffed, “Waste of time.” He looked away and folded his arms.

Zach and Sherman looked at Joe. Joe pulled the 50 dollars out of his pocket.

“Oh,” Said Sherman. Zach gave a resigned shake of the head.

“Well, you win some, you lose some.” Joe said. “But I still think 50 dollars for free is a win.” He smiled.

Sherman nodded, “Still, it would have been nice to at least keep–”

Zach zipped around in front of him and held up the Grassasaurus Rex card. “Here.”

Sherman lit up and took the card, “No way, you held onto my favorite. You’re the best.”

Zach shrugged and walked around to the other two members and held up their favorite cards.

“You sly devil,” Joe said, taking the card and slipping it into his pocket. “Should have known.”

Ben snatched his card, “What the heck? Isn’t this thing super rare? We might have gotten more cash for this.” He glared at Zach, who returned with an indifferent quirk of the eyebrow.

Joe nudged him, “You’re welcome to head back inside to trade it in.”

Ben looked back at the shop, then down to his Psycat. “Yeah, never mind. Psycat is too cool for that.” He also tucked the card into his pocket.

Zach also tucked a card into his pocket. The picture looked like a Joltling, but was a little off. It appeared as though it was merely wearing a Joltling costume…

Okay heads up for all Americans eligible to vote:

The Supreme Court just issues a ruling allowing Ohio and other states to purge voters from their election registration rolls due to their failure to cast a ballot in previous elections.

This is a major victory for the Trump administration and the GOP, and a direct consequence of the Supreme Court being stacked with more conservative judges (the votes were 5-4). This is also a huge part of what Trump/the GOP were counting on to save them in the 2018 midterm elections, which is where Democrats have been hoping to take back a majority in the House, giving them more power to combat Trump’s abuses of power and Republican legislation.

What this means is YOU CAN NOT ASSUME THAT YOU ARE REGISTERED for the 2018 elections, just because you SHOULD be. Thanks to this decision, red states can purge voters’ registration based on their not having cast a ballot in even just previous federal elections, NOT just the national Presidential elections. Effectively, if you haven’t voted in previous senate races or for congressional representatives in the past few years, that’s all they need now to say you’re no longer registered and need to register again.

They’re deliberately counting on people assuming they’re still registered and so not checking until after registration deadlines have passed, or showing up to vote this November and only then finding out they’re no longer registered, when its too late to do a damn thing about it.

And this is absolutely targeted at marginalized communities, low income voters, disabled voters, and basically anyone who simply can’t always AFFORD to keep on top of every federal election and show up to vote in every senate race, etc. Which not so coincidentally happen to be all the communities and voters who have the most to gain from Democratic victories in the 2018 midterms and are the least likely to cast votes for GOP candidates at this point.

This was absolutely a calculated effort aimed specifically at keeping the GOP in power with a majority control of the government come November, and unfortunately, it has a DAMN good chance of accomplishing just that if it goes by unacknowledged. I’m not looking to alarm or panic anyone, simply to say:

If you are a registered voter in a red state at this point, please please please do not take your registered status as assumed. Check on your registration status, look up all relevant voter registration deadlines for your state and district, CIRCLE THAT SHIT ON YOUR CALENDAR, and check your registration status AGAIN right before those deadlines pass, so you can be sure of it before its too late to do anything about it til the next voting cycle.

Reblog if you…

Liked something you wrote today.

Enjoyed writing whatever you wrote today.

Are eager to write the thing you’re supposed to write today.

Are proud to be a writer.

Writing without a story

I’ve got a couple of asks in my inbox about my prompt fills on here as well as how long I spend on them exactly. So here’s a bit of my process!

1) Find a prompt you like.

There are a lot of great prompt blogs out there! @writing-prompt-s, @gingerly-writing, @witterprompts, @yetmoreprompts and @corvidprompts are some of my favorites to go for inspiration.

For this post, I’ll be using this one (X) from writing-prompt-s! Don’t think too hard about it–that’ll just keep you from writing! Pick one you’d be interested in learning more about and open up a new document!

Prompt:  You are a lonely young child. Your parents are always working and you don’t have any friends. To cope, you decide to start talking to your stuffed animal. After you ask it a question one day, it responds

2) Choose your genre.

I tend to stick to urban fantasy or high fantasy, but maybe that’s not what you’re interested in writing! If you like writing out suspense, maybe thriller is more your speed or mystery! The world is your oyster.

3) Write the first line.

I favor my 10th grade english teacher’s advice here and try to write “one true sentence!” Technically it’s Hemingway’s advice, but he can go ahead and stay the frick out of this post!

Here’s my thought process: Young children need physical/verbal/emotional affection. Without the parents around, their reliance on stuffed animals makes sense. They probably hug the animal a lot and, from my experience, well loved stuffed animals aren’t quite as soft as they once were.

First line: Mr. Kili’s mane feels more like the fraying mop in the kitchen than yarn the night that Janet decides he’s the only friend she’ll ever need.

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Fact 1: In most versions of Dungeons & Dragons, when infected – as opposed to natural-born – lycanthropes transform under the full moon, they assume the default alignment of their type during the ensuing mindless rampage.

Fact 2: In most versions of Dungeons & Dragons, the default alignment of werebears is Lawful Good.

Conclusion: When an infected werebear transforms under the full moon, they go on a mindless Lawful Good rampage.