cabbage-of-chaos

[cabbage-of-chaos]

sorry for the long period of inactivity, back now tho and gonna try to be more consistant with stuff.

expect a large dumping of writing stuff soon, a lot of stuff has been made since the last time this account was visited.

@the-ellia-west

[cabbage-of-chaos]

The God Calculator

Pinkish tendrils sprawl across the rounded concrete walls of the cold circular room, fused with screens and lights and switches. In the middle of the room a large bulb of flesh hangs from the ceiling above a hole in the floor of the room, surrounded by guard rails. Soft gasping sounds emanate from gill-like structures along the sides of the Calculator’s bulb. By the guard rails is a pedestal with a panel of buttons atop it, the pedestal is covered in alien writing and is connected to the bulb via another tendril.

The sound of hydraulic pistons activating echos across the room. A door in the smooth wall lifts, revealing three human figures. The first one is dressed in a flowing cloak, with a necklace of machine parts and holy symbols around their neck and a holy book written in symbols and logographs in a pouch by their waist. This figure is flanked by two armed guards, who wear efficient dark full body armor and carry automatic rifles with bayonets affixed to them. One of the guards has gilding around the edges of their armor. The figures approach the pedestal, the priest flips a switch, causing the bulb to begin slowly yet steadily pulsing. The harsh cold warms slightly around the bulb. 

They input a command into the pedestal, their fingers effortlessly gliding across the metallic keys printed with alien symbols. The command appears on a screen above them as they write it, logographs organising themselves into neat columns and highlighting key elements. They press a key at the side of the pedestal and step back, the bulb shifts and various screens flash to life, the screen changes to a single column of logographs and a vertical progress bar, slowly ticking upwards. The other screens around the room light up and hundreds of logographs scroll past on each one. Countless simulations run simultaneously for a few seconds, steam drifts off the monolithic bulb as it runs hundreds of calculations.

Then the side screens shut off, the progress bar reaches the top and the screen fills with logographs and construction diagrams, a booming synthetic voice fills the room for a few seconds, providing some kind of instruction to the priest. They produce a square vial from their cloak, inserting it into the base of the pedestal, after a few seconds it is removed, now sealed and filled with some kind of pinkish liquid. 

The priest carefully passes the vial to the ungilded guard, who holsters their rifle and cautiously takes it and holds it upright with both hands. The priest falls to their knees in front of the pedestal and begins reciting chants from their book, clutching their necklace as they do so. The guards converse in hushed voices between each other while the priest chants, the gilded guard does most of the talking, gesturing to the vial as they do so. After a few minutes the priest rises to their feet again, walking to the guard rails and dropping the book down the cavity, it splashes into liquid somewhere in the darkness. The bulb seems to acknowledge this sacrifice, and the door opens again.

The priest takes the vial from the guard and returns it to their cloak, careful to keep it upright and not agitate it. The figures turn to the door and exit the God Calculator’s chamber, the door closes and seals behind them. The God Calculator settles down, and the room cools once more.

[cabbage-of-chaos]

Sunstone

The polished stone walls of a labyrinthian border rise dizzyingly tall and stretch as far as the eye can see. Pink flowering vines with deep blue veins seeking the early morning sun snake up the smooth stone. Below, a figure walks with purpose down the wide moss covered floor of a pathway between the two walls. The figure’s hanging fabrics swish around their body and their veil flutters with their movements. A bandura rocks back and forth on the figure’s back, and a small serrated knife is tucked into their belt, chipped and worn from years of use. Their feet fall on a moss covered layer of dirt and abandoned debris; rifles and turret barrels, dropped centuries ago and rendered inoperable by rust, litter the floor and are long since overgrown.

The figure, deftly avoiding the jutting rusted spines, continues on their way. As the hours pass, the sun creeps down the north wall, its companion still shrouded in cool darkness. This seems to worry the figure, whose pace speeds up. After a few more hours, the first of the sun’s rays have begun to glimmer over the wall. The figure stares upwards at this with a mixture of worry and understanding as they make their way to a small shelter within the wall, only barely big enough to fit a single curled up person and seemingly constructed as a refuge. They unfold a reflective cloth and affix it to the opening of the shelter, crawling inside as the sun’s fierce gaze begins to sweep over the neutral zone. The light burning away the tips of the moss, causing it to recoil and pull back into the ground, hiding from the scorching glare of the harsh sun. The figure curls up as the rays wash over the refuge, the fabric reflecting them away. The air within the shelter warms and the figure shifts uncomfortably from the heat.

After some time, the light has crawled past the shelter, and the traveller carefully steps out as a light rain begins to fall. The neutral zone remains mostly untouched. The moss, having surfaced again, unfurls its leaves to catch indirect light. Raindrops hiss into steam on contact with the sun baked walls. The traveller packs up the reflective fabric and resumes their travel, stopping to observe a small blue bird peek its head out from my autoturret emplacement quite far off the ground. I register the bird as it alights out of my emplacement but I remain in a standoff with another turret on the opposing wall. They watch the bird flit away before continuing through the now foggy neutral zone, passing a small patch of moss already sprouted atop a charred pile of flesh and bone, most likely some poor creature caught unaware by the sun.

As the time presses on, the neutral zone darkens and rain begins to pour down more heavily, running down the stone walls which were cool once more and over my turret emplacements placed up to hundreds of meters up the walls. The water pools around ankle deep, but the traveller doesn't seem to care. Water pours into now uncovered drains, but is replenished by the rain just as fast. After a little while longer of walking, the traveller makes it to a door on the north wall indented in the wall with a raised step. The heavy metal door is shut and has only some kind of complex data reader with no visible lock or handle. A sign in some kind of elegant, spidery script is attached to the door but the figure doesn’t bother to look twice at it.

The traveller makes no attempt to open the door but instead couches down to rest in the small indent in the wall it creates, taking shelter from the rain as it pours down. The traveller slowly removes their upper layers and veil, setting them near a small heat vent to dry, their wisened and worn face showing a mixture of bittersweet contentment. They pull out their bandura, well worn from years of use, and begin plucking a tune, before eventually setting it aside and drifting into a deep sleep as the rain continues to pour down. Despite the hardships, they are content with this life of wandering between the labyrinthian border between the two monolithic blocks of human expansion, forever locked in a seemingly eternal stalemate. Yet they travel happily, for life is the journey, not the destination, and why worry about an unreachable destination when life is much more enjoyable if you actually look around enough to enjoy it.

>End Log

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>Save Log? Y/N

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@the-ellia-west

[cabbage-of-chaos]

The Porcelain Girl

(My Symbolism-infused School assignment Short Story)

It's about failure, success, isolation, and the torture of artists, failure, and imitation

Gold Represents Success, Silver Represents failure, yada yada

(Tis very long, read at your own risk)

PLEASE COMMENT OR RB WITH YOUR OPINION, I NEED TO TURN THIS IN ON MONDAY

The first thing I knew was the golden sunlight filtering in through the keyhole. When I stepped out of my small cabinet, my new world seemed a wonder beyond comprehension. Within walls too big for my eyes and voices through the halls I had to run to reach the end of. It took me days to explore the castle. I could sit on window sills and hide from the metallic footsteps of the Courtiers. I didn’t know how I knew their titles, but I did know I had to be careful. The Castle paved in stone, the courtiers plated in shining metal, they were glorious sights to behold. 

I was different.

Days and days passed, turning over to weeks, then months, and I began to know my castle and its contents. Men reveled in gold, where trash became the only home for silver. I would spend my days sitting in the window, looking out at the world beyond my gilded walls. But I loved one thing most of all. The king, the one who owned the palace, the only one entirely of gold, with no silver spots about him. He would speak to his servants as if they were free, and the Courtiers would imitate him down to his very smile. 

But I was no different in that regard. I longed to be like him, looked up to instead of crushed underfoot. But he was made of gold, and I was nothing more than mud. I had beauty, true, but I was still only clay with a painted face.

However, one day, while I was gazing from the window, pondering everything but my purpose, I spotted something. A crown, upon a scarlet pillow, displayed on a marble pedestal at the right hand of the King, gleaming in the summer sunset. The same color as the dandelions plucked from the gardens or the reflection of lanterns in a Courtier’s eyes. It called the name I didn’t have. 

I needed to see it up close. So against my better judgement, I lowered myself from the window and rushed to the ballroom to catch a glimpse of it. But as I reached the room, its sheer size made me forget where I stood.

Courtiers and servants at the left and right, carrying bronze platters and golden flowers, a room so bright it hurt my eyes. Beautiful to the point of gaudiness. Feet moved to the rhythm of something the King later called music, and fabric danced around the ankles of golden women. I stumbled away and scampered through the squirming crowd, avoiding being crushed beneath shoes or knocked over by flailing limbs. Because even then. I somehow knew I was in danger of being broken.

I was jostled, belittled, and ignored. Until I saw it again. The Crown stood above my head so far I was almost sure it brushed the clouds’ silver lining. But its beauty entranced me, making me forget for a moment the scratches in my paint from the violent thoughtlessness of the Courtiers. I wanted to touch it, just to know if it was real. So I stepped up onto the carved stone, hooking my smooth glass fingers into the dents and chipped columns. 

“Girl.” 

I stopped at once. I knew it was the King without turning. My grip on the stone loosened and I answered, “Yes, your Majesty?”

“What are you doing?” his voice was gentle but firm.

“I wished to see the crown.”

“Why? You are made of clay and glass. You are safer on the ground. You know that. You will never reach the top. It is better for you to stay away from danger.” 

I knew he was right, and even though I desperately wanted to reach the crown, I didn’t know if I could. 

“Please come down.”

But I didn’t. I gripped the stone and tried to pull myself up. But with his words in my head, my hold faltered, I felt a brief rush of air and the sensation of falling, before I hit the ground with a shatter. I only remember fragments. 

The King ordered me taken to the forges to be repaired. One of the Courtiers, shoulder plates of gleaming silver volunteered to collect my pieces and carry me. I was stitched back together in blue fire and the same silver of the Courtier, marking the cracks in my perfection. 

I stayed in my cabinet, tracing the cracks in my body with my fingers, too ashamed by my failure to allow myself to be seen. Until with the setting sun and the pearlecant shine of the moon, a voice whispered to me on the wind.

“What are you waiting for, girl? Why the tears?”

I looked for it’s source, but when I found nothing, I simply whispered back, “I failed.”

“You can’t hide forever just because of one failure. You are a treasure. If anything, your new metal shine makes you more beautiful.”

“But I am imperfect.”

“And so is even the most beautiful of flowers. Don’t let it keep you down, love.”

I tried to ask the voice what that meant, but it refused to answer. Eventually, I took it’s strange words and returned to the halls. For days, I followed the King’s advice, for I had come to fear the Courtiers and Servants once more. But at same time, they drew my eye. Every time I thought to speak to them, I remembered my imperfection, and I was afraid. But my fear could not keep me from the crown forever. The next time I saw it, the King had shed it from his head, and again, it stole my breath with it’s beauty. Silver cracks across my hands the color of the tools used by the Courtiers I feared, could not deter me any longer and I set out for the room. Their golden visage seemed taller as their glinting eyes watched my quiet steps. I shrank in on myself, saying nothing and hoping they would just forget I existed.

“The girl made of glass.”

“But she’s covered in Silver.”

“Why is she here?”

Silver. What I was and what they saw. I was a walking second place medal. I started to wonder if I should have just stayed in my cabinet. But a small whisper in the distance startled my attention away from the Courtier’s rumors. 

“You can do this.”

I stopped, catching my breath as I spotted the man who had brought me to the forge. Shackles of pearly silver weighing him down. But he managed a smile when he saw me. And that gave me hope. I could do this. I would climb up there, touch that crown, and I would prove to the king that I was something he could be proud of. 

So I gritted my teeth, and began my climb. The voices cut into the cracks in my clay flesh, as they whispered and muttered. But once more, the King saw me. He warned me to descend. But I refused. Until a Servant nudged the pedestal with his arm and I lost my grip.

I reawoke in my Cabinet once again.

“Wake up. Do not give in to fear. When you are ready, you can do this.” 

I ventured into the hallway to see myself in the curved glass of the clock. More silver filled the places where I had broken. But the whisper brought a warm breeze to comfort me.

“You are resilient. That is commendable. You are worth so much more than you know. Nobody is perfect on the first try.”

Though my failure discouraged me, I wanted to see the crown more than ever. And so I waited until the news of the next Ball.

When the doors opened, I wove between the feet of the golden Courtiers, glittering like the sun in the flicker of the evening lanterns. Without hesitation, I began to climb. 

This time, I would reach the crown. I knew it. The Courtiers noticed me halfway. They began their whispers, but I held on tight. It was a long, difficult task, but I kept going. Until he saw me. 

“Foolish girl!” His voice thundered across the room, shaking me as I reached for the top. “It is worthless to try getting you to see sense! You are made of clay and silver, you were not made for this! You are brittle and broken. This is the last time you will disobey me!”

With those words, the king plucked me from the pedestal. I lost my grip, and I fell. This time I hadn’t shattered. But I had still broken. He told the Servants to repair me and then lock me away. 

“This is for your good, Porcelain Girl. You discard your fragility too often. You will not break again.”

In a blur of hours and days, I was repaired, and locked in the dark of the castle’s dungeons. The Silver ran through my eyes and darkened my hair. Shackles the color of moonlight weighed my hands and feet. Though they were too loose to restrain me, I leaned against the bars, and waited to die. If I could not please him, I had no purpose. The Courtier with the silver shoulders came to visit me once. But I ignored him. He returned the next day and played me a song.

I told him to leave.

But one day, the Spirit returned, “You have given up. Why?”

“I have failed too many times.” I said, hoping he would go.

“A failure is not a curse.”

“But I am broken.” I told him. “And I cannot be fixed.”

“Even your king and his brilliant crown have a blemish or two. Gold is a soft metal.”

“Nevertheless. I am worthless. Even if you are right, they will never want me. I will fail again and again. I will never please them. I am only made of clay.”

“You are so much more than that crown or that king, or those courtiers. You are something new, and no one is ever used to something new. You have one person, don’t you? That Courtier still believes in you.”

I hesitated, considering his words. He was right, annoyingly enough. That Courtier did care about me. For some reason. And The Spirit himself seemed to as well. 

But as I looked down at my chains, I noticed something. Little silver flakes and wires. I slipped out of them easily, for they were too large for my hands, scooping the little scraps into my arms. I left the cell, and went to the courtyard, where the Silver-shouldered Courtier watched the sunrise. 

And as the golden rays lit up the castle, I saw myself in a small puddle, and for a moment, my Silver seemed the very same color as the light itself. 

Then I got an idea. I began to weave the wires into a small circlet, just large enough for my head. The Courtier spotted me, and he smiled, offering me a small golden ring. I accepted, and he helped me to weave my masterpiece. And for the first time, I loved that I was made of Clay. Knowing we were perfect just the way we were, our failures making us better for the future.

“I like it. Reminds me of you.” He smiled, and I smiled back as we faced the glory of the sun. The Spirit brushed my hair with a warm breeze and I held the circlet up to the light. 

It wasn’t the crown of a king, and it was far from perfect, but it was mine.

@supercimi @nczaversnick @homelessnerd @i-do-anything-but-write @sunflowerrosy

@artsandstoriesandstuff @soggt-frn

[cabbage-of-chaos]

Reblog to unleash this cat on your mutuals

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[cabbage-of-chaos]

The Art of Broom Racing: The Race

The race starts at the starting line, this starting line is usually drawn with chalk for easy cleanup or either a banner. Races consists of ten to fifteen racers at a time racing. They’re can be fewer people if it’s a team race. There are three types of races that can be races and it usually depends on the day or person hosting the race or what kind of race it’s going to be. All outs⇒ All out races is what it sounds like. All outs is a freestyle free for all types of race where players are out to be the first to cross the finish line. These races are usually the biggest with 10-15 players trying to battle it out to win. These races are chaotic and are usually the most fun to watch. All out races are slightly shorter than Team Rush but longer than Time Trials. These races are all about showing off the individual racer with cool tricks and magics they can use to win. Usually these races have a 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winner. Magic is allowed in these races thus, there are some rules and limitations on what magic can be used. Team Rush⇒Team Rush is a race where three to four teams race a track and try to win for their team. These are usually longer and stretch further distances. Teams are usually divided into teams of three or four, each team has their own team name and colors to support their team. Teams can also be pre registered before the races so that they can be an official team for team rushes. Team Rush’s usually have majority broom riders, Wizskates are allowed but, since they do have some advantages only one Wizskate rider is allowed. Majority should be brooms. Team Rush’s like All outs can have magic with some rules and regulations but, there is an exception to this rule when the players can combine all of their magic at once to get ahead creating what the fans have called a Rush Chain. These can only be used one or twice within a given much do players have to choose wisely when to use them

Time Trials⇒ Time Trials are similar to All outs in the sense that it’s an individual racer next to others who are battling it out for the fastest time. MAGIC IS NOT ALLOWED IN TIME TRIALS. These trails focus on speed and handling. They are races of pure skill.

=============================================== The Art of Broom racing: Rules

Broom modifications are allowed, however enchantments are limited by a strict list. 

Charms that increase speed slightly are allowed, but have to have a time duration of under an hour and can only be used three times within a race.

In a team rush players must Complete 3 of the five check points to win. If they complete all five checkpoints then they gain extra points.

Curses and hexes are NOT allowed

Magic that can physically or mentally harm a witch is strictly prohibited. 

All broomsticks must be inspected by a race inspector a few days before the race to be approved.

Team challenges and all outs must make pitstop for broom maintenance before racing again during the race.

Night races only! No races should be during the day.

Forbidden areas are blocked by runes, these runes shall not be broken and if they are broken the witch is disqualified from the race.

Betting is allowed, but changing the outcome of races is not allowed at all. 

[cabbage-of-chaos]

My writing process:

TYPE TYPE TYPE

*Stares at word*

*Type word into Google*

Ok, yeah, that means what I think it means.

TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE

Repeat 2943 times, sometimes with screaming.

[cabbage-of-chaos]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[cabbage-of-chaos]

how does one acquire motivation to write

Take Care of yourself.

That's how.

Drink a few cups of water, go for a walk, eat a small snack, take a shower, ect.

After that, you can sit down, watch a movie, a video, a show, read someone's writing, read an actual book, a comic, or just text and brainstorm with somebody.

I've learned through trial and error that taking care of yourself is a big middle finger to writers block and burnout.

It helps you focus more and feel better. Trust me, it works, and that's why I advertise it so hard. Not only is it good for you, but it's also good for your writing.

(I'm also open for brainstorming if you want to talk! - This Applies to ANYONE)

[cabbage-of-chaos]

ANONYMOUS PDA MEME

💖: i have a romantic crush on you!

💜: i want to make sure you’re happy

💙: i have a friend crush on you!

💚: im a little jealous of you

💛: i just think you’re cute!

💘: i wouldnt say no to a platonic marriage

👀: im too shy to talk to you

💗: i want to give you a hug!

💋: i want to kiss you!

💪: id fight someone if they talked shit about you

🔊: im really glad i started following you!

💬: we should talk more!

💭: i think about you a lot

👏: everything you say is great wtf…

🎧: you have excellent music taste!

👑: your blog aesthetic is lovely!

🚨: you intimidate me

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