dcadish-blog

[dcadish-blog]

why did i schedule myself for an 8 am on tues and thurs knowing that i fucking hate getting up early 

anyway!! i am here! feel free to inbox emm things and im me if i’m needed!

[dcadish-blog]

reblog & fill in with the handles & usernames you’re comfortable giving out, cross out what you don’t have/won’t give out at all, and label what you’re uncomfortable posting but are willing to hand out privately! feel free to add other platforms!

SKYPE: trapclairehuxtable TWITTER: INSTAGRAM: yagirlelle SNAPCHAT: FACEBOOK: is this still a thing? ask me KIK: freydianslip TELEGRAM: N/A PHONE NUMBER: 

[dcadish-blog]

the walking dead; starter sentences.

“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”

“Did you take one of my protein bars?”

“Get over yourself. You’re not the only one who lost something today.”

“Be who you are, not who you’ve been.”

“Sometimes you’re safer when there’s no way out.”

“We are not the same. We never were.”

“You fought to be here and we have to keep fighting.”

“We can find a way. And if we don’t, I’m still with you.”

“I know this sounds insane. But this is an insane world.”

“I fully respect the hair game.”

“They think I’m scrawny. They think I’m weak. But they don’t know shit about me.”

“You don’t need their love, but you need their respect.”

“You’re the butcher, or you’re the cattle.”

“Hey, you. Dumbass.”

“Welcome to the human race, asshole.”

“We can still come back. We’re not too far gone. We get to come back. I know we all can change.”

“Anger makes you stupid. Stupid gets you killed.”

“The pain doesn’t go away. You just make room for it.”

“Oh, Sunshine, you don’t get both.”

“Keep walking.”

“This isn’t the end.”

“If you don’t fight, you die.”

“We do what we need to do, and then we get to live.”

“We’ll survive, I’ll show you how.”

“Every sacrifice we make needs to be for the greater good.”

“Satan disguises himself as the angel of light. A false light will destroy everything.”

[dcadish-blog]

the living sorta dead always just strike me as these miserable fucks who are so literal about everything when they’re not being complete and utter creatures who feast on the flesh of the living. like hey, smoking can kill you

really? fuck let’s speed this shit up then *sticks whole pack in mouth*  

there is no in-between for their chill

[dcadish-blog]

man, i need an au or even a zombie show that incorporates the technology we have today. snaps chronicling the apocalypse day by day, even though the programmers have mostly been eaten so no new filters come out.

there are tweets --- hello? is anybody there? or DON’T GO TO (ADDRESS BELOW); INFECTED INSIDE.  

famous youtubers still trying to upload feverishly in the hopes that maybe one of their fans is still alive and knows of safe havens. subreddits for those struggling w/ survival and tips on how to get along. 

motherfucking pokemon go in the apocalypse

[dcadish-blog]

..... waves sheepishly

hiiiiiiiiii --- i’m here. finally. i’ve been playing twd games and aside from ripping my fucking soul out, it gave me zombie muse. i got ideas, man. i got meta plans. but -- like the post for a short starter????

[dcadish-blog]

elle: what happens if you like light someone's field of marijuana on fire and the smoke billows

elle: would it get zombies high????

elle: OR WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU STILL HAVE LSD AND YOU MANAGE TO DETAIN A ZOMBIE TO DROP SOME LSD ONTO THEIR TONGUES JUST TO SEE WHAT IT'D DO???

elle: WOULD THE ZOMBIES STILL TRIP?

elle: CAN the zombies have psychedelic trips?????

[dcadish-blog]

 he smells of two-day old blood. dirt. grime. it’s an understandable reaction, maybe. he has dealt with worse, from bigger, brawnier people.

   his voice cracks, first a rumble & then a growl.                “ ---- hhhhiiii.”

                ❛   …   what …  THE FUCK ? ❜

     &&. @dcadish

[dcadish-blog]

fic writers i promise you–on my life–that readers remember that finn’s skin is dark brown. 

i promise that if you use a descriptor besides “the darker skinned man” in relation to all the characters around him, people will know who he is in your sentence.  

e.g. the sun’s golden rays made his dark amber skin glow as it slid lower in the sky.

e.g. the harsh white light surrounding his body roughened the soft lines of his face and made his skin appear greyish as though he were a wraith. 

e.g. the only imperfection marring his skin was the raised brown scar that slashed jaggedly across his back. (finn’s skin’s rich with melanin, so even if his fresh scar’s initially raw and pink, eventually it’ll heal to a brown shade–either slightly lighter, same tone, or slightly darker)

i promise that you can describe him as you do rey or poe and your readers won’t forget that it’s finn you’re talking about. 

i promise you, you can describe poe without making him sound like a white dude.

n.k. jemisin’s a master at writing her characters, who are predominantly people of colour. for this reason, she usually describes them in relation to each other and doesn’t rely on their skin tones. she explicitly describes her white characters’ skin tones to flip the dominant perspective that assumes white as default. here are some of her tips: 

describing characters of color

describing characters of color pt. 2 (some of her rowling thoughts are ehhh, because rowling does otherise her characters of colour, but this is an old post)

describing characters of color: other people’s poc

other resources: 

7 offensive mistakes writers make 

writing with color: poc and food comparisons (john boyega can call himself chocolate and black people might describe him as such, but you probably shouldn’t)

writing with color: words for skin tone 

words to describe hair (i’ve read a couple fics where y’all are clueless about finn’s hair)

describing natural hair 

writing with color’s colorful critiques 

describing poc and avoiding caricatures

writing authentic characters of colour in first person pov

in depth guide to drawing different ethnicities 

[dcadish-blog]

ireofembers:

It felt like he was going to vomit. The word lingered there in the air thick with the gut-wrenching scent of rotting flesh and undeniable: deadish. Not dead, not living; not human, not Stiff. He ran a hand through his hair and there on his head it remained. In juxtaposition to it the other held steady without even a hint of the tremble that shook the fingers of his left. It – there was nothing else it could be than an it – took a jerking step forward in the moment he was distracted by the voice of his son and in a flash his finger was curled around the trigger. Rithisak did not pull. “Stay there.” It felt like his voice was so much quieter than it should have been. He felt like he should be screaming at the top of his lungs. It felt like he should be doing anything at all but he wasn’t. His hand jerked the gun in a slight tip forward. “Stay right there.” 

The safety clicked off. 

This all felt too surreal to not be a dream or some passing delusion. Maybe somewhere not unlike here he lay on the ground dying and this was some fucked up way of his mind distracting him from it. Even a flight of fancy couldn’t overwhelm his paternal instinct however and without a second’s thought he stepped so that he was planted directly between it and his son. None of that deterred it and in a detached moment of horror Rithisak came to the realization he was locking up. His legs had gone stiff and though his finger trembled it would not pull. This was the worst sort of moment for a lesson in humility. But his courage had not entirely failed him. He met its eyes and in a low voice he uttered, “Don’t look at him.” Aiden. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Aiden but sometimes even fathers were only human. 

Its mouth twitched in an unsettling grin and his heart pounded harder in his chest in response to it. This close Rithisak could see that it wasn’t someone masquerading as a Stiff. He hadn’t even realized he’d been considering that as a possibility until it’d been proven wrong. “I’d suggest you take a step back if you don’t want a bullet through the chest.” He latched onto the thought of his son like a dog to a bone. There were a hundred reasons why he hadn’t just shot it where it stood, but he needed only one to extinguish the others and do it. His heart sank as over his shoulder Aiden choked in a small voice, “Papa, what’s wrong with him?” Instinct took precedence. His eyes flickered sideways though he wouldn’t be able to see him without turning his head. It wasn’t more than a fraction of a second but sometimes that was all it took. 

Half-obedience is as good as any. There is the stagger backward, an ungainly swallow that cracks his throat and makes itself evident that nothing is moist in there from how rough his throat bobs. He tries to comprehend, to understand that the human was afraid and yet continued to treat him as a thing. The threat was enough to bubble wryness forth, a pensive look twitching across his brows. His mouth sags into a sailor’s frown and his brows knit together. He doesn’t understand not to look at him, which makes him lick an incisor in half-starved desperation again. He is anxious, muddled by his own ignorance and confusion and consumed by the other’s aloofness. Just pull the trigger, he thinks, back in the recesses of his mind. It never makes it past his lips; he wouldn’t know the words for them anyhow.

In resignation, his hulking shoulders sag; anxiety, anguish, defeat. M tries to make himself appear smaller, although he easily looks bigger than the man and his presence appearance suggests a bite or two would be taken despite the gunshots. M’s wryness wants to tell the man he’s a murderer; that there is a pulse still somewhere in there. He also wants to tell him he isn’t the monster that should be worried about here. The others would be coming by nightfall; he wanders just as they do. They’ll find this sanctuary soon enough. He is not a poet nor a linguist; he can’t reason this. At this, he gives a snort and a shuddering jerk later, his sallow hands lift up, rising to shoulder-length, his fingers splayed and stiff. He is surrendering.

“Jerky.” M reiterates, though with the sneaking suspicion that it will fall upon irrational ears, “--- son and father .... nnnoooot food.” A second’s delay, a gurgle caught between his throat and his mouth, “Have .. standards.” 

Stranded in Limbo

[dcadish-blog]

He should know by now, either through reflex or some memory (the part not decayed, rotted away, consumed by hunger) that sometimes his presence wasn’t always something welcome. He knew this, of course, maybe somewhere in more human, blood-running parts, although it never made it past the gurgle in his throat and the cracked, dryness of his lips. As much as he wanted to console, he knew he was not meant for such means. ( He wasn’t meant for much of anything, honestly.)

M tries to wave the danger in his voice from a knee-jerk biting reflex. The man’s anxiety reaches into M’s own, turning into gnawing hunger. He can almost taste the bullet and further decides that it would be rude to bite the man; he has only asked a question. So M waits, roughly pressing his teeth down to the tip of his tongue and ignores the lurch of bile curling from the pit of his stomach to the top of his throat. He offers no peace of mind by withdrawing his weapon, as so many have before. This makes the zombie weigh his options, eyeing his weapon with a feral cat’s sort of anger and wariness. 

“Dea-aaadish.” His voice cracks, wavering and warbling, half-growled and half-groaned. The ish is important. He needs the man to know this. He hopes he understands, almost in desperate straits at this point. “---- boy.” The child sounded young, inquisitive -- new, shiny, pure. M seems to brighten at this voice, his eyebrows raising while he makes a half-staggering step forward. “Nnnice,” he says, in defense of himself, “wanted ... jerky.” His attention is caught by the boy, lumbering steps thudding as he keeps his distance and yet grows closer to what would be a normal dead man’s demise. “Eeeeeeemmm. Emm. Mmmm.” A name. A letter. It is his and he is the only one with it. “--- have son?” One step. Two. Three. His chest is pressing against the barrel of the gun. This halts him momentarily, causing him to stagger back and look at the man before him. His mouth twitches -- an odd sort of grin. “Eeeeemm.” 

Stranded in Limbo

[dcadish-blog]

the question i have for you rather than doing drafts or anything at all productive with this character is: how many people in the marvel universe acknowledge and realize that M is partially dead and how many people just believe he’s from the same shithole where deadpool came from????? 

follow up question: marvel zombie universe???? any b o DY??????

[dcadish-blog]

 YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, YOU KNOW.

[dcadish-blog]

― aesthetic for inner turmoil

“My heart feels not so much in my chest as in my hands. I am carrying it along swiftly, as though I have become the messenger for what is going on inside me.” 

[dcadish-blog]

[dcadish-blog]

if you’re ever sad and need something to laugh at, please remember that in M’s story, he has been flirted with by a girl who asked him what she looked like to him while he was eating and he shamelessly looked her up & down and replied “food.”

[dcadish-blog]

 YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, YOU KNOW.