ghost-pepper-burrito - Tumblr blog

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Just to say, thank you SO much to everyone involved in the making of Unus Annus thank you to the merch team, thank you to Evan thank to yo the stream team and thank you to Mark and Ethan. And thank you to the all the editors and Amy. Without every single one of you Unus Annnus as it was would never have been possible. I think Unus Annus was a very ambitious idea but even more amazing was the commitment you guys to the channel ending. It's an amazing thing to spend a year working on a project but then at the end to turn around and just delete all of the evidence is another thing entirely. I will definitely miss the channel, I think it helped everyone in some way. Hell for me just having a video come out every day was great. Just no matter what was happening during the day I knew that there was something that I could rely on being there. So yes I will definitely miss Unus Annus, but I also think that to finish the idea behind it Unnus Annus had to go and I think it was the right time for it to go. So once again THANK YOU so much to everybody who helped make Unus Annus what it was.

Memento Mori

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My biology teacher offered me and the class coffee. I wish I'd read the mug before taking it.........

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Don't you hate it when you're just kinda sprawled on the floor of your room, too fed up to really do anything but mope. When something lands on your face, but you're too tired to really react and so just stare at the damn GRASSHOPPER which decided to just drop by and stare directly at you like it KNOWS what it's DONE?

Yeah.......I really hate it when that happens.

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Here's a piece of art I did a while ago of an origami horse thing? I'm not quite sure what it is to be honest.

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Paint The World (Short Story)

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐'𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘐 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺.

I am not the hero of this story. I am no brave, fearless warrior fending off fearsome dragons. Nor am I a wise ruler holding up their kingdom from an oak throne. I am merely the shadow behind the throne.  Some days, when the space behind the throne seems larger than normal, and the child inhabiting the throne seems no longer to hear me. I calculate the days since this all began; when the only things that existed in this world were me and the child.

 The child, in the beginning, was a curious creature. Their large topaz blue eyes would gaze at the blank canvas of a white world. Strangely, even though I was the only distinguishable object that stood out, the child never looked directly at me. As if, in their eyes, I didn't exist. On occasion, I would find myself studying those eyes, and, frequently what I found there scared me. The unshielded curiosity at the empty world around them was unsettling. However, what terrified me most in those shining eyes was undisguised hope.

As the days progressed, the child's eyes slowly darkened in colour; but the hope grew. The child and I, in this barren world, were no longer alone: a strong, confident sapling was sprouting, ready to take on the world. Even as I watched I could feel roots far below reaching out until they encountered two distinct trees. A great oak stood with grace, it's branches on one side entangled with the shining branches of a copper beech. At the bases of these trees stood a man and woman hand in hand: a king and queen of trees. The child's sapling’s roots reached out: the roots of the intertwined trees also extended out. All connected. The child, as if sensing the newly formed bond, giggled happily, while I stared warily at the entwined trees in the distance.

 1951 days have now passed, and, as the child and their heart grew, so did the world around them. Whereas before this world was barren, a canvas waiting for the spark of an artist’s inspiration, now a woodland stands. A plethora of fauna roam between the trees and, at the heart of the woods, a magnificent oak thrives. No longer a sapling, the oak stands tall and proud; moss-laden branches arch out reaching towards the sky. And on these branches, a canopy of lush leaves rests like a crown. The child has also changed... well, physically at least. They are now much taller and their eyes, once a glittering topaz, have darkened to clear silver-grey.

Only I have not changed. I watch the child talking and playing in the forest with the animals, long feathers and dark hair streaming out behind them. I've watched as they run, through the dancing rays of light. I've watched as the child begins to climb up the oak tree as dusk approaches, painting the sky a multitude of vibrant colours. I've watched every night as the child reaches the same strong bough of the tree, and perches there while the moon rises, and the stars emerge. I've watched even when the animals have returned to their dens; when the child reaches out their hands and the stars, as if recognising their wishes, dance across the sky in groups, outlining the forms of fish with long flowing fins and tails; forms that float gracefully through the sky before diving, leaving behind only celestial ripples.

Even in these peaceful moments, I was there; as the child and I gazed up at a sky filled with fish.

 Even though I have been by the child's side all this time, they have never acknowledged my presence. This infuriates me. I have been there since the very beginning. I, no other, have watched the child grow. None but me watched MY child take their first steps in this world. Nor did the night sky with its pretentious light show witness the first time my child spoke, sang their first song or experienced  their first triumph. Yet, they are the ones whom my child talks to, plays with, admires, even acknowledges their existence.

  Recently I've noticed, that, while the child has created more bonds, not all are exactly... healthy. There is one girl with long hair the colour of crushed acorns. Their world consists of sickly-looking ivy, suffocating the stunted ash tree that survives at the world’s heart. A malignant darkness resides there, causing her world to decay, the ground to dry up and crack and the ash to rot.  When I looked at the girl, I discerned a figure hovering over her shoulder, whispering into her ear. When it met my gaze, I would stare at the featureless wasteland of a face that stared back at me as if it could see through me. Always the figure’s face would crinkle as if made of fresh paper, grinning towards me before turning back to its host.

With the figure’s help, the girl has learned that directing the darkness onto my child lessened the burden on their own world. Word after word was thrown, landing heavily at the feet of my child. Gash after gash was left, marring the bark of the great oak tree, exposing the heartwood, the very core of the tree - partially visible through the stream of sap bleeding out.

  One day I had had enough; this wasn't right! None of this was right - the trees, the animals, none of it! Suddenly the colours seemed too bright.  The metallic odour of sap suffocated my every breath. I hate this! Why could my child never see? That girl is hurting them. My body filled with hatred. Why could my child NEVER see the truth? This world is poisoned. These animals… this WORLD could never care for my child as I do. This is MY child: mine only. Things were better when it was just me and my child. Before this forest. Before this… this DREAM. When all that surrounded us was white canvas. A clean slate: yes that is what we need. A new layer of paint to smother this land. A fresh start. I will not, I cannot let this continue.

I knew what I must do.

I latched onto my child’s shoulder, whispering into their ear. They shuddered, hearing me for the first time. A great feeling of elation filled me as I watched a fraction of colour drain from the world. The sky blanched and the trees paled. I felt my face crease into a grin and I leaned in closer to my child whispering the truth once more.

“That girl doesn’t care about you”.

  Now I sit behind the throne. Counting. “5891… 5892… 5893” 5893 days since this all began: 3652 days since my child first heard me. Over these days I have worked on returning this world to how it should be; leaching the colour from it. The child’s hands are now stained with the sap of the oak. Of course, I didn’t accomplish this on my own. Many of the children that my child had bonds with also helped, with their manipulative words and sly backstabbing. The great oak is nothing more than a skeleton of the great, proud tree it used to be; a fitting throne, a skeleton throne for a shadow king. I can tell that my child is now scared of the white layer of paint I drape over the land. For them, the colour brings back memories of a large white building, wizened sickly hands reaching out, a moment of painful hesitation, the sheets of the hospital bed glaring in accusation. The mocking white of a child’s teeth as they laugh. I believe they will come around in time. But the words carved into the tree are beginning to heal, scabbing over. Colour is returning to the world. The child is not listening to me anymore!

But I know that eventually; these bonds will fray and break, and the child will no longer have a desire to move forward. And when that day comes…

   I will paint the world white.

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A very quick sketch of Crowley from good omens because I may or may not be slightly obsessed with this show :P