littletealights

[littletealights]

finally listening to malevolent podcast y'all like so much. gotta say for someone who controls a total of two tiny organs and zero limbs, Mr. Demonic Ride-Along is a lil too comfortable being a bossy ass bitch

[littletealights]

"average podcast protagonist dies 4 times per series" factoid is actually just a statistical error. average podcast protagonist dies 1.5 times a series. Malevolent Georg, who's protagonist has died approximately 10,000 times since the first episode, was an outlier adn should not have been counted

[littletealights]

SINNERS 2025, dir. Ryan Coogler

[littletealights]

I just got a Pottery Barn add for Halloween decor on Instagram.

My only complaint is that my algorithm thinks I can afford Pottery Barn.

[littletealights]

been putting together nearly the entire Institute from The Magnus Archives in sketches (with immense help from @helloarchivist <33 ) this is all completely based on personal headcanons and imagination, going from the top floor to basement, don't question the size or layout this is all based on vibes alone lol

special shoutout also to @blackberreh-art for inspiring the big ass Eye window in Elias' office

[littletealights]

Sailor Pluto comic based on an ancient post I saw years ago that's been living in my head rent free.

[littletealights]

imma be so real with you rn, they looked at each other in a way that you will ONLY see in salsa dance…

YO ON SOME ANIME SHIT THIS DOPE AF!!!!

[littletealights]

i desperately need to know if the animals are meant to be a part of the finished product or if they’re just. representations of their current state.

WAH Hector, Caesar, and Brutus charms,,

[littletealights]

'Tough on crime' should mean proactive policies, not reactionary punishments.

[littletealights]

Chat gpt you will never be her

[littletealights]

Freelancing in technical theater means you’re on a lot of different email lists. People need a crew, they send out an email, you respond with your availability. Now, most people start these with things like “hey folks” or “hi everyone”. Neal is not most people.

His openers started off innocent enough.

Then, he started to push boundaries.

And as you can see, it has spiraled out of control since then.

[littletealights]

A bunny has recently made it inside of the Pentagon’s inner courtyard- arguably one of the most secure locations on the planet, surrounded on all sides by over 100 yards of highly-guarded office building and sitting on top of at least two stories of concrete basements.

This comes several weeks after a lone chicken was found wondering one of the Pentagon’s security areas, though it certainly never made it as far in as this bunny

[littletealights]

badly explain your favourite podcast/audiodrama for me please!

i’ll go first: blind immigrant and his sentient screen reader go on a quest to find out how the fuck the screen reader got there considering it’s the 1930s and there are no screens.

or: divorce; an anthology.

or: escaped asylum patient kidnaps local grieving man to go on a soul searching road trip; more at 10 on abcnews

[littletealights]

[littletealights]

There is a boy, playing naked in the river as young children tend to do. And he is young, no older than 3, and he is smiling brightly at Mariam as she squeezes out water from a woven blanket and throws it into her basket on the shore. The boy toddles around in the wet, splashing with his hands to create ripples in the clear water. One particular splash sends the water straight up, higher than another child could manage and he giggles as it rains around his little head in droplets, pausing to watch the morning light dance through the water. He shakes his head, laughing, the dark wet curls bouncing around his rounded face.

When the ripples subside and the normal flow of the river returns he tries again, harder this time. He’s clearly fascinated with the way the water moves around him and Mariam is content to watch him play from the corner of her eye. Until she sees him stumble back and fall on his little butt. There are rocks in the river bed (stones, all things considered) and her heart clenches viciously as the image him coming up with puncture wounds on his wrists flashes in her mind’s eye, blood pouring out of his baby soft skin, the brown of it torn like a veil. And then he stands up, and he is fine. His pouty lip is trembling and his hands and bottom are muddy and there are tears gathering in his eyes as he looks at them. But he is fine. No tears or cuts, just a bruised ego and a fall he’d rather not have taken.

The boy turns to her still looking his dirtied hands and he runs his little toddler run toward her calling “‘MUSH!” in a small, but upset squeal. And for a moment, Mariam is confused. Emush? She is no one’s mother. She has not even met the man she is to marry yet. She has not even reached 14 years. But her arms reach out to him in an instant, seemingly of her own will and crushing desire to take the hurt outside of his voice and bottle it up behind her stomach.

She is distracted by his approach but not enough to miss the breathy, and panicked shout of her name from behind her. Or the flash of an archer loosing an arrow from just beyond the well. An arrow headed straight for-

“YESHUA”

And then Mariam is awake. The boys name hanging distraught on her lips as her father groans sleepily from the other side of the room pulling her mother closer. Mariam’s emush is looking over her shoulder at her from across the tea table in the centre of the bedroom, concern and worry flickering in her eyes. She reaches one of her arms out, as reflexively as Mariam had in her dream and suddenly she wants to cry. She desperately wants to bury her tears in her mother’s robe but, even more than that, she wants to hold that boy, Yeshua, as close to her heart as possible. She wants to rush to him and throw him to the steady, if breathless, voice that had called for her and take the arrow in his place. But Yeshua is not here, and there is no arrow to take. So Mariam slides her feet and hands onto the cold stone floor, soft shhs sounds as she crawls over to the pallet her parents sleep on.

She does not want to wake her Abba over triviality but she is stunned to have her body forcefully pulled to rest against her father’s chest, taking her mother’s place in his entrapping embrace. Sleep grumbles she knows are fake vibrate through her as her mother cards her hands through Mariam’s hair, scratching her scalp slightly and cupping her cheeks with her palms. The slide of skin; soft, gentle, and full of love; wrenched the tears out of her eyes. Mariam’s throat begins to constrict as her mother pulls her head to thump gently against her own. The moon hangs brightly as Mariam’s mother says a prayer into the space between them.

“It was a dream, habibti. You are safe,” her mother’s melodic voice rings out over the rushing in Mariam’s ears. A strong kiss placed under her left eye, and then her right, and Mariam’s lungs are filled by the scent of olive oil, sun heat, and oven smoke. “No one will hurt you here.” And Mariam wants to believe it. She closes her unseeing eyes against the streams that pour down her face, and prays.