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This celestial cicada is Midnight💙✨

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Reblog this if you would not only accept, but welcome fan art, moodboards, etc. of your fics

All of these used to be so common for people to show their appreciation of different fics and authors, and I think it’s a shame people don’t do it anymore. I love seeing fan work for my fics!!

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This is the magic lucky word count. Reblog for creativity juice. It might even work, who knows.

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A brief comic my friend drew after reading one of my short stories “Night Ride”

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Im currently DMing a D&d game. This is the prologue to the storyline.

Context

Stone gate and by extension the grove covers a ruffe circle 25 miles in circumference and a population of 250,000 at the player's arrival time

Stone giants possess the remarkable ability to shape stone as if it were wet clay.

The regions where Black Dragons establish their lairs gradually transform into swampy, poisonous versions of what they once were.

Nature's spirits are intrinsically connected to elements of nature, whether it be a tree, rock, creek, or any other natural feature. The crucial point is that if the tree dies, the rock shatters, or the creek dries up, the spirit's life fades away as well.

Druid circle is an in-game mechanic involving druid subclasses but it can also refer to a system of governing whereby a group of people (10-50 ish) of equal power come to decisions for a larger group. Think of it as a counsel of elders

Faith Made Flesh unfolds within a setting of gothic horror and dark fantasy. The entirety of the game will most likely be set exclusively within the sprawling city of Stonegate.

Faith Made Flesh

(prologue)

Stonegate stands primarily as a fortress, encircled by a robust 12-meter-tall and 3-meter-thick stone wall. The city lacks conventional entrances or gates; instead, stone giants, using their unique talents, mold the stone into gateways only when necessary. Legend has it that the city's creation involved a collaboration between nature spirits, druids, a community of stone giants, and a wizard named Arc, among many others. This diverse group united to construct the city's walls, interweaving spells while they worked rendering the walls impervious to all known forms of damage,even magic proves futile against the unyielding surface. Save for the stone giants' touch no one has been succeeding in so much as scratching its magical construction.

But why was such a formidable stronghold erected? People do not construct bastions without reason; their purpose is defense. In Stonegate's case, its towering walls safeguard something profoundly significant. To understand fully, let us journey back to the tale's beginning. The land now occupied by Stonegate once thrived as a lush forest, teeming with life at every turn. Nature spirits inhabited every tree, rock, and stream, saturating the land with their essence. As the story goes, this idyllic state was disrupted when a fearsome black dragon, known as Faméu, chose to transform the area into a swampy lair to safeguard its hoard. The druids and nature spirits, witnessing their beloved land succumb to corruption and poison, marshaled their collective strength to enchant a willow tree at the heart of the lair. Through their combined efforts, the tree's roots leached the ground of its toxins, while its leaves purged the air of sickly fog.

Yet, the enchantment's influence extended beyond the tree's physical confines; it cleansed its surrounding nature as well as the people in its presence. When you were near one's inner corruption would be siphoned away, be they stray lustful thoughts or avaricious inclinations, none held sway in their minds. All malevolence was perceived the same as the dragon's poison by the tree and promptly consumed. Even the dragon could not evade its purifying grasp. Upon the dragon's return, it attempted to exercise this new threat, but its corruption was siphoned away so completely upon contact with the tree that It was reduced to a mere husk of scales over desiccated bones, its claws still embedded deep within the willow's trunk.

With the dragon vanquished, the tree remained a sentinel of the forest. Its aura repelled disease and fostered the vitality of all living creatures dwelling in its woods. The revelation that this blessing extended beyond the natural flora and fauna to encompass all creatures turned the willow into a sought-after sanctuary. It catered to all desires: the afflicted sought solace from physical and mental maladies, business transactions and contracts found resolution in the tree's vicinity, and the druidic ranks swelled as they shared their teachings with the influx of seekers at the willow's sanctuary.

However, as is often the case, all good things must come to an end. Word spread and individuals began exploiting the tree's benevolence for personal gain. Politicians and religious leaders, told lies of rebirth in the willow's light as to gain the people's trust, this allowed them to amass followers and wealth. These forces coalesced into "Harmony," an amalgamation of church and government, professing to resolve the world's woes through the willow's power. This organization gradually assumed control over the tree, imposing restrictions and tolls on access to the grove, gathering power and resources at the expense of the grove's denizens. Their actions ignited the fury of those who considered the grove sacred. Protests were performed, and despite initial peaceful efforts, Harmony struck back with ruthless ferocity, the conflict escalating after hundreds of spirits' host trees were set ablaze by Harmony.

After several brief yet brutal conflicts, of which over a quarter of the grove’s people fell, many druids departed the forest, seeking new homes elsewhere. However, some embarked on a quest to locate a means of safeguarding the grove against Harmony's encroachments. Their search led them to the distant mountains of Yhorm, where the stone giants dwelled; they were among the few who resisted the new world order presented by harmony.

Hesitant to abandon their neutral stance for a path that would likely lead to months of intense combat, the stone giants grappled with their decision for days. The weight of their choice hung heavily in the air. Not until after a druid gave an especially moving speech of their plight, one of the giants, a wizard named Arc, stepped forward with a proposal as well as a plan.

Arc's plan involved a unique fusion of his arcane magic, the natural power of the grove's inhabitants, and the stone giants' innate ability to mold rock as if it were clay. This powerful collaboration aimed to create an impenetrable barrier that not even the most formidable sorcery could breach. The proposed deal was one of cohabitation; the giants wished to leave their isolated mountain peaks and join the other races to learn from their way of life. Previous attempts to do this naturally were met with outcry, as well as fears that the giants were mere aggressive monsters. After these terms were agreed to, the decision became much easier: the giants would take up arms and stand as protectors of the grove.

With their resolve solidified, the stone giants wasted no time. Their return marked the start of a focused effort, shrouded by magic to avoid detection by their adversaries. Massive stones were tirelessly laid in place by the giants, but not before Arc meticulously etched runes of potent power onto each surface. Accompanied by a group of dedicated druids, arcane roots were interwoven throughout the stones, anchoring the barrier with an intricate network of nature's magic. Over time, the wall's construction grew to an imposing scale, catching the attention of Harmony as it expanded. However, by the time they recognized the threat, it was already too late. The combined strength of the stone giants and the grove's people had forged an almost impenetrable shield. Yet, the grueling endeavor came at a great cost, with hundreds of lives lost at the hand of harmony in the name of protecting the grove's future.

Despite the toll exacted, the grove was now fortified and shielded from the impending danger. Thanks to the stone giants' unique abilities, the barrier extended deep into the bedrock and high into the forest's canopy. Harmony's attempts to breach the defenses proved fruitless; every climb or flight over the wall would always end inexplicably after checking their progress and finding themselves merely a few feet off the ground, “A result of the interplay between illusion and spatial magic masterfully orchestrated” Arc could be heard loudly boasting to anyone who would listen. With the protective wall in place, the grove could begin to mend the scars of its past, and its inhabitants could finally breathe a collective sigh of relief. At least for some time, the next incident in Stonegate history wouldn't occur for nearly a century.

Now, Stonegate stands as one of the world's largest and most influential cities. Thousands make a pilgrimage each year to seek the healing touch of the willow. Harmony, once a powerful entity, has dwindled into obscurity since Stonegate closed its gates to all but those in dire need. Only those who practice specialized healing or those afflicted by chronic conditions are granted permanent residency within the city's protective walls, all who meet a full recovery are required to leave within a fortnight.

When individuals arrive seeking aid, and their conditions are stable, they are often directed to one of the five specialized medical centers thoughtfully positioned around the outer edges of Stonegate. These centers are staffed with skilled healers and equipped with cutting-edge facilities to address a wide range of ailments and injuries.

The sacred willow, the heart of Stonegate's restorative power, is reserved for the most dire and intricate cases of affliction. Those who are deemed worthy of the willow's touch have typically exhausted all other avenues of healing. They come here as a last resort, placing their hope in the ancient magic that permeates through the tree's branches. In the shadow of this revered symbol of life and renewal, the most skilled and compassionate healers in the city gather to perform their most intricate and challenging work, striving to restore health and vitality to those on the brink of despair.

However, all is not well within the walls of Stonegate, as a growing concern has taken root among some of the city's druids. They've raised alarms about an ominous affliction: an oily blight that now mars the surface of the willow. Foul-smelling cracks, like festering wounds, streak across the tree's sacred form, casting a shadow of unease over the city's inhabitants.

Druid elders flock to the tree, striving to cleanse it of the ghastly ichor. Despite their determined efforts, the scourge reappears after each futile attempt. A horrifying revelation soon unfolds: the blight does not creep across the willow’s surface as originally assumed. Instead, it bubbles up from within the tree itself, causing the bark to split as if a great internal pressure is spewing it forth, akin to molten lava breaking through rock.

Over time, this ominous ooze grows increasingly prominent, dripping from the branches and streaming down the trunk, forming puddles of noxious black slime below. Those unfortunate enough to come into contact with this vile substance report a spectrum of dreadful and immediate symptoms. These afflictions range from severe blistering covering their bodies to relentless nightmares and unexplained emotional

outbursts such as anger and jealousy.

Panic swept through Stonegate Driven by the fear that an outsider had somehow poisoned the tree despite the rigorous safety measures in place. Guards were immediately dispatched, their vigilant patrols scouring every corner for any trace of foul play. However, their efforts proved futile, as the impending catastrophe was already upon them.

A massive gash tore through the tree as if some great beast were desperate to escape its confines. With a sound like a thousand tortured souls, a torrent of thick black liquid poured forth. Those unlucky enough to be covered in the slime could soon be seen convulsing, their bodies twisting in grotesque unnatural ways.

Along with the ichor, an overwhelming force erupted from within the tree. It resembled a fierce wind, except that it had an eerie aspect of life to it. This turbulent energy surged across the city without a discernible destination, weaving around buildings and hurtling people and loose objects aside with relentless, destructive force, despite its formless nature.

What followed became a gruesome chapter in Stonegates story known as the Bloody Night. As the ichor tainted the afflicted, their transformation into nightmarish entities was swift and merciless. These wretched souls, now driven by an insatiable hunger for violence, turned upon those who tended to them with a malevolent fervor. Their once-human forms contorted into a variety of grotesque shapes, although usually possessing elongated limbs, gnarled spines, and eyes that glowed with an unnatural, crimson light.

Amid this chaos, the very substance that had seeped from the willow seemed to take on a sinister sentience of its own. It coalesced into eerie, amorphous creatures that writhed and slithered like living shadows. These ooze-born monstrosities were nightmarish in appearance, resembling hybrids of serpents and octopuses. They moved with an unsettling fluidity, oozing between the cracks in the cobblestone streets and slipping through the shattered remains of buildings. Witnesses claimed they bore eyes that radiated a malevolent intelligence, making them seem more like sentient nightmares than mere creatures of flesh and ichor.

The gale that had erupted from the willow was equally menacing. It was as if the very air had turned against the city's inhabitants. This tempestuous force, imbued with the same vitality as the ichor, displayed the temperament of a raging toddler. It began targeting structures, rending them asunder, and toppling them as if they were toy blocks. Trees, once sturdy and steadfast, were uprooted and hurled through the air. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in its path described a cacophony of unnatural sounds, like the anguished wails of spirits trapped between worlds.

In the aftermath of the gale's fury, an eerie silence descended upon Stonegate, broken only by the pained moans of the injured and the unsettling, dragging footsteps of unseen horrors that lurked in the darkness. The city's once-vibrant streets now lay in ruins, haunted by the lingering echoes of a nightmarish ordeal.

Will you be able to solve the mystery of the ooze and save the remaining citizens of Stonegate, all the while combating Lovecraftian abominations and the darkness within your own mind? Only time will tell. dun! dun! duuun!

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Aldrin

during the historic moon landing, Buzz Aldrin reportedly said, "There's a monolith on the moon of Mars, and there's a very unusual structure on this little potato-shaped object that goes around Mars once in seven hours. When people find out about that, they're going to say, 'Who put that there? Who put that there?' Well, the universe put it there, or if you choose, God put it there." These claims were quickly dismissed as Aldrin speaking metaphorically, or that the light had been playing tricks on his eyes, but what if he actually did see something up there, something not quite human.

July 17, 1969, 13:32 UTC

It's been a little over a day since we launched; it doesn't feel like it's been that long. I thought I knew what space looked like, but the pictures back home don't do it justice. It is somehow bigger than I expected. Also, the sun is white up here, not yellow for those interested, and it's really bright. Mission control says we will land in just over three days and six hours. I hope Michael brought his cards. :)

July 17, 1969, 17:09 UTC

Earth is really small from where I'm sitting. It's weird feeling so small, like ants sitting on a leaf in the middle of the ocean. We build our ant hills and go about our day-to-day lives thinking we are in control, but we can't tell the ocean what to do. We are completely at its mercy. All it would take is one wave, and humanity would just be a memory. Maybe not even that if there isn't anyone around to remember.

July 17, 1969, 20:25 UTC

Turns out it only takes about three and a half hours to get bored of pondering the nature of the universe. Michael did, in fact, bring his cards, so I have been playing solitaire and crazy eights for a bit. But it is surprisingly hard when the cards try to float away. Neil is still glued to the window. Try as we might, he won't come play with us. He just talks about how this is the opportunity of a lifetime and how he isn't going to miss a minute, which is fair, I guess. I just hope he does it quietly so I can try to get some shut-eye.

July 18, 1969, 03:15 UTC

I'm writing this time in hopes of calming my nerves so I'm able to get back to sleep. About thirty minutes ago, we started getting alerts from mission control about the Apollo's trajectory slipping off course, which is weird in and of itself because I adjusted it before I went to sleep, and it shouldn't have needed adjusting for another six hours. But the weirdest thing was Neil was still awake, staring out that window with a look on his face like he had a full Thanksgiving feast laid out in front of him. I swear he was even drooling, although he will probably deny it. While I adjusted our course, Michael tried to talk some sense into our "fearless leader," but when I finished, Michael still hadn't been able to get Neil to do so much as peel his fat head off the window. I tried giving him a few good shakes, and that seemed to do the trick. I asked him what was wrong, but it turns out he had just fallen asleep with his eyes open. Creepy if you ask me. He told us not to report what had happened after Michael said it would make for a funny story back home. Neil said he thought mission control might make us turn around if they thought something was wrong. It took a little convincing, but me and Michael finally did agree. I know it's not protocol or even the right thing to do, but damn it, I really want to put the Aldrin name in the history books. Anyway, Neil has decided to go to sleep, and Michael volunteered to keep watch over our course just in case anything weird happens again. I'll try to get Neil to open up more in the morning, just to make sure he really is all right.

July 19, 1969, 12:04 UTC

We are a little more than a day from making a landing. I don't know if I'm more excited to be one of the first living creatures to step foot on the moon or to get out of this godforsaken ship. There is a rotten smell like someone's lunch has been left to decompose for a month. We spent all of yesterday looking for it but haven't found so much as a crumb. Again, we didn't report it but I made everyone swear that we would on the way back just in case it is a leak of some kind.

July 21, 1969, 18:24 UTC

We just left the lunar surface. It was incredible; I've never seen something so magnificent yet desolate at the same time. You don't realize how much smaller the moon is than the Earth until you are standing on it; you can literally see the horizon curve. Looking back at the earth is a surreal experience. I felt oddly lonely knowing that this small part of our universe contained all of human experience, well almost all, I guess we changed that today.

July 22, 1969, 7:30 UTC

The Stink Persists. I contacted mission control about it and they were concerned that it could have been a leak, but after going over all the maintenance checks and coming up empty they basically just shrugged and said that it might be psychological and that there is nothing they could do about that so we just have to hope for the best, which isn't exactly the comforting news I wanted.

July 22, 10ish

I swear if I didn't need these two idiots to get back home I would have committed murder by now. I don't know if it's the news we got from M.C. or the shitty food, but these two clowns refuse to talk to me. They are just sitting there looking out the windows, only responding enough to shoo me away when I block their view. I don't see what could be so entertaining out there.

5 pm

Our course keeps drifting; it's at the point that I have to readjust it every half hour. I tried contacting M.C. about it and whatever is wrong with Neil and Michael but all I got was static. I'm starting to think we might not get home after all.

3 am

Remember what I said about getting the Aldrin name in the history books? Yeah, that's definitely happening now. We found something; it's some kind of structure on Deimos, one of Mars’s moons. It's some sort of monolith, all metallic and shiny. It's beautiful. I understand why they wouldn't want to look away; I can barely take my eyes off it to write this. When we get home, people are going to wonder who built this because surely it has a creator. Nothing could be so perfect without one. There is only one creator I know of who is this perfect. This could only have been crafted by divine hands.

???

I've seen them, the divine hands, all around us; they want us to join them for now that we have touched the heavens we must remain. Neil and Michael have already gone but I remain as I fear that my faith is not strong enough to surrender my mortal form to them. I am a weak man, undeserving of being chosen by the divine.

Aug 30th, 1969, 15:30 UTC

It's been a couple of days since we got back home and I just found this journal in a pile of stuff I brought home. I don't remember writing any of this; I don't even remember bringing a journal with me but it's written in my hand and there are things in here that could have only been written by me. Nobody knows about Michael's cards or the way the surface of the moon curved. I don’t know whether or not I should tell anyone about this. Maybe I should go to Neil or Michael, but the things written here give me pause. I have a feeling something isn't right with them; they don't call like they used to, before our expedition. I thought they were just trying to relax, but maybe it's something more than that. For now, I’ll just write this down here so I don't explode from the thoughts bottled up inside me.

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The War Machine

Armand set his son down on a wool blanket next to his father's headstone. "I thought you might want to meet your grandson," Armand said as he reached for the bottle of milk he had brought for Léon and the beer for himself. "Sorry, I didn't introduce you two sooner; I didn't even know I was a father myself until last week. The Germans were keeping me busy; you understand how it is. But that's all over; now I can finally settle down here in the French countryside where I belong."

Léon bounced up and down on the balls of his feet by the window while his mother set the table. It was his sixth birthday, and his father had promised to bring him a slice of cake from the bakery on his way home from work. But that should have been two hours ago, and Léon was starting to get worried; his father did this occasionally, disappearing for a couple of hours with no notice.

“Come eat your dinner, Léon. It's getting cold,” said his mother. “Your father might still be a bit longer.”

“Do you think Daddy will come home tonight?” Léon said as he slid into his seat at the table.

“You know your father wouldn't miss your special day,” his mother said, “he probably got held up at the factory again.”

Léon cooed. Remembering the bottle, Armand placed the baby in the crook of his arm and pressed the bottle to his lips. “The doc says I got shell shock, something to do with being in bad situations like in the war takes a toll on people's minds. If you ask me, the war isn't the trouble; it is the sitting still, going back to work like nothing ever happened. I mean how do they just pretend like nothing happened?”

Léon woke with a start. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he realized what had woken him: there were voices coming from the kitchen, his father and mother talking. His father had kept his promise after all; he had come home for his birthday. Racing out of bed and out the door, Léon stopped sharply just before turning the corner to the kitchen. He heard something so strange it took him a moment to fully understand what he was hearing—crying, but this was different; it was his father's voice, interjected with stifled sobs.

“I just can't get it out of my head,” his father said with a shaky voice. “I don't understand why; it's been six years for God's sake.”

Peeking around the corner, Léon observed his parents sitting at the dining room table, his father's work clothes covered in mud and grass stains. His mother's hand on his shaking shoulder.

“Merry, some guy brought a firecracker into work to celebrate the New Year. I didn't think anything of it, but when I heard it. I don't know what happened; I was there in the trenches but also not. It took me six hours to crawl out of the ditch I had taken cover in, six fucking hours all because of a kid's toy.”

Armand leaned forward onto the bar.

The bartender, turning to him, pouring a glass of cheap whiskey, tapping the full glass on the side of Armand’s head to get his attention. “What’s on your mind today?” the man said.

Looking up, Armand took the glass. “Bernard, you are a lifesaver.”

“Don't thank me; you still have to pay for that,” Bernard said, “but if you do want to talk, it’s practically in my job description to listen.”

“It’s just I'm worried that I’m not pulling my weight when it comes to my family,” Armand said. “I go to work in the morning, and there is so much going on and so many sounds that when I get home, all I can do is shut myself away because if I don't, I get sent back there. I don't want to scare Merry again, and it can't be good for a kid to see his father crying for no good reason other than the ghosts in his own head. For God’s sake, he is only twelve, but I can already see that he knows his old man is broken.”

Léon sat alone at the base of an oak tree, admiring his meager rations while the other kids played ball. He had half of a ham sandwich and an apple, not much, but he would make it do; he had to, there wasn't much of a choice.

“Hey, did your daddy make that for you?” said Bruce as he advanced from behind the school building, two of his goons in tow. “I heard he does all the cooking and cleaning now that he can't handle a real job.”

“Shove off,” Léon said, “my father still works; he’s a carpenter now, a really good one too. He just works at night; he says he likes the quiet.”

“I'm sure he makes a lot of bed frames. From what I hear, your mom seems to break one every time she invites the neighbors ov—” His words cut short by the sickening crunch of Léon’s apple slamming into his nose.

Between bites of dinner, Armand discussed the weather and how school was going with Merry and Léon. This was a usual occurrence, although the frequency of family dinners did decrease somewhat as Léon got older, and with the rising popularity of his carpentry shop, he had gotten substantially busier.

“Say, Léon, what do you think about joining me in the shop sometime so that when you are older, I can hire you full-time? We need some more workers around there.

” Léon shifted in his chair, taking a few seconds to answer. “Yeah… maybe.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to; I know it's not for everyone. Did you have anything else in mind?”

Léon looked up eagerly as if he was waiting for that question. “Yeah, I was actually thinking of being a soldier–”

“No!” Armand said, hitting the table with a clenched fist, spilling his drink in the process. “Under no circumstances are you ever to do that.”

“Armand! Don't yell at the boy; he doesn’t know what it's like,” Merry said.

“Just no. Do anything but that… Please.” With that, Armand got up from the table. “I have some stuff I need to get done.”

Léon opened the workshop door, finding his father hunched over a half-finished carving.

“You don’t want to go to war,” his father said without looking up. “Nobody does.”

“I thought you would like that I wanted to be like you,” Léon said.

His father looked up then, and there were tears in his eyes. “Do you think I want anyone to be like me? If this shop wasn’t successful, we would be living on the streets, all because I can't work a normal job. I'm damaged, and everyone can see it.”

For a long time, Léon didn’t say anything. He just sat with his father, watching him meticulously carve away imperfections and seal up cracks. With every scrape of the blade, his expression seemed to soften — from a stormy mixture of anger and sorrow, reminiscent of the expression he must have once worn on the battlefield during the height of combat, to one of weariness that could only be found in the elderly.

“You are almost an adult,” his father said, “you can make your own decisions. I just do not want you to go through what I did.”

“I'm sure I can find another way to help people,” Léon said. “I could study real hard and become a doctor, or work until I have enough money to buy some land to farm.”

“Do what you feel is right,” his father said, “I’ll be proud no matter what.”

Armand felt numb as Léon read the letter out loud to him.

“Official Draft Notice

It is my pleasure to notify you, Léon T. Chadwick, that you have been selected via the draft lottery office to serve your country in the impending conflict against the Axis powers. Please report to your closest draft office by the 28th of this month to receive further instructions.”

“I guess you got your wish after all,” Armand said.

“You know I'm not happy about this either,” Léon said. “I just got everything ready to really start my life; the fields haven't even gotten planted yet.”

“I can take care of that; I need something to do now that I sold the shop. But let's not dwell on the details yet; it's only the 12th. What would you say to going out for a drink? My treat.”

Léon set a beer on the smooth stone that made up his father's grave. Sitting down, he popped the top of his own and took a long drink.

“I made it back. Sorry, I didn't come sooner. I didn't even know what had happened until I got a letter last week. I wish I could have at least seen you off. Mom said your ticker finally gave out; I hope it wasn't from the stress. Believe me, I didn't want to go either. Oh, you will be happy to hear this, Alice is pregnant; you're going to be a granddad. We are still thinking of names, but if it turns out it's a boy, I'm thinking of calling them Armand if that's all right with you.”

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My for you page knows i just wrote a short story about “Not-Deer”

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Suffering from success. Based on a submission from @superbly-charging-at-78-percent

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A little short horror story I wrote :)

Night Ride

I pressed on the gas a little more, my rusted Chevrolet Caprice beginning to roar as it barreled down the dark country road. Rain crashed against my windshield so loudly it nearly muffled the sound of clanging metal emanating from the bolt cutters, screwdrivers, and various other tools strewn about the passenger seat. It was going to be a rush job, and I knew it, but there wasn't time to really plan something like this out. I just had to get off my ass and do what needed to be done. Dad would have wanted me to do it; he would have hated people thinking he kicked the bucket so easily.

"Don't worry, justice is coming," I say to myself as I scrounge around in my cup holder for what little remains of yesterday's blunt. As I wrap my grubby fingers around it, the paper unravels, having been partially stuck to some long-forgotten residue, losing its contents in a cascade of sticky, grape ape-scented debris.

"Fuck me," I mutter to myself as I try to slide the substance off my legs and into the cup holder, to join the ooze that obviously wasn't ready to give up its new lover just yet.

Looking back up after my selfless act of reuniting the forbidden biohazard lovers, I am greeted with the cold, reflective eyes of a suicidal deer standing in the center of the road, watching as I frantically slam on the brake. But due to the combination of the rain and the admittedly reckless speeds at which I was traveling, the car continued forward, not sparing a thought for my increasing panic. Jerking the wheel to the side only served to spin the car as it slammed into the animal, ultimately coming to a stop after sliding into a ditch.

After a moment in which I cursed my late Beyblade opponent for their self-destructive strategy that I had just managed to defeat with my wholly unique and definitely purposeful technique, I pushed the deflating airbag out of my face with a groan. I try to open my door but find it thoroughly stuck against the inconsiderate earth. Cursing under my breath, I instead grab a shovel from my passenger seat before rolling down the window and throwing it out. Unclipping my seat belt, I make an awkward attempt to follow, one lanky limb folding after another as I squeeze myself through the gap.

Landing ankle-deep in a pool of mud, I reach down and fish out the shovel before scampering my way up the ditch to get a better look at the situation. The car had done a 180 before sliding off the road, the headlights perfectly, illuminating the mangled mess of deer strewn across the road. After surveying the grisly scene for a few moments too long, I turn back to the car and begin to peel away layers of earth. It isn't long before I'm soaked by the downpour, my socks squelching aggressively inside my athletic works running shoes.

Once I'm satisfied with my work, I once again climb the ditch in hopes of finding a branch or something to shove under the tire to give me some traction. As I search for a suitable tool, I hear a snap from behind me, imagining with my luck I would have to fight a bear next. I whirl around, shovel in hand, ready to beat something’s skull in, but there's nothing, nothing I see at least. Going back to my task, I locate the perfect stick, long, wide, and a little flat, this was a stick for the ages, the kind of stick one only finds once in their life. The kind of stick—

*Crack.*

The gut-dropping sound plays again, louder than before, this time as I'm walking back to the car, its source now unmistakable. I had allowed myself to hope my luck was good enough for it to be a bear, but now I see that was unrealistic of me. As I watched, the deer's body shivered and shook, bones cracking and popping back into place, the entrails worming their way back into its body cavity.

“Fuck you, I won fair and square,” I say as I stuff the perfect stick under my wheel before scrambling back in the window, abandoning my spade to face off against the unholy creature alone. I slam the car into reverse, wincing as I hear the crunch of the perfect stick underneath my tire, but thankfully its sacrifice was not in vain as the Chevy rockets out of the ditch back onto the road, where I am greeted once again with the unthinking eyes of the definitely-not-deer. As I watch, the creature makes two halting steps towards me, jerky and unnatural as if it was being pulled around by a profoundly incompetent puppeteer. Obviously not fully healed yet I breathed a sigh of relief at the extra time I’d been given, I pulled the car into a three-point turn. But not a moment after reaching point one, I look back to find the not-deer reeling back onto its hind legs, its hips, shoulders, and neck popping into a horrifically unnatural humanoid orientation.

“Fuck that shit,” I say as I continue to point two, furiously cranking up my window as the monster breaks into a sprint, hooved arms pumping like a fucked-up Usain Bolt. Screaming, I slam the gas, my engine roaring once again as I speed down the road. The not-deer, still in pursuit, winks out of view as I continue around the bend.

“Jesus Christ, Dad, what did you get yourself mixed up in?” I complain to myself as I continue my quest.

[loudgibbon]

The sacrificed bull

Finished designing my bull angel concept! for my friend's TTRPG

[loudgibbon]

i learned that Ben Franklin was a slaveowner for much of his life, but after a friend took him to visit a school for black children, he wrote that African ignorance was not inherently natural but came from lack of education, slavery and negative environments. He also petitioned Congress to end slavery (x)

[loudgibbon]

I have a costal country in the works that this would work wonderfully in

Carving Bays by Sean Yang

[loudgibbon]

I love earth

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled “immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

[loudgibbon]

Furiously writing this into my D&D campaign.

Art by Martín Santos