mistressofthequack

[mistressofthequack]

This is very concerning

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I’m literally shaking as I write this

President Sebastián Piñera just declared Chile at “state of emergency” over the riots that are taking place in Santiago.

This means that the police, military and special forces are no longer subject to our constitution’s laws; they can legally violate our human rights without getting any punishment.

Guys, I’m scared. They’re torturing people and a student is already missing. They’re throwing tear gas grenades directly at people, shooting teens and college students, hitting and hurting anyone who happens to be on the streets. They apparently killed two college students already.

Please, please don’t let this get swept under the rug.

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[mistressofthequack]

dead poets society// kill your darlings

“and like all lovers and sad people, i am a poet.”

[mistressofthequack]

Tamara and the Demon by Konstatin Makovsky, based on the poem Demon by  Mikhail Lermontov, in which a demon falls in love with a Georgian princess called Tamara.

“A stranger, mute, through mists that curled, in beauty clad not of this world, came to her, leaned above her pillow; and in his glance was such billow of love and grief that you’d infer all his compassion was for her.

This was no angel to befriend her, this was no heaven-sent defender: no crown of iridescent beams adorned his forehead with its gleams; nor one of those who burn together in hell, no tortured sinner—no! he as like evening in clear weather: not day, nor night—not gloom, nor glow!”

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Why doesn't this hellsite have more Foil Arms and Hog content?

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The Magic Circle, 1886, John William Waterhouse

Medium: oil,canvas

[mistressofthequack]

do you ever see a photograph of someone really attractive from like the 1800s and you suddenly get pissed because they’ve been dead for like 200 years and you probably don’t have a chance with them

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Leaving whatever you were doing at the moment and running to write the story you’ve been intending to write for the past few weeks because you have inspiration for it now and if you don’t write in the following few minutes you’ll have to wait for the next full moon to be inspired again

The life of a werewriter.

[mistressofthequack]

Gospel of Michael - Part 1

After a while, Mike had given up completely on the idea of meeting him once again. For a few years he still thought they would meet, suddenly, at the least expected time. He looked around, searching for him, whenever he went out, trying to catch a glimpse of him in the supermarket, or in the line to the clinic, or just passing by him on the street. He kept looking around for what felt like decades, anticipating - though not without some fear - the upcoming meeting. 

But it didn’t happen. It was a big country, and an even bigger world, and by now the chances of them meeting again were too slim to be considered. Even if they did meet, would he recognise him? The last time they ever saw each other Mike was only in his early teens, young and confused. He was no longer a teen (though girls tended to say he had a baby face), and even though he believed he didn’t look so vastly different, he was certain that he’d be very different in the eyes of someone who hadn’t met him in over a decade… 

Eventually he stopped looking around, stopped asking himself if every man who showed any sort of resemblance to him was, in fact, the man he was looking for. 

It took a few years, but he had finally accepted the fact that he would not meet his older brother again, at the ice cream parlor, with a woman by his side and a little child holding his hand. 

He gave up on the idea of their eyes crossing, for a moment, before each of them looked away while telling themselves it couldn’t be. 

He didn’t change at all.

Mike looked up again to see the man staring directly at him, with bright eyes that he had learned to recognise so well. There could be no mistake. No person had a pair of eyes similar to that… 

Mike was looking straight into the eyes of the man he learned to call Satan.

The man went down on one knee, speaking quietly to the boy who was holding his hand, before standing up again. The boy left his arm, moving to cling on his mother’s leg, as the male went to face his presumed brother. 

For a moment they did not talk, each one of them inspecting the other worriedly.

 That was the moment Mike anticipated for years. For years he imagined this meeting, this exchange of glances, the weight on his chest that wouldn’t allow him to breathe properly. For years he imagined the man approaching him, looking right into his eyes with the bright orbs Mike used to admire as a child…

But Mike discovered that he never imagined anything past that. He didn’t know what to say, or what to do. He didn’t even know what he thought of this man, the man who had caused havoc and torn apart his own home. 

Perhaps he should forgive him, as his education demanded. Perhaps he should beg for his forgiveness, as his conscience demanded. Perhaps he should just leave, as far away as possible, as his stomach demanded… 

He looked up to the other’s face, meeting with his piercing eyes. Mike discovered that in those eyes, like in his own, there were tears. 

The young man extended a hand, keeping his insistent glance on the other male. 

“You’ve hurt me, Michael.” The man’s voice, too, was just like he remembered. 

Mike’s hand trembled as he struggled to keep it in place and not take it away in response to the devil’s accusation. “So did you, Lucifer. You’ve hurt all of us.”

“I trusted you.”

“So did I.”

He could barely see a thing past the wall of tears that covered his eyes, blocking his vision. He blinked, feeling the tears leaving his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as new tears came in their place.

Silence spread between them as his brother examined him. Through his tears Mike could not tell the nature of that glance - was it dismay? Contempt? 

After a few more moments he swallowed, letting the hand drop by his side. He offered reconciliation. He offered his hand to the man who had destroyed his house and made him lose one third of his family. He offered forgiveness to the one who betrayed those who gave him all he had... It was this man to whom he offered this gesture, and this man declined it. 

He would have turned and left, letting him return to his wife and his child. A strong pair of arms stopped him - they wrapped around him, pulling him closer to his lost brother. 

His tears couldn’t be stopped anymore, streaming down his cheeks and unto the other’s jacket as his own arms were sent to hold the familiar figure. 

“I missed you.” He sobbed, between one shallow breathe to another. “I missed you so much.”

To be continued

[mistressofthequack]

Sir Galahad, George Frederick Watts

[mistressofthequack]

This was supposed to be a writing blog but it became filled with art within a week oh well

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Sleep, 1800, Francisco Goya

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Temptation, Viktor Vasnetsov

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I need a Colossus of Rhodes x Statue of Liberty fanfic please

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A quartier latin, 1898, Alphonse Mucha

[mistressofthequack]

185 years of Iguanodon reconstructions, by me