#counter culture contest

[inventors-fair]

Counter Culture

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I absolutely love counters. I like any and all counters really, but I especially love it when they *do* things. The newest addition to this little group is the rad counters from the fallout precon, that turn into mill and lifeloss. They're great!! Let's get them some friends.

Create a card that shows off a never before seen kind of counter, that has inherent rules meaning

poison counters, keyword counters, shield counters, stun counters, finality counters, rad counters. Something in that vein

A simple execution of this idea would be a new kind of keyword counter for a keyword that hasn't been countered before. (Another simple execution would be a new kind of power/toughness affecting counter i suppose but please don't, there's a reason we stopped getting those in the 90s). You could also do something more complicated though, if you feel it. If you go that route, think potentially about the kinds of actions in magic that already have slight memory issues and see if you can turn that effect into a standardized counter. Otherwise, I'd look at rad counters, stun counters, and shield counters for inspiration- a kind of counter that has an inbuilt "lose this condition". Especially if it's a counter with a negative effect, because counters are very hard to get rid of so it wouldn't be fun for something to permanently have a "pacifism counter" or something stuck on it that they can't get rid of.

My other recommendation is to think about context: Most counters aren't going to be a one-off, they're going to be either evergreen like stun counters and finality counters where they show up consistently, if in small numbers, or they're gonna be something more like poison shield or rad counters used as a set mechanic. In either case, think about how they might play in volume. Going back to the pacifism counters, those wouldn't be great for this either, because they're not something that's gonna be used a lot. The one exception to this, I'd say, is keyword counters. You can get away with using keyword counters as a one-off in a contexts where using the keyword itself makes sense.

The submission deadline as always is this upcoming friday at noon, the 22nd.

Submit your designs >> HERE <<

Join our discord for feedback >> HERE <<

And as always, have fun!! -@loreholdlesbian

[theexorcistiii]

Actually if I think about dragula too hard I’ll get so fucking mad but yes I am still going to see dragula live this may

[zombiekillerbiceps]

Hide and Seek

Note: I saw Scream 6 last night and remembered I'm attracted to men who want to kill me, beware ye who enter here etc.

Contents: NSFW, 18+, 3k words, LeonxReader, knife kink, home invasion roleplay, cnc with enthusiastic consent, Dom!Leon, ambiguous era, masochist reader, very slight blood, bdsm, hair pulling, choking, rough sex, degradation, threats, crying, insults (bitch, slut, whore), glove kink, boot kink, primal kink (adjacent?), spoilers for Scream 2, no y/n.

-----

"Yeah okay, so basically she's the mom of one of the killers from the first film," you told him, grabbing another hand full of popcorn, "and what's really fun is their last name Loomis is a reference to the doctor in Halloween, anyways, their whole purpose as killers is to make a point about how people are violent by nature and not because of movies, and how people are more likely to kill because the media glorifies murderers."

"You really like these movies, huh?" Leon asked.

He was, admittedly, a little bit bored. Slasher flicks never did it for him. But what he had was an opportunity to cuddle up on the couch with you and watch you get passionate about something.

Passionate was definitely one way to describe it. The way your breath quickened during the chase scenes and the way your mouth hitched up into a smile whenever Ghostface caught a victim didn't go unnoticed by him. When Ghostface was taunting the victims over the phone, your eyelids got a little heavy, your face a little red.

"What's your favourite part about them?" He asked, watching for your reaction.

You take a long moment to ponder it. The way they act as a mirror to the cultural zeitgeist of the time, reflecting fears, values, and cinema of the era was up there. The kills were always legendary too, just really brutal. But if you were being honest with him?

"The chase," you admitted, your cheeks reddening just a bit.

You two finished out the movie, and because it was your turn for Movie Marathon Night, you put on Scream 3. Leon waited until the moment when Ghostface was stalking a victim through their home before leaning close to you.

"I could do that to you," he said, his voice a low roll.

Your breath hitched in your throat, surprised and immediately turned on at the rumble of his voice. You looked up at him.

"Yeah?"

"If you wanted me to."

You thought about it. Leon's heavy boots on the hardwood floor, his strength contested against yours, the glint of a blade against your throat...

"I definitely like the sound of that." You agreed, and then, sheepishly, "I like the knife too."

"I know," he said, and you burned in embarrassment.

It was a few weeks later that you were putting groceries away, the whole conversation (disappointingly) forgotten, when your phone rang.

Unknown Caller

Your eyebrows cinched together in confusion. Who could be calling you? You propped the fridge door open with your hip and answered the phone.

"Hello?" You ask, reaching over to the counter to grab the carton of eggs.

"Hello, sweetheart." The voice on the other end was deep, a little raspy.

"Leon?"

"Wouldn't you like to find out," Leon the Caller responded. "Do you want to play a game?"

"That's Jigsaw," you teased, excitement bubbling up in your stomach.

He didn't answer for a while. Long enough to make you double check the call wasn't dropped.

You pulled the phone back from your ear.

Still on. Full bars.

"Did I ruin the-"

"You didn't answer my question," he said, slowly, sharply.

You grin. "Okay, I'll play."

"Excellent. How about hide and seek?"

"What?"

"I'll give you ten seconds to find a place to hide, and then I'll come find you."

"Are you home right now?" You ask, straining your ears to hear anything in the house.

"Ten."

"What if I find you first?"

"Nine."

A prickle of fear slid up your back. His voice was sharp, serious. You'd never heard it like that before, and it made it so easy to believe that he wanted to hurt you.

You leave the kitchen, pace getting quicker as you scan for places to hide.

"Eight."

The coat closet was too small. The linen closet where you kept the board games too obvious.

"Seven."

Was he in the house? Do you lock the door to keep him out or does that just trap you?

"Six."

You start up the stairs at a creeping pace to keep quiet, thinking you could probably slip into the bathroom unnoticed if you were quiet enough. The stair creaked under your weight.

"Five. You'll have to be quicker than that, sweetheart." The taunting in his voice was unbearable. Smug, confident, and a fully loaded threat all at once.

A spurt of adrenaline. Your body is bolting up the stairs before you can think better of it.

"Come on," he groaned. "Too loud. You're making this too easy for me."

Your hands turn the bathroom knob and he chuckled over the phone.

"The bathroom? Really? A second-story dead end. You're smarter than this. Three."

"Shut up," you sputter out, pulling the door open defiantly.

He's standing there behind the opaque shower curtain. He tears it open, prying it off the bar entirely. He's wearing a tight black t-shirt and tactical cargo pants, tucked into military boots. You don't miss the knife holster on his shoulder, or the black gloves on his hands. His icy blue eyes meet yours and he feigns disappointment.

"Two," he says, over the phone and to your face. His voice is ice cold. He steps out of the shower slowly. Purposefully.

You expect the heavy boots to make some kind of noise, but he moves like a fucking ghost.

"One."

He drops the phone and charges.

You slam the door just before he meets it. His body slams into it and you feel the force shudder through the door and into you. You hear the doorframe crack. He didn't even have a lot of time to gain momentum, that was just his raw strength. Real adrenaline is floods your brain.

You turn tail and run faster than you've ever run before. The bathroom door swings open behind you. He's catching up with easy, effortless strides.

You make it to the bedroom and slam the door behind you. Your hands shaking as you go to turn the lock.

The doorknob moves under your hands. It won't lock if it's half turned. You struggle with it, fighting with both hands, your sweaty palms making it hard to get a grip.

You manage to wrestle it back just long enough to lock it.

Silence.

You back away from the door, your hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, harsh breaths. Just when you start to relax, hard pounding at the door kicks you off again. Again. Again. Again again again again - he's going to break the fucking door down!

Silence.

You hear something metallic touch the doorknob. Something pops. It starts to turn.

You do the only think you can think of and dive underneath the bed.

The door swings open. You watch his boots, massive and impossibly fucking quiet cross the threshold.

"Sweetheaaart," he coos. "You don't think you can really hide from me, do you?"

You gently put your hand over your mouth and nose to muffle the sounds of your shaky, terrified breath.

You watch as he crosses over to your shared closet. He opens it. Then, with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows they'll get what they want eventually, he turns. One step, then another, he walks towards your hiding place.

His boots stop just shy of the bed. Just inches from your face. Impeccably polished, but undeniably beat up.

You hear the rustle of fabric. He tosses the blankets on to the ground, blocking your view.

This was bad.

You could just barely hear him cross over to the other side but, from the angle you were at under the bed, couldn't see it. For a painfully long moment, nothing happens. You debate bolting for the door.

A hand wraps around your ankle!

He begins to pull you out from under the bed, the leather of his gloves giving him grip against your bare skin.

"No!" You cry out, instinct taking over. You kick at him and he releases you.

You scurry out from under the bed, fighting against the blankets in your way. You hear him step up onto the bed as you come out from under it. You half- crawl, half- run towards your escape, looking back to see him jumping down, completely unbothered. Your legs are unsteady, everything in your body just trying to get away without really thinking about how.

You brace yourself against the door frame and use it to propel you forward.

His hands are on your shoulders, yanking you against him.

You struggle in vain, a massive arm wrapping around your waist. Your hands try to pry his grip off your hips but his gloved hands don't move. You try to find purchase on the ground but he lifts you until your toes can just barely touch.

He isn't even breathing hard, you realize.

This is easy for him.

"Let me go!" You are try to sound defiant but the high pitch of your voice betrays your fear.

"Let me go isn't our safe word," he says in your ear. You feel him relax against you a little, only just enough to hold you in place.

"Fuck you," you take advantage of his kindness and work your way out of his grasp. You dash for the stairs again but don't even make it a couple of steps before there's a sharp pain in your skull.

A gloved hand is gripping the hair at the base of your head. Electricity echoes through you. You whimper, body freezing up at the pain.

He's almost dragging you backwards. Your body hits another wall, hard enough to make your head spin.

Leon's hand is on your throat. His eyes are wild and dark, and you can tell by the way his gaze rakes over your body that he likes the chase just as much as you do.

His free hand reaches up to pull his knife from it's holster on his shoulder.

You forgot about that.

Your pulse roars in your ears, your body squirming against his grip on your neck. He tightens his grip. For a few seconds, everything becomes light and airy. Then he relaxes, and the oxygen floods back into your brain with a rush of endorphins.

"If you keep squirming like that, I'm going to really hurt you." Fuck, his voice so low and threatening... It genuinely scared you, and the fear just made him hotter.

Sharp, unforgiving features tower over you as he brings the knife point to your abdomen. He traces the hemline of your pants before tucking the curved blade under the hem of your shirt. He pressed in enough that the skin bends beneath the blade, threatening to slice open if you move.

"No," you whimper. "Please don't."

He pulls the knife away, eyes softening and meeting yours.

"No isn't our safe word," he says, but this time there is no mocking tone. His gaze is gentle, genuine, asking a question without asking it.

The fear settles in your brain as you meet his eyes. He would never hurt you if you didn't want him to, you trusted him with your life. The vulnerability is given willingly, as much as you act like it's being taken.

This makes you bold. You spit in his face, trying to turn your thrilled grin into a snarl and failing.

"Fuck. You."

Your spit runs down his cheek. His features harden. He looks like he could fucking kill you.

"You little bitch," he mutters through gritted teeth.

The knife is there against your skin again, a cold pinpoint threat. And then it's gliding up your body, tearing your shirt with it. He pushes the knife back into its holster and stares at you, exposed and cold.

Then he's wrestling you to the ground. You try to resist until your muscles ache with the effort. He does it easily anyways. If his combat training didn't tell him exactly how to manhandle you like a doll, he would still easily overpower you.

One hand pins you down by your back, while his other tears painfully at your denim shorts. You struggle against him, lifting your hips and "accidentally" making it easier for him to drag them off you.

"You're making it too easy for me," Leon taunts you. You try to get to your knees but he pushes you back down with a mocking tsk.

"Oh, look at this," he says. You feel the leather of his gloves pressed against your hole. He drags a finger down your slit, smearing the slick with ease. "Act like you don't want it, but this tells a different story."

Two fingers push into you. Hard. You're wet enough that it's easy for Leon to pump in and out of you, whimpers spilling from your lips. Usually, he would curl his fingers inside you, hitting the spot that made you white hot. But this time? Nothing. He pumps his fingers in and out of you almost intentionally avoiding making you feel good. He was just making a show of you. Playing with you like a toy. Taunting you with every wet push inside you.

Then his fingers are gone. He releases his hold on you to adjust his weight. You hear his zipper.

You wonder how far you can take this.

You drag yourself forward, actually managing to almost get to your knees this time. He lets out a noise of surprise before you feel two hands on your thigh, dragging your bare skin against the hardwood floor. You whimper in pain, and then he's on you again.

"Stop it. A bitch should know when she's been beat," his voice was heavy in your ear. He wrapped an arm around your neck, choking you and using your shoulders as leverage all at once.

You could feel his cock against your ass, so hard it must hurt. His free hand lines it up with your cunt, the tip just dipping into you. He groans with self restraint.

"Ready, sweetheart?"

"Please," you beg quietly, as if asking for it too loudly would break the scene.

He thrusts in one, smooth motion. His cock pushes into you, painfully stretching your cunt around him. His bicep flexes next to your face, using your body to pull himself deeper.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me." He buried his face into your shoulder, whimpering into the torn fabric of your t-shirt. "Such a little slut."

He sets the pace hard and fast at first. Your high builds quickly, legs shaking beneath him, biting into his arm hard enough to leave marks. The pain only makes him rougher with you, fucking into you hard and sharp.

"Such a fucking slut, you like when I take you like this?" You whimper a response, nodding against him. "Yeah you do. Fucking whore."

He adjust his position, fucking you faster. His breath is hard and heavy, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you take me so well. Fucking." His babbling became almost incoherent, a sting of curse words and praise and humiliation, but you didn't care. It was enough just hearing him talk to you, grunting words between thrusts and moans, pushing into you. Closer, closer.

"Fuck, you about to come for me baby?" He can feel you tighten around his cock. "Stop fighting it. Come on, come on me like the little bitch you are."

It's enough to send you over the edge, whimpering as you come so hard it almost fucking hurts. He rides it out with you, slowing but never stopping. You try to catch your breath.

"Fuck, Leon," you manage. "That was so good."

"Don't think I'm done with you yet," he mutters, driving his hips into you a little harder.

You cry out, body over stimulated, the adrenaline crash rendering you weak and shaky. He keeps a slow pace, but he pushes into you as deep as he can go, almost threatening to push through you.

"It's too much," you whine.

He laughs at you. Then you hear the knife unbuckle again. You're too exhausted to even pretend to fight back, the cold tip tracing your back.

It bites into your skin, sharp and painful. And then it drags up, the sensation like fire on you. It traces your ribs, up to your shoulders. You can feel a thin line of blood drawn from its tip in the round of your shoulder while Leon keeps fucking into you at that slow, tortuous pace. You're too sensitive, the pain too much. Tears start to collect in your eyes. Tension starts to build in your abdomen again.

Leon switches to the dull side but digs it in enough to make you whimper. He keeps fucking you slow, deep, coaxing you deeper and deeper with his sultry voice.

Your cunt starts to tighten around him again and even that hurts. You sniffle, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

Leon works the dull side of the knife against your throat and that alone is enough to almost drive you over the edge. His body hot and heavy on top of you, both of you sweating and moaning.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" He asks, his voice shaking slightly.

"Mhm. Are you?"

"Ohh yeah," he confirms. He ducks his head closer to the other side of your neck, and you work a hand up into his hair, holding him close. You surprise him by pulling his hair, some part of you hoping it will get a rise out of him, but it doesn't. The same slow, deep pace. Pain danced with pleasure, arousal and discomfort tightening in your stomach, threatening to overcome you.

"Cry all you want baby," he groans in your ear, "it's just going to make me fuck you harder."

It's a promise. His hips snap into you harder, dragging out another climax so hard you're left breathless.

He doesn't stop. He doesn't even let you catch your breath this time. He's stopped talking now, his breath hard and fast in your ear. You try to tell him it hurts but you can only stutter pathetically beneath him.

He pulled himself into you, threat of the knife ever present against your throat. Your body felt like it was on fire.

"I can't, I can't, Leon-" you manage to plead, your body working up to another orgasm.

"I didn't fucking ask if you could," he groans in your ear.

That sends you over the edge again, crying out as your cunt clamped down around his cock. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears fall down your cheeks as your breath comes in moaning sobs.

You can feel his cock spasm inside you, spreading you more with each pulse. His cum is so hot it feels like it could burn you, his hips fucking it deeper into you as he rides through his high. Eventually, he slows to a stop.

You lay there like that on your hallway floor for a moment, before Leon released the knife with a clatter and rolls off of you.

Still shaking, you curl up to him He wraps his arms around you and you feel undeniably safe. Of course you do, you couldn't do all that with just anyone.

"Got a little carried away there," he admitted with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, I think you liked it more than I did," you joked back with a shaking voice.

He peppers the top of your head with gentle kisses.

"Are you still doing okay?" He asks. You nod against him.

"Sore. Overwhelmed."

"Let's get you into a bath, then how about we watch some TV together?"

"Yeah," you agree, kissing him. "That sounds good."

[transmutationisms]

i think you do a really impressive job balancing comprehensive/concise while referencing a lot of complex frameworks(contexts? schools of thought? lol idk what to call that. big brain ideas) but if you have any readings specifically on the institution of psychiatry topic that you would recommend/think are relevant, I'd be interested. it's absolutely not a conversation that's being had enough and I want to be able to articulate myself around it

yes i have readings >:)

first of all, the anti-psychiatry bibliography and resource guide is a great place to start getting oriented in this literature. it's split by sub-topic, and there are paragraphs interspersed throughout that give summaries of major thinkers' positions and short intros to key texts.

it's from 1979, though, so here are some recs from the last 4 decades:

overview critiques

mind fixers: psychiatry's troubled search for the biology of mental illness, by anne harrington

psychiatric hegemony: a marxist theory of mental illness, by bruce m z cohen

desperate remedies: psychiatry's turbulent quest to cure mental illness, by andrew scull

psychiatry and its discontents, by andrew scull

madness is civilization: when the diagnosis was social, 1948–1980, by michael e staub

contesting psychiatry: social movements in mental health, by nick crossley

the dsm & pharmacy

dsm: a history of psychiatry's bible, by allan v horwitz

the dsm-5 in perspective: philosophical reflections on the psychiatric babel, by steeves demazeux & patrick singy

pharmageddon, by david healy

pillaged: psychiatric medications and suicide risk, by ronald w maris

the making of dsm-iii: a diagnostic manual's conquest of american psychiatry, by hannah s decker

the myth of the chemical cure: a critique of psychiatric drug treatment, by joanna moncrieff

the book of woe: the dsm and the unmaking of psychiatry, by gary greenberg

prozac on the couch: prescribing gender in the era of wonder drugs, by jonathan metzl

the creation of psychopharmacology, by david healy

the bitterest pills: the troubling story of antipsychotic drugs, by joanna moncrieff

psychiatry & race

the protest psychosis: how schizophrenia became a black disease, by jonathan metzl

administrations of lunacy: racism and the haunting of american psychiatry at the milledgeville asylum, by mab segrest

the peculiar institution and the making of modern psychiatry, 1840–1880, by wendy gonaver

what's wrong with the poor? psychiatry, race, and the war on poverty, by mical raz

national and cross-national contexts

mad by the millions: mental disorders and the early years of the world health organization, by harry yi-jui wu

psychiatry and empire, by sloan mahone & megan vaughan

ʿaṣfūriyyeh: a history of madness, modernity, and war in the middle east, by joelle m abi-rached

surfacing up: psychiatry and social order in colonial zimbabwe, 1908–1968, by lynette jackson

the british anti-psychiatrists: from institutional psychiatry to the counter-culture, 1960–1971, by oisín wall

crime, madness, and politics in modern france: the medical concept of national decline, by robert a nye

reasoning against madness: psychiatry and the state in rio de janeiro, 1830–1944, by manuella meyer

colonial madness: psychiatry in french north africa, by richard keller

madhouse: psychiatry and politics in cuban history, by jennifer lynn lambe

depression in japan: psychiatric cures for a society in distress, by junko kitanaka

inheriting madness: professionalization and psychiatric knowledge in 19th century france, by ian r dowbiggin

mad in america: bad science, bad medicine, and the enduring mistreatment of the mentally ill, by robert whitaker

[rayghosts]

Reigen Arataka, world's greatest twink, dilf, milf, and Twitter favorite, had the chance of a lifetime. The Tumblr Sexyman poll - the only poll he landed second place in - was having a rematch on the original blue hellsite itself. With the experience he had gathered from the previous match, Reigen felt confident that he could win first place this time. He forwent the tactics he used last time and instead leaned hard into what he now knew was what made him truly appealing to the Tumblrinas: his babygirl factor.

In his first round, he swept the floor with Beetlejuice by opening his laptop and doing his work while lying in bed like a middle schooler. In the second round, he triumphed over Spamton by placing a hand on his hip in imitation of Jerma and saying, "Sparkle on, it's Wednesday, don't forget to be yourself!" In the third round, his victory over Jack Skellington was locked the moment Reigen used his latest Special Move: getting down on his hands and knees and arching his back so that his butt jutted out in a pose which drove the audience wild.

Having now won three rounds, Reigen was growing eager. He had but one round left before he could have his rematch against Sans. Already he could see that stupid skeleton across the stadium, taunting Reigen with his lazy smile.

Reigen's fourth opponent was a character he had never heard of before named Cecil Palmer, who didn't even have a canon appearance (albeit his voice did sound sexy). Cecil was from a podcast from 2012. Learning this, Reigen felt even more assured in his victory. No matter how popular this Cecil character may have been in 2012, Reigen had one over him in terms of relevance.

To Reigen's shock, his match against Cecil turned out to be much tougher than all his previous rounds. He soon learned the error he made in assuming Cecil's podcast faded years ago, for as it turned out, Welcome to Night Vale was still ongoing. Worse yet, Cecil's character writing kept up pace so that he was still as sexy by today's standards as he had been in 2012. Where Reigen cocked his hip in a slutty way and waved his hand around rapidly, Cecil rivalled him by wearing cat ears to work and gushing about his gay husband (who was CANON. How was Reigen supposed to go up against a CANON gay character?!)

But, no, there had to be some other secret to Cecil's success. After all, he didn't make it nearly as far in the Twitter poll. As Cecil paused in the middle of the competition to pull out his phone, Reigen finally saw why: Cecil had a Tumblr account. He had already familiarized himself with the website's culture long before Reigen entered the picture.

As Cecil's votes piled on unrelentlessly, Reigen became nervous. Could he really lose before reaching second place again? Reigen attempted to distract Cecil with a Salt Splash, but Cecil countered him by saying something about "the weather" and causing a random song to play out of nowhere, which disarmed Reigen long enough to gain Cecil another vote.

Now growing desperate, Reigen scanned through the audience, and that was when he saw him: Mob, standing among the crowd of Tumblrinas, watching his Shishou with his usual autistic stare. Reigen's first thought was how embarassing it must be for Mob to witness his teacher lose like this, but then he remembered his last match in Twitter, and what Mob told him afterward. Mob had wanted Reigen not to worry about what other people thought of him.

Reigen suddenly felt ashamed. How could he have forgotten Mob's words so quickly, and what was he teaching his disciple now, by entering a rematch of that contest? His vexation disappeared, to be replaced by a quiet resignation. As the poll drew to a close, and Cecil remained in the lead, Reigen decided to implement one last Special Move: Accepting His Defeat.

One second away from the poll's end, Cecil spoke in his smooth radio host voice, "Good news, listeners: #CECILSWEEP." The crowd erupted into cheers as the round's winner was announced to be Cecil.

Reigen somberly turned to walk off the stage. But before he could reach the end, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back to see Cecil standing next to him. Cecil had one question for him... would he like to be mutuals on Tumblr?

Reigen's eyes teared up.

Maybe the true Tumblr sexyman was the friends we made along the way.

@sexymanotd

[centrally-unplanned]

Doing some tab closing and I enjoyed this piece a lot; it has a clean thoroughness on investigating each of the different possible causes of the Baby Boom of the mid 20th century.

For those who don't know, the Baby Boom, despite what is often taught, probably had little to do directly with World War Two - it was not a phenomenon of soldiers "coming up" and releasing their pent-up baby-making drive. This is most easily proven by the fact that countries that didn't participate in the war had the same boom! And that the boom was already starting in the 1930's.

Its cause is still unproven, but the article makes a solid case for it primarily being a product of affordable housing (which itself is connected to WW2 in some ways) and more importantly medical technology, as maternal mortality declined between 1930 and 1960 by ~90%:

Which is another classic case of the 'short' being made by time into the 'long' - most people probably think of safe pregnancy as this gradual process of improving sanitation & medical technology throughout the 19th and 20th century, but in fact the lion's share of the decline was the invention of antibiotics that could treat sepsis over the span of 20 years. The "price" of having a child, combined with the housing boom creating the space for it, induced a fertility bump.

The article ends by stating that these forces could, in some way, be reproduced - that if today you make pregnancy safer and childcare cheaper again, you can get a similar rise. I think this is the false, solutionist optimism that only a concluding paragraph can bring, however. For one, if that was the case, you think you would evidence along the income spectrum of that - for a 75% income band couple in Sweden or the US, housing is more plentiful then ever, and pregnancy safer than ever, but in the main fertility continues to decline across every band (the super-rich in some countries are a tiny exception).

But more importantly, I think it mistakes why this happened. If you portray it as a cost-benefit calculation, as "oh the price of kids is way down now, lets shift our consumption basket", then sure it sounds replicable. I don't think that is right, however - you should instead look at this as a cultural revolution induced by rapid change.

The role of women in the workplace & wider society was undergoing a ton of flux in this era, and it was in a period of "contestation" - these changes were not settled or agreed on by society at large. What a woman should "do" with her life was very open, and many factions still pushed for a form of family traditionalism. The counter-forces to that 'benefited' from things like maternal mortality as counter-arguments; women (and their husbands) both desired the old way but feared the price, one they no longer had to bear due to no longer being mass farmers. That was the equilibrium of the 1920's.

Then technology came along and throw the whole game into whack, changing the equilibrium. It was so rapid, so sudden, it induced a culture shift. You can metaphorically think of it as like a consumer rush, buying the hot new toy - in this case the hot new thing was safe pregnancy and houses to raise the kids in. Everyone wanted a piece of that *new* possible life, different from the old. It was, in a sense, a fad.

Which you cannot replicate - its done. We have the tech, we have the wealth, it didn't last. The culture shift that began of the 1960's was absolutely a response to new equilibrium of the 50's, its gender roles were never stable. Radical new technology (like exo-wombs) could change that, sure, create a new hotness. But 5% reductions in maternal mortality or slightly cheaper childcare won't cut it. It could shift the margins, but it can't make a boom.

Or so I predict at least. Its certainly hard to quantify that dynamic, but I think if you study how people saw themselves & family in that time, this comes out from the narratives of the time - with no equivalent today.

[late-to-the-party-81]

Because it's Eurovision! Okay..?

AN: I wanted to write this last year, but didn’t, and then the enablers in the BBE server forced encouraged me. So enjoy this cracky Avengers Tower fic, where nobody dies and everyone lives happily ever after.

Un-beta’d

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me

Masterlist

Relationship: - None - Just good old team bonding.

Word Count: 1k

CW: Eurovision spoilers, American confusion, Domestic Avengers

“Oki doki, kiddos - what’s so important we’ve brought forward movie night to…” Tony looked at his watch. “... 3 o’clock in the afternoon?”

He looked around the lounge in confusion as Nat, Wanda and Bucky rearranged all the sofas, cushions and beanbags. Flag bunting hung from the ceiling, and the small kitchenette counter was laden with various snacks.

“It’s Eurovision, Tony.” Nat’s tone of voice suggested that that explained it all.

It did not.

“Euro-what now?”

Wanda came up beside him and started to steer him towards one of the seats.

“Just sit down, Stark. It’s about to start. Now where are the others?”

She looked around, auburn hair flying, but relaxed as Clint walked in, a grin on his face, followed by Bruce, Steve, and Sam. Wanda looked around them and smiled as Vision floated through the wall and towards her.

Clint bounded forward, launching himself over the back of the sofa and bouncing down next to Tony.

“Boy, are you in for a treat! This is going to be epic.” He grinned, completely unfazed by the blank looks from the other men. 

Sam settled on one of the other couches after a stern glare from Bucky, Steve joining him.

“Umm, could you possibly explain further?”

“If you will allow me…” The dulcet tones of FRIDAY echoed through the room as Nat and Bucky continued to shift and shuffle things around their confused team mates. “The Eurovision Song Contest is an annual event held in mid May every year, where the countries across the European continent all submit a musical act singing an original song. There are two semi-finals and then the final 26 acts star in the Final.”

Steve still looked confused.

“Well, what do the winners get?”

“The winning country gets to host the competition the following year, providing a boost for tourism and culture.”

Bruce settled down on the third couch, somehow having already snagged a bowl of popcorn.

“So the songs are good then?”

Nat snorted derisively.

“Nope. They are camp and cheesy, with ludicrous outfits, smoke machines and lots of pyrotechnics. But that’s the joy of it. And lots of the countries sing in their own language, so you have no idea what the song is actually about.”

Tony’s eyes went wide, nothing any clearer than it was before.

“Then why are we watching?”

As one Nat, Bucky and Wanda turned towards him.

“Because it’s Eurovision.”

“Umm, okay then…” He sunk down into the cushions, not sure it was worth risking the ire of undoubtedly the most dangerous trio in the room. “Can I ask why Thor gets out of this…”

Just then, the building shook, the unmistakable rumbling and light display signifying the bifrost had just hit the roof.  “..Scratch that.”

Nat turned on the television and squished in next to Clint. Vision and Wanda snuggled down into the beanbags. Thor burst into the room a few minutes later, placing Mjolnir onto the countertop.

“I haven’t missed it, have I?”

He took the final space next to Bruce, who passed over the bowl of popcorn.

“It’s the flag parade, apparently.”

The blonde god leant forward, arms resting on his knees.

“Ooo. I know this one! That’s Norway. I like them.”

Bruce smiled and elbowed his friend.

“Of course you do, they still treat you like a god.”

Across the room, Steve leant over to Bucky to whisper in his ear.

“Can I ask, if this is a European competition, why are Australia taking part?”

“Because they love how camp it is, and asked if they could join in.”

“I’m going to be confused during this whole thing, aren’t I?”

“Uh-huh…” Bucky threw some M & Ms up in the air, catching them in his mouth.

Back on the central sofa, Nat started to bounce slightly.

“Here we go! Prepare to be amazed…”

For the next 2.5 hrs the team sat, glued to the television, all manner of emotions running through them as they watched the eclectic musical display.

“Am I missing something,” asked Sam. “Why are they singing about Edgar Allen Poe?”

Bucky shrugged. “Why not?”

“Okay..?”

Steve nudged Bucky.  

“Buck - what’s she singing?”

“About how her love for her man is driving her crazy, but she doesn’t know if he feels the same.”

“Okay..?”

“My love…”

“Yes, Vis?

“This is an anti-war song, isn’t it?”

“It is, Vis.”

“Okay..?”

“Earth to Sam! Earth to Sam!”

Tony threw a screwed up piece of paper across the room and watched Sam jolt and shake his head as it bounced off.

“What?”

“You seem a bit invested in the Cyprus act there….”

“Fuck off, Tony.”

“Okay..?”

“Nat?”

“Yes, Bruce?”

“I don’t want to be rude, but is there a reason she seems likes she’s dressed like a werewolf?”

“Because it’s Eurovision.”

“Umm…okay..?”

Thor was bouncing in his seat as the Finnish act started.  

“This is more like it!”

Bruce peered at the screen, as though the neon pink and green outfits were starting to give him a migraine.

“But…but what’s it about?”

“Going out drinking!”

“Okay..?”

“Errrrm, Buck…What the hell did I just watch?”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head at Steve’s question.

“Croatia.”

That didn’t really help. All Steve knew was that he’d just seen something he couldn’t unsee.

“Okay..?”

The act from the UK finished and Tony stood up, cracking his neck.

“Well, guys. Thanks for that, I think. But now that’s over…”

“Nope!” Nat reached across Clint, who’d fallen asleep between them, slowly drooling on a cushion, to grab hold of Tony’s t-shirt and pull him back down. “Now it’s the half time show while the voting is done, and then it’s the results. And this year, we can vote from outside Europe. Look, there’s an app and everything.”

Tony blinked slowly in disbelief. “When’s it due to finish?”

“About 7pm.”

“What!” At Tony’s shout Clint sat bolt upright, snorted and sucked up a string of drool. “This thing goes on for 4 hours. Like how?”

“BECAUSE IT’S EUROVISION!” Came the chanted reply, this time with Thor joining in.

“Okay..?”

Tony pulled out his phone and opened the app store with a shrug. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

“I got $50 on Finland. Who wants in?”

At 7.05pm Tony sat staring at the screen, mouth wide open as the others groaned and started to pass cash towards Bruce.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Bruce smiled and shrugged.

“It’s Eurovision, Tony.”

Tag list: @jobean12-blog @sidepartskinnyjeans @flordeamatista @krissy25 @bodeckersdiamonddoll @goldylions @luxeavenger @wheezy-stucky @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @seitmai @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel

[familyabolisher]

Apologies for bringing up a topic you've already discussed at length, but I've read through your posts on "anti-intellectualism" and completely agree with you on all counts. But I'm just now curious about how you'd define the increased culture of outright rejection of critical analysis (vague though the term is) as opposed to simple disinterest. Situations like people dismissing any deep analysis of systems, media, texts etc with "It's not that deep", or hostility towards fuller and in depth responses to statements (especially on social media with the ever prevalent "not reading that"), with the result often times being that anything requiring slight effort to engage with, or that isn't entertaining is dismissed completely.

Although I understand that these are just peoples reactions on the internet, and not systemic or material issues, I'd love to know your thoughts on how that cultural behaviour and trend could be classed, if not as anti-intellectualism.

(there are obviously a huge amount of external reasons (the attention economy, media, education etc) for people to react in that way, so I'm not blaming people personally, nor do I think everyone needs to go read Hegel and become a master critical thinker, but I do think it is a trend that has some damaging effects, especially as a response to any criticism of capitalism)

talked a little about it here—i guess i would ask what you're actually seeking to accomplish with the word "define," because there's no one explanation that can neatly account for every individual rejection of the practice of critical reading, and nor should we be seeking to find one. certainly 'anti-intellectualism' doesn't cut it, so i would just reiterate the point i made in the initial piece—how people feel about critical analysis, what their base skill level in critical analysis actually is, how that skill level is articulated, what their relationship is to the work or works in question & the respect with which they are willing to treat it are all highly contingent questions which cannot be easily explained away but instead merit thorough materialist investigation. ultimately as marxists we have to be materialists; our investigations should seek these material explanations, which means interrogating normative epistemes, education & academia, how we define "literacy" & its social use + social distribution, who benefits and who winds up disadvantaged. the "anti-intellectualism" position is broad enough to be near enough useless when it comes to articulating actionable responses; i also find it cruel.

also tbqh whilst i do get impatient when people don't "want" to engage with challenging narratives in ways that i find intellectually stimulating and would rather watch marvel film #47384 or whatever, i think it's good to take a policy of, like, blocking and moving on, curating your feed, and remembering that you don't + shouldn't have access to that person's relationship to the media landscape and the sorts of analytical tools that they may well only ever have encountered in a hostile educational setting, as well as working towards showing that engagement with "difficult" works is a) possible and b) fun and worthwhile. often people's reluctance to engage with works that have a (perceived) higher entry barrier (however ethically questionable that perception might be) simply comes from the fact that they lack/believe themselves to lack the right tools for engagement, and don't want to be made to feel "stupid" by not "getting" it—they preemptively go on the 'let people enjoy things'-esque defensive to counter this. the more candidly we talk about critical practices & the more digital airtime we give to less "mainstream" work, and the more space we give people to not understand things/to ask questions/to communicate and share ideas rather than participating in the big pissing contest of who can be the most Media Literate, the closer we get to resolving these sorts of tensions, imo.

[beechaotic]

So, I don’t talk about my stories on here much. Maybe about different characters in passing, but nothing too in-depth. However, I wanted to share a story I wrote outlining how one of the main characters for my Sci-Fi story met her best friend (an alien) for a contest. I wanted to share it here to see if you guys like it, because I’m kind of proud of it.

Title: The Monster Who Saved Her

Word Count: 1,684 words

She was young, when she was taken.

She hardly remembers anything about Earth. Sure, she remembers bits and pieces of her language, her culture, things she learned; but she only remembers little things.

She doesn’t remember what different flowers were called, but she remembered that her favorite ones were multicolored (and likely genetically modified) with layering petals that curved around the center. She can’t remember any concrete or important words, but she does know how to say “Are you here to help me?” (because she said it too much on those ships; too many times she’d beg for help from anyone who would listen. They never helped). She also remembers the word “A-May”. She doesn’t remember her mother’s face, but she knows that her mother always sang to her when she had a nightmare. She had a beautiful voice. She doesn’t remember any common names from her homeworld, but she does remember that there was a girl she considered her best friend who was named “Estée”, which she said meant “Star”. She also remembered thinking it was fitting for the girl, as she had shown brightly and was always happy to shine light her on someone’s dark day. But she didn’t remember anything important about her life, her culture, her language.

She still remembers the night she was taken to the first ship.

She had been in her room, listening to her parents argue (she remembers that they did that often; that her father usually came home smelling gross and being clumsy, and that her mother would be mad every time). She couldn’t sleep because of the shouts and the banging of fists hitting counters. She curled up closer to her beloved toy, a little stuffed cat that her father had given her once when he wasn’t stumbling and his mood was light. She had named it Sarr-u, a suggestion from her mother. She remembered her parents joking that this was her first child, and that they would give all their money to the toy when they were gone.

She remembered hearing something break, and how footsteps echoed in the apartment. She remembered hearing her father shout in surprise, before hearing what she now knows as the shot of a High-Powered Plasma Shooter. Then, she heard her mother scream. She hid her head under the thin blanket. She stayed huddled there while she heard voices speak in an unfamiliar tongue. A tongue that she now speaks, that she knows better than her Homeworld’s.

She remembers hearing them slam her bedroom door open with such ferocity that she shuddered and tried to meld with Sarr-u. They ripped off her blanket, and she saw the horrors that had killed her parents.

She doesn’t remember what Humans look like, just vague features and skin tones; but she remembers knowing that these were not Humans. She remembers thinking that they were monsters, come to eat her soul and feed her bones to whatever monstrosities they called pets. She remembers screaming and clinging to Sarr-u as they picked her up roughly, how she squirmed and writhed in a vain attempt to get free. The monsters didn’t even react to her struggles beyond grumbling in their language. She remembers them taking her outside, where they were rounding up other children she knew from the apartment building. She remembers playing with them, their parents taking turns on who would watch the children each day. She remembers how they would all laugh and just be free.

Some of the children were crying, some were also fighting, but most were frozen in terror. She could tell now which ones had been with their parents when the “monsters” had barged in, which ones had watched the fatal blow. Those were the children that looked empty, like they weren’t even alive anymore. Like they were floating out of their body, far away from what was happening, where everything was safe.

The “monster” shoved them into cells with clear doors. She remembers trying to touch the barrier, only to get a jolt of pain through her hand. She remembers how she had pulled it away only to find charred flesh where limb had met with barrier. She remembers sitting in the corner of her cell and crying in fear. She remembers screaming for her “A-May” over and over again.

They were in those cells for what felt like decades, though it probably was no more than a year. The older kids would try to reassure the others by saying that they would make sure nothing bad would happen, that they would all get back home soon. She remembers believing them. That this would all end with a heroic soldier coming in and opening their cell doors, killing all of the “monsters” in their wake. The monsters always came back, usually bringing strange food with them. The food tasted like nothing and was always dry. It was also never enough to fully satiate them. And the water that they got was always warm, and they could only drink small mouthfuls at a time to save it. They never knew when they would next be fed.

Then, the monsters came back, not with food, but with cages. They began opening cells and loading children into the cages, even as the older ones screamed at them and the little ones cried in fear. Some of the older children even tried ramming themselves into the invisible barrier, and she watched as their skin and clothes got charred like her palm had been.

When they got to her, she didn’t fight back. She tried to hide away, to make herself too small to be seen. But it didn’t work, because they grabbed her anyway and shoved her into a tight cage without remorse.

When everyone was loaded into their cages, the monsters began to walk them out of the ship. They were put into a dark area where they couldn’t see. Some of the children cried, while others whispered reassurances. One even began to sing, soon joined by the other children held captive there. She remembers the song they sung vividly, how the childlike voices made it more haunting with the fear etched in every word.

“What do we do when we’re half-starved and mad?

We fight till we’re dead,

Fight ‘till we’re dead

What do we do when our enemies hound us?

We fight ‘till we’re dead,

Fight ‘till we’re dead

What do we do when the mob surrounds us?

We fight ‘till we’re dead,

Fight ‘till we’re dead!”

Now, whenever she hears someone singing a tune vaguely similar, she gets a jolt of peace. It was the only moment of true safety she would feel for a long time. Yes, she was in a cage and shrouded by darkness, but she also had people with her that she considered to be her friends. Estée was there, too. She kept trying to make everyone laugh, just like she used to.

She wondered sometimes where Estée was, and if she was safe. Was she still on one of the ships? Was Estée being tortured, like she had been? She could only hope that she was on one of the ships that actually care about Humans.

One by one, the cages were grabbed and taken into another room. As they were taken, the younger children would scream and wail, and the older children would try and shout platitudes. Eventually, she was taken into the room.

The room was a stage, with thousands of monsters staring at it from the stands. Her cage was roughly placed on the ground, and the monster at the podium she had glimpsed began talking. Monsters began shouting and raising their appendages. And with a chill, she realized that this was an auction. She was being sold.

She had heard of Humans doing this to other Humans in the past, but she never expected it to happen to her. She curled in on herself, desperate to disappear.

She was dragged onto a new ship, to a new cell. She was tortured and experimented on day in and day out. Eventually, they got bored of her, and sold her to another ship. This happened over and over again, until she became numb to the process.

Then, one day, after a long session of pain, she heard blaring alarms go off on the ship. Pounding resounded through the halls, along with the inhuman language she had grown accustomed to. Shots rang out from their weird guns, and she heard bodies hit the floor as shrieks filled the air. Soon, a new monster appeared at her cell door.

He was tall and very heavy-set. Not with hulking muscles, but with a broad body that years of hard labor would give you. But that wasn’t what caught her attention; no, it was that he looked like a pig.

Even then, her memories of Earth had begun to fade. But she remembers distinctly thinking “Wow, it’s like a pig on two feet”. He looked at her for a moment, before clicking some buttons on the keypad. The door opened, and he stepped inside. Weakly, she growled (a sound she had heard the monsters make to scare her), but he didn’t move away. Instead, he just held up his-hands? Hooves?-in a placating way. In a way that was so achingly Human, she couldn’t help but pause for a moment. He stepped closer, and she began to growl weakly again, curling around Sarr-u for comfort.

He kept his hands slightly raised as he approached, always in her view. He kept his movements slow and predictable, so as to not startle her. Slowly, he knelt down in front of her. Her growls petered out as she took in the kindness his eyes held. He made a strange cough-like noise, probably to try and calm her. Surprisingly, it worked.

He took her to his ship and showed her a room she could stay in. He taught her Galactic Common. And when the time came, he asked for her name.

She looked at him, her protector, her savior.

“My name is Burma, thank you for saving me.”

There you go, the story of a future Spaceship Captain, Burma! She actually has a stutter, but I imagine that that happens due to a head injury after she meets this guy.

Also, I have no idea what to name her alien friend. You guys have any suggestions? I would rather have non-European names, because in the Lore of this world, the aliens used to occasionally come to Earth and teach/talk to Humans. His species settled in like, the Caribbean. Don’t ask me what island, I haven’t thought that far ahead. However, I think it would be somewhere like Cuba, the Dominican Republic, or Haiti. So they picked up pieces of each other’s cultures.

Also, yes, Burma’s family is from Burma. However, she isn’t. She was born in America, since her family immigrated there before she was born. That’s why she said some things in Burmese, rather than in English. Like Sarr-u. It’s the Latin Alphabet version of the Burmese word for “First Born”. (Y’know how I put in the jokes her parents made? That was why).

Side note, I wanted to imply that her father was an alcoholic without directly saying it. I hope that came across in the text.

Anyway, yeah, that’s the origin story for my Ship Captain Burma! She learns Galactic Common AND her friend’s native language, which is comprised of grunts and chuffs.

Tell me what you think!!

Ps: I made up the song they sing, and I imagine it to a similar tune as “What should we do with a drunken sailor?” Because the contest wouldn’t let me use preexisting songs and I still wanted to show them singing.

PPS: None of the characters are white!! I didn’t decide the races/ethnicities for most of them, except for Burma and her best friend from Earth, Esteé. Esteé is Haitian and is very much not white. I imagine her having a VERY dark complexion. Not like those influencers social media pushes on you, darker than that. Like, Oh-Fuck-I-Can’t-Find-Makeup-In-The-Right-Shade-That’s-In-My-Budget kind of dark. Why did I come up with all this information about her AND MORE? Because I have no life. 🙃

[climatecalling]

Their “guerrilla protests” on Britain’s roads, at art galleries, museums, and cultural and sporting events have enraged the press, politicians and the public alike. But now experts have said they believe climate activists’ most important weapon could be “the strategic use of nonviolent disruptive tactics”. ... The findings come as Just Stop Oil’s supporters complete their 12th week of slow marching protests on London’s streets and amid uproar about lengthy queues at Wimbledon, where security was tightened to counter climate protests. ... The experts who study social movements not only believe that strategic disruption can be an effective tactic, but that it is the most important tactical factor for a social movement’s success. “This points out how our intuitions can be flawed when it comes to understanding social change, and how we shouldn’t take people’s first reactions as the indicator of an effective protest.” ... Prof Bart Cammaerts, said: “Whether we like it or not, the history of social change is also a history of political contestation and disruption. Disruption of everyday life is often the best way to receive media attention, generate visibility for a cause and above all to push political and economic elites to compromise and accept change, if only to protect their own interests.”

Published July 7, 2023

[inventors-fair]

Counter Culture Winners!!!

Vital Elf by @real-aspen-hours

Interesting stuff! I definitely like the built in safety measure of only working once per turn even if you get multiple vitality counters on it; that’s a good call that allows you to do more with the design space without going infinite with a ham sandwich, unlike some other counter-based elven mana dorks i could name. And this seems like a good, simple execution of the concept that shows it off well. I might want it to be a 1/1 over a 2/1? A 2 mana dork that, even once, can tap for 2 mana is probably pretty decent.

Awaken to Possibility by @nine-effing-hells

Awakening counters are a good idea that i could definitely see being a set mechanic, I like them a lot. This particular card seems a touch over priced? Drawing a card for each creature you control is ~5 mana and in this case I think the awakening bumps it more to 7 or so, but 8 just feels like a lot. That’s an overall minor quibble though and this is quite good. (Technically, awakening counters *are* already a thing but as Palliation Accord shows that’s maybe not a problem.)

Grippli Infiltrator by @bergdg

Sneak counters are great, and this is a good card to showcase them. They definitely seem like the kind of thing you can throw on all kinds of different designs which makes them a good candidate for this kind of contest. And the card is just nice. A 1/2 that draws a card on hit is something you *want* to hit might will have trouble doing so, so the sneak counter is put to good use here.

[miracles-and-butterflies]

Third part of Ride the Cyclone AU.

The game begins.

(Oh and check out my reblog for this post for Dolores’ bid to be brought back to life).

The previous part in case you need a recap.

Comments are always appreciated.

Warning, sensitive topics below, especially character death.

~~~~~~

A Little More of Me

A drumroll rang through the room.

A spotlight flickering before it finally settled on Dolores.

“Dolores Madrigal, you are first.” The blue suited man declared.

The woman froze, before barely managing to get out the small word, “Why?”

He sighed sarcastically. “Alas! if only you hadn’t burned off those three questions right at the top.”

“It’s just…” she glanced around momentarily, before setting her eyes on the closest person to her. “When you tie the room together, I think Isabela is going to seem like the natural choice for that slot!”

“What? You want me to go first? But you never want me to go first.” Isabela commented.

Dolores squeaked in delight. “Well, it’s like you always say, Isa; the oldest should go first.” She quickly pushed the woman towards the strange man. “Mr. Whatever, Isabela and I are going to trade places.”

“No trading places,” the man remarked, mocking her voice as he did.

Isabela burst into laughter, looking very smug as she walked over only for Desconocida to step in and block the path to Dolores. Any cruel remarks were quickly forgotten about as Isabela’s new focus was now getting away from this being.

A problem she and Luisa would counter by trapping the thing in the cart.

Dolores rolled her eyes and walked away, trying to recover some of her dignity.

“I am happy about that, actually,” Dolores said. “Fine, I’ll go first. I just want to say two things.” Then, she redirected her attention on the man. “I don’t know how it is in your culture, but in ours? Playing games where people’s lives are on the table? Super illegal!” She screeched. Taking a breath and smiling, she continued, “Second, I really love your suit. It really brings out your eyes.”

The lights faded and the rest of the contestants disappeared in the darkness, leaving only the spotlight on Dolores as she stepped up to where a door had appeared in the wall. After a nod from the man, she went for the doorknob. It flashed to life with her name and engraving.

“Dolores Victoria Estrada Madrigal,” the man introduced. “Born 31st August, Virgo; the practical nature. Favourite ride: the ferris wheel.”

Several shots from throughout Dolores’ life, flashed up on the door, like photographs.

“Dolores was born into what is the most respected family in all of Encanto, but she soon found herself left to linger in the shadows. While the rest of her family was heralded with praise, the only comments that came Dolores’ way were…”

Isabela and Luisa reappeared - the former was wearing a red braided wig and hat, while the latter had a beige ruana thrown over her clothes. They echoed the words of the townspeople.

“You seemed so nice.” Isabela offered, lazily.

“I never really met you, but you seemed friendly.” Luisa shrugged.

Dolores awkwardly approached them, as the strange man continued his narration, but they didn’t seem to notice her at all and eventually walked off.

She slowly realised they were being controlled again.

“That is with the exception of one group of people. The biggest achievement Dolores was to receive in her short life was her school career. If not for Encanto being such an isolated town, her ambitions and skills would have been properly recognised at some prestigious university. Instead she’ll be glorified by her teachers for years to come. High school president, straight A student. Dolores Madrigal, the most intelligent girl in town.”

The lights came back and the visuals faded, the other contestants regathering in a semi-circle a few paces behind Dolores.

She herself stood in the centre, smiling, she cleared her throat.

“Judges. Colleagues. Family. Friends. Ominous novelty salesman.” She looked back at the piece of paper in her hands and tore it in half. “I had a speech prepared for this very occasion, but I simply cannot read it.”

“How does she have a speech for this?” Camilo questioned, looking around at the others in confusion.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her.” Luisa snarked.

“I am just going to speak from my heart,” Dolores continued. If she heard their comments, she didn’t acknowledge them. “I’ve known all of these folks since birth— oh!”

She made a turn, wanting to address her family, only to find Desconocida stood in the way.

The doll-headed girl leaned forward curiously, black eyes borrowing into Dolores’s own.

“Most of,” she amended, pushing the girl into Luisa, who freaked out. When had she gotten out of the cart? “And I love them all! I couldn’t compete against them for a chance at life.”

There was a confused noise from Camilo. “You literally spent all day at the fair telling me you would give me to Satan for free.”

Dolores abruptly shushed him. “My time, Camilo. This is my time.” She turned back to the strange man, “Look, I’ve heard enough of Tío Bruno’s rat telenovelas to get what you want us to do here. Who’s the best?” She nodded to herself. “Sure. Grades. Behaviour. Humanitarian efforts. Extracurricular activities. Musical endeavours. Being able to tell you everything about everyone in our town - quicker and more accurately than any type of record or machinery - since the age of five!”

She took a breath.

“I am the best,” she said confidently, “By any metric of society. I get that. But if that is how worth is measured, I want no part of it! Look some of us are left wing,” she lifted her left hand. “And some of us are right wing,” she lifted the other. “But the last time I checked, it takes two wings to fly!”

She flapped her arms as an example, then held them up in the air.

“We are community! We are family! We are the world!”

After her declaration, a loud buzzer noise played.

She bowed gracefully, to some silent and nonexistent applauding audience.

“Dolores Madrigal heroically concedes,” the suited man announced.

The other three Madrigals snickered, Isabela almost collapsing to the floor in peals of laughter between Camilo and Luisa. Desconocida, who had been dragged and left at the other side of the room by Luisa, simply tilted her head in confusion.

The comment seemingly smacked Dolores back to reality. “She does what?”

“I respect you taking the moral high ground.” He said, nodding gently. “Next!”

She ran over, shaking her head. “B-but I was just trying to prove to you that I’m a good person,” she insisted.

“Duly noted. Next!”

“No, no, no!” She exclaimed, desperate. To emphasise the point, she bravely snatched the metallic cone thing. She didn’t know why, she just suddenly felt compelled to. “I am urging you to make the responsible choice here for the betterment of humanity!”

~~~~~~

12th September, 1951

“I will go with them.”

The adults turned to honestly the last person they expected in the doorway.

“Now we’re definitely not gonna be allowed to do anything fun there!” Camilo whined, flopping to the floor dramatically.

Pepa only smiled. “Oh, would you, Lolita?”

“It’s a nice offer, but don’t feel you have to, mija.” Félix said. “Bruno is already going, and I’m happy to go as well—”

“No. I will keep them out of trouble. You deserve a break.” Dolores insisted.

“What the fuck was in those chocolates?” Luisa whispered to Isabela. She glanced curiously at the box Mariano had sent for Dolores’ birthday, just in time to catch a vine trying to clumsily push one out of its container. Luisa smacked Isabela’s arm.

The vine dissipated, the chocolate going flying.

Camilo’s eyes gleamed and he chased after it, as it disappeared underneath a cabinet.

“Sobrino, don’t eat food off the floor,” Julieta chided from where she had also appeared in the room.

“Five second rule, Tía!” Camilo shrugged, his mouth half-full.

She shook her head. “What are we all gathered around in here for? I called dinner about five minutes ago and the only person who showed up was Mirabel.”

“The children want to go to the fairground,” Agustín explained, getting up. “I’ll go ask to see if she’s interested. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her here.”

“That’s not fair! Why does Mirabel get to go and I have to stay here?” Antonio asked.

“Because you aren’t tall enough for most of the rides, Toñito. There won’t be much for you to do.” Félix soothed.

“I’m basically Mirabel’s height. She’s not going to be able to ride anything either.”

“You’re too young, I’m afraid, Antonio.” Abuela reasoned, as gently but firmly as she could. “You’ll have to sit this one out. Maybe next time the fair comes by.”

As Antonio’s lip quivered, Pepa scooped him up. “Aww, don’t cry, mijo. We’ll plan something just as exciting to do here - with all your animals, who wouldn’t have been allowed in the fair anyways - that will be much better. Okay?”

The family began head towards the table, Bruno pulled Dolores aside.

“It’s very kind of you to offer to go.” He said. Then raising an eyebrow, “Especially as you told me it was ‘a waste of time’ this morning. And you’d rather do anything then have to babysit the others more than you already do. Could it be that something has changed your mind? Are you admitting you were wrong?”

“Absolutely not; I’m always right. I am just a nice person - this is what I do.”

He smirked, “Oh yes. The world needs more people like you.”

They really do.

But she’d never say it out loud.

[omniversalobservations]

Boomstick: So, that's it then! Clark has too many counters, so he takes the edge in powers and it's over. Wiz: Well, I think there's something else. Goku versus Superman breaches a broader zeitgeist. It's more than just two characters fighting. For a whole generation, especially in '90s America, superheroes represented an unyielding status quo. Spider-Man, Batman, Captain America rarely change who they are or what they believe in. For a lot of people, that's tiring, and Superman is an icon of that. Then along came anime! There was a whole other world of ideas and stories for us sheltered Westerners to experience, and Goku's an icon of that. So while many see this as a debate between characters, others see it as a debate of ideologies and culture. And if that's what's at stake… who wants Goku to lose? Boomstick: Uh… you sure you're not overthinking this? Wiz: It's not our intent, but it does call into question what we're doing. How can people agree with what we take as fact when fiction relies on interpretation? The music begins to die down as Wiz continues his train of thought. Wiz: Are we stripping characters of their importance by simplifying them to contestants in a vacuum of violence? A-a-and if so, then what's the POINT?! We cut to Wiz and Boomstick, with the latter smacking the former in the face. Boomstick: Because it's fun, Wiz! Damn it, man! There' more than one way to appreciate something. We're havin' a great time talkin' about awesome characters and slammin' action figures together… and that's okay! Source: Death Battle! Wiki

(images via YouTube)

[cinema-hallucinations]

Prompt: Write a movie concept involving Sam Reich's (more specifically his persona as a mildly demented game show host on Dropout) journey into manic supervillainy and the ensuing over-the-top ridiculous clashes with his archnemesis: Brennan Lee Mulligan.

Title: Dropout or Die: The Sam Reich Ascension

Tagline: Discover the true Reich of chaos

Logine: Dropout kingpin Sam Reich, fueled by a potent blend of Mountain Dew and existential dread, ascends to supervillainy. Now, armed with a nonsensical army of internet randos and armed with a twisted version of his game shows, he challenges his archnemesis, the wholesomely heroic Brennan Lee Mulligan, to a series of increasingly ridiculous battles for the fate of the internet.

Characters:

Sam Reich: The once-beloved host of Dropout, now a manic supervillain obsessed with proving the superiority of internet culture. He wields outdated memes and viral trends as his weapons.

Brennan Lee Mulligan: The wholesome and athletic champion of all that is good on the internet. He uses his teamwork skills and genuine charisma to counter Reich's chaotic schemes.

The Dropout Army: A ragtag group of internet personalities, gamers, and forum dwellers, manipulated and fueled by Reich's promises of internet domination.

The Algorithm Avengers: Brennan's team of allies, including a conspiracy theory-debunking librarian, a teenage coding prodigy, and a surprisingly buff cat influencer.

Plot:

Sam Reich, the host of the increasingly unhinged game show "You Don't Know Jack," snaps. Fueled by a potent concoction of Mountain Dew, existential dread, and the pressure to stay relevant, he discovers a hidden internet artifact – the "Scroll of Clickbait." This ancient scroll grants him the power to manipulate the very fabric of online trends and memes.

Corrupted by power, Reich declares himself "Overlord of the Algorithm" and vows to reshape the internet in his twisted image. His first target? His former co-host and foil, Brennan Lee Mulligan, the embodiment of wholesome online content.

Reich unleashes a series of absurd challenges based on warped versions of his game shows. Contestants are forced to participate in real-life "Wikipedia Races" with dodgeball-wielding librarians, decipher nonsensical riddles based on outdated memes, and navigate obstacle courses filled with internet trolls.

Brennan, ever the champion of good, rallies his own team – The Algorithm Avengers. They consist of an unlikely bunch: a conspiracy theory-debunking librarian with surprising martial arts skills, a teenage coding prodigy who can manipulate social media algorithms, and a surprisingly buff cat influencer with a massive online following.

Each battle is a hilarious spectacle of internet culture come to life. Reich throws everything at Brennan – weaponized cat videos, comment section arguments manifested as physical beings, and a sentient pop-up ad monster. Brennan counters with clever use of teamwork, witty banter, and the unexpected tactical advantage of catnip grenades (courtesy of the buff cat influencer).

The climax involves a showdown within a virtual reality game show arena created by Reich. Brennan and his team must navigate a series of challenges that parody classic internet experiences – from navigating a comment section filled with angry trolls to escaping a pop-up ad labyrinth. In the end, it's not brute force that wins, but Brennan's genuine connection with the online community. He uses his social media influence to expose Reich's manipulations, causing the internet users to abandon him.

Themes:

The power and pitfalls of internet culture.

The importance of genuine connection and collaboration.

The fight against manipulation and misinformation online.

Humor:

Slapstick humor based on internet memes and online experiences come to life.

The absurdity of Reich's schemes and his reliance on outdated internet trends.

Witty banter and self-referential humor referencing Dropout shows and internet culture.

Ending Scene:

A defeated Reich, stripped of his powers, is forced to return to hosting a low-budget web series about obscure historical facts. Brennan, hailed as the champion of the internet, celebrates with his team. However, in a post-credits scene, a shadowy figure emerges from the dark corner of the internet, holding a mysterious artifact – a dusty VHS tape labeled "Myspace Mayhem." The figure cackles, hinting at a future villain even more terrifying than the Overlord of the Algorithm.

[memory-overload]

Random Good Basilisk Luzura Headcanons

screw it, gonna start posting on tumblr dot com about Good Basilisk Luzura spoilers since I've got all these ideas in my head.

Manny and his mom would be super oblivious to earth culture when they were first getting accustomed to the new realm, so when holidays like July 4 came around they'd be super confused about why people are setting the sky on fire and cheering.

Manny would use Luz's dralag name as a nickname for her. She just thought it was just funny name her dad came up with.

Luz's tail acts like a dog's. Wagging when she's happy, tucked between her legs when she's scared, etc. Vee, on the other hand, thinks that is super very childish and not cool.

Luz counters that by pointing out that Vee's tail goes crazy whenever Masha is within 30 feet of her.

Camila carries a pack of Hexes Holdem cards in her purse for whenever one of her daughters needs a quick magic pick-me-up.

When Vee gets introduced to the rest of the extended Noceda family at a family reunion, she and Luz would routinely switch disguises to troll the others before revealing the truth.

Whenever Amity or Masha gets stressed or anxious or whatever, they ask their respective girlfriends for tail cuddles.

Luz calls Stringbean "Mini-Me" as a nickname.

Luz helps Amity when she reads books to kids by providing epic monster voices.

Luz routinely competes in costume contests and dominates them. Her powers aren't cheating b/c there's not a rule saying you can't shapeshift. (Vee raises objections about the ethics of this stance.)