#spry fox

[satoshi-mochida]

iam8bit and distribution partner Skybound Games, together with developer Spry Fox and publisher The Quantum Astrophysicists Guild, will release PlayStation 5 and Switch physical editions of slice-of-life adventure game Cozy Grove, the companies announced.

The retail editions will be available exclusively via GameStop stores in the United States, as well as iam8bit.com.

Cozy Grove will be available in the following two editions:

Retail Edition ($29.99) – Features five kiss-cut sticker sheets that include a total of 28 individual bear stickers inspired by Cozy Grove‘s ghostly denizens. It will also include a new “NeighBEARS” downloadable content on the disc / cartridge. Shipping begins on May 30, 2023.

iam8bit Exclusive Edition ($34.99) – Includes a ‘blind bag’ containing ONE (out of the possible 28) collectible, enamel pins. For the gamer who wants it, bundles—which will include MORE enamel pins—will be offered for an additional price, as well as a bundle with ALL 28 pins for $149.99. It will also include a new “NeighBEARS” downloadable content on the disc / cartridge. This version is exclusive to iam8bit.com and will begin shipping in Q2 2023.

Cozy Grove is currently available digitally for PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Switch, PC via Steam and Epic Games Store, and Apple Arcade. The physical edition announcement is the first reveal of a PlayStation 5 version, which does not yet have a digital release date.

[bisexualfbiagents]

THE X FILES | Pilot (1.01)

[xomoosexo]

hey guys turning anon back on because it turns out i wasn't emotionally exhausted I was just slowly being poisoned by eating too many tomatoes

[rosesdrop]

Pick a pile

Your FS most prominent freatures

Pile 1:

They could be a bit on the rounder side or have rounded features, such as a round face or eyes. Their cheeks are prominent as well, and I'm getting that they have a very beautiful smile that stands out. Their facial features are childlike and more round, as I mentioned, or they could simply look younger than their age, and they'll mostly be younger than you. I'm seeing a flush on their cheeks every time they smile; they tend to get red easily, and their reaction is instantly reflected in their facial expression. That makes them a really bad liar and someone who cannot hide how they feel. They're also tall, specifically taller than you, so whatever your height is, they are slightly taller. Some of them are really robust and strong; if we're talking about a man, then he's the type to have a bodybuilder frame. But more on the softer side—somehow like a bear. Even though I mentioned that they'll have a round face, they have great facial symmetry, and their facial type fits their facial features so well. They have very strong arms, and their hands are big. 

Pile 2:

Fox eyes, or deep-set eyes, they are mesmerising; they look sleepy and hypnotic. But they could often wear glasses. They have very abundant hair, both facial and body hair. If it's a woman, then her hair is very long and black. Their teeth are also prominent; they either have fangs or crooked teeth, but there's definitely something going on with their teeth. Their lips are on the fuller side. Their skin tone is also prominent; for some, they have freckles, and for others, they have a very interesting skin tone; it's either very pale or olive. For some, they used to suffer from acne, which left some traces on their skin; for a small portion, they have their bodies all tattooed. 

Pile 3:

They're slightly older than you; they look mature and wise; and possibly they have some white strands. They're very abundant. If it's a woman, then they are on the curvier side; if it's a man, they have full bodies that are very sturdy. Their hair is curly and vibrant. Their colour is rich, and they have red lips that make their face look so spry, but they have sensitive skin that gets dry easily and is more prone to getting wrinkled. They might also get easily burned by the sun. I'm getting that you'll mostly enjoy hearing their voice; it's very soft and carries almost a motherly and protective tone to it. They look very healthy, and their vitality and physical strength appears on their broad faces and healthy constitution, which is neither skinny nor fat. They tend to have the ideal balance in every part of their bodies. 

[alphabetcompletionist]

So you've got a brown fox, right, and he's pretty spry, right. Not, like, Olympic levels, but you're pretty sure if you saw that foxy fella at the local marathon he'd get to the first place no sweat. Guy's pretty damn quick, is what I mean. So then you've got this dog. He's the laziest, most knackered old dog you've seen. You're like, whoa, that dog is lazy as fuck. Thank fuck all dogs go to Heaven 'cause elsewise he'd be looking at a damn steep fall to down below on account of the sin of sloth. What I'm getting at is that this dog would be one hundred percent set for the big old highway to hell if it wasn't for the universal fuckin' pardon God's big mercy has granted to all canines. Hells of amnesty up in here. So you've got this dog and the brown fox I sketched you an abstract of earlier, right, and guess what the fox does, he jumps over him. Just like that! How fuckin' wild is that, huh?

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

26/26

[theangrycomet-art]

*throws pirate fox facts at you*

Bitty likes playing in Monty's Catwalks because there are lots of places to swing around from.

Bangle enjoys exploring the vents with the Mini Musicman and spooking people

Foxy, despite being the "oldest" (read least upgraded of the animatronics) is the most spry. It's not uncommon to find him in weird places or swinging from Moon's his cable to get from different attractions

[raccoonscity]

Games Played in 2022: Cozy Grove (2021), Spry Fox

[izgnanik-a]

I’m gnawing on the bars of my enclosure again with @bluegiragi ‘s shifter AU; I present — Maine Coon!Price and red fox!Gaz.

TW: mentions of previous animal abuse and hinted PTSD

Obviously that is not a Maine Coon but whatever..

Maine Coon!Price was a big motherfucker. He’s an old cat who knows plenty of tricks, but he’s not as spry as he once was. He’s an outdoor cat now, going from one handler to another until he decided to stay out longer than usual. He’s all scarred and dirty from brawls with other cats.

He met Red Fox!Gaz in the suburbs actually. He was skiddish and flinched to the slightest movements, known to keep a distance even when the cat rolled on his back and soaked up the dust in the road. The fox knows better than to get close to another living thing that didn’t look like itself. He came too close to death at the hands of humans.

There have been times when the fox has snapped at Price standing too close, and Price gave him his distance. But he was always close, always lingering, because the cat was always curious.

Being a natural predator, Maine Coon!Price always swatted at birds and bugs. Once there was something he could set his eyes on, he’d climb trees to snatch at the teasing things. His age was no longer a burden. He’d carry his prize down in his teeth and find that fox curled up and set it down in front of him. Tail flicking in interest, his eyes never left the sight of the fox snatching the bird and dragging it a few feet further from the cat to enjoy, licking his maw when it was done.

Red Fox!Gaz was a good hunter when it came to tracking rabbits and moles. He was less successful with catching moles, but he was an expert rabbit snatcher because he was fast. If he was generous, he’d drag it towards the Maine Coon and leave it for him to finish.

When Red Fox!Gaz got a little more comfortable around Price, he got into the habit of giving him a sniff and huffing. Despite his disliked tone, his tail will still be wagging when he sees the cat come out from under the porch.

When Red Fox!Gaz gets the zoomies, he’ll flop on his back and nip at the Maine Coon’s arms and legs. Price doesn’t like to be handled so roughly, so he’ll bite back. But Gaz can’t help it! He’s just so happy to be around the big cat!

If Gaz is sleeping or resting, the Maine Coon will come up along his side, rubbing all along his body and groom his face. The same as Gaz, Price gets little spurts of aggression and he’ll cute-aggressively bite his ears and they’ll play fight it out.

Gaz would either be a Golden Retriever or a Fox to me, he’s just a baby with those beautiful puppy eyes

Fic Masterlist

[blarrghe]

The Hunter, the Snake, and the Fox

M | No Warnings Apply | M/M | Pavellan | Canon-Divergent

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

Ch. 2/28: No Harm Done

Snippet:

Dorian regained his footing, propping himself up with his staff. With a quick push of his will, a barrier of repelling, blue-tinged magic sprang into place around himself and Sylvanna, who braced beside him. He looked up to find a pair of bright eyes looking back at him from the brush beyond the path. Dorian rose and turned slowly, glancing about his periphery. Behind where he had just been standing was a tree with an arrow lodged deep into its bark. 

Dorian tensed, his posture rising up straight and his hand tightening to a secure grip around his staff.  He hadn’t brought his best, travelling instead with one that was more practical for the venture; a metal cane of a walking stick with a simple core. No flashy enchantments, no exposed lyrium crystals. It wasn’t an expedition looking for a fight with more than a few giant spiders. The other two Magisters had their magic, but not their youth. Crastus was spry enough, Dorian gathered, but a downright waste of a mage. The four bodyguards in their company might have been able to make up the difference, but the remainder of Augustus’ and Prycis’ slaves were utterly defenceless. A fighting force they were not.

He held up a hand in a signal to hold. Who knew how many more archers lay waiting in that thick mess of trees? 

DAFF tage list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade

[prettyboykatsuki]

Okay but if we consider pro heroes akin to pro athletes who all mostly retire by 40 bc they get put through the wringer physically……. silver fox retired Bakugo would absolutely be a househusband 🫣

tags ; gn!reader, househusband!bkg, there's a pretty big age gap but both characters are well into adulthood lol

swear we share braincells because this is genuinely the one scenario i can see househusband bkg to its fullest and most canon extent and GODDD it makes me crazy.

bakugou is a late bloomer when it comes to interpersonal relationships. he’s the word busy in human form. he spent his entire adult life on one long, strenuous path to number one and achieved what most people could only hope to do in 3 lifetimes. he has accolades, wealth, charity - and time has softened his public image to something of a lovable grump and less of a raging hot-head.

all that being said, there's very little in his life in the way of meaningful romantic partnerships. the number is closer to 0 than it is one, really. he's had feelings for people but not enough energy or time to make something of it. and he's good at repressing those feelings in the first place so they've never surfaced or blossomed. he didn't want them too.

after the war ended, there was more regulations with being a hero than before. mostly of social expectations. a documentary of allmights early life struck the public and it became custom to retire before 50 - or at least work significantly less. that, ontop of the sustained injury in his knees leaves bakugou retired in his early 40's.

and surprisingly, he wasn't as against as he thought he'd be. maybe he was just tired deep down, but more than that - he achieved what he wanted. he spent a long few years as number one and since then has gone back and forth with deku on the charts. he's done the only thing he really wanted, which was to have some sort of historic impact on the world like the hero admired so much.

and he achieve that before 50. so now he was retired. somehow it's anticlimatic.

after he's done, he can't find what else to do with his life. he does what anyone else who's retired to but he's still spry and healthy. he gardens. he cooks and cleans. he goes to film festivals and drinks with friends and rock-climbs and helps on cases. he lectures sometimes, when they want him somewhere and goes to some public events. he even volunteers. takes care of his friends kids all of which are teens now.

and all of that is fine, but he does miss the work. he misses feeling like he's needed somewhere instead of sitting on his hands all day.

bakugou meets you coincidentally. it's an informal meeting, and deku introduces you. just about how to handle his assets moving forward, you're some kind of finacial advisor.

you're in your mid 30s, professional and charismatic. it's very clear your good at your job, and bakugou likes competent people. one meeting turns into a few more less casual ones. becomes hang-outs, becomes drinks together and a dinner date and at some point he has to admit to himself.

for the first time, in his whole entire life, bakugou has feelings for someone in a completely viable way. he's a little weary about the age gap for a while, but you're both well into adulthood by now. and he probably needs to stop nit-picking whats maybe his last chance at a love life.

he gets over it, eventually. and finds himself in your company, learning about your life as an office worker. about you, and the smart way you talk and the way you soothe some of his growing pains. he's deeply in love before he has a chance to think twice.

you both shared two woes, the first one being a house too big and the second one being needs.

you needed to take better care of yourself. bakugou needed something to do that fulfilled this perpetual emptiness.

he wasn't trying to rush marriage. in fact, you brought it up first over dinner. he thinks that's a very you thing to do, in hindsight. it was an unromantic proposal to many - but the practical conversation was merely a reminder of all things bakugou adored about you to begin with.

it's weird, in a way. when he'd imagined his possible married life as a young hero - he thought it'd be inversed. he'd marry someone who he came home to.

but he's well into his mid-forties, with a ring on one-hand and a grey apron he wears around the house. he packs bentos and makes protein shakes, and even writes up a work-out routine that he explains carefully how to do it on your tight schedule. you have a career you'll probably do until you're retired.

and neither of you need the money. you could probably retire right now if you wanted to - but bakugou likes the way things have unfolded. he likes that you're busy (only sometimes). he likes being at home and looking after you like some mother hen and he likes that he's the person you kiss at the door every day before leaving and when you return.

he remembers wondering often why his dad was doing something like this when he was younger - but he finally starts to wrap his head around it in full. hairs starting to go grey, the lines in his face starting to show more.

he's just as happy being your househusband as he was when he's off fighting crime. and sometimes, he catches himself smiling about the way his life turned out.

[missmungoe]

Please help, I am looking for the scene where Makino and the crew are reunited and they all line up for her to inspect how much they have changed. I absolutely cannot remember which fic it is from 😭

I've got you, anon! That would be the opening scene of chapter 2 of Tethered to Kinder Shores<3

Their return to her necessitated a thorough inspection, but then after ten years there were more than a few changes between them, although in some respects, very little had changed, Shanks thought, observing as she walked the length of her bar from pirate to pirate, his whole crew having cheekily lined up for her to inspect, standing at attention like fresh navy cadets, some elbowing others out of the way to get to the head of the line.

“Hey, I was first!”

“I’m older!”

“I’m better looking!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Yeah,” Shanks said, observing the spectacle from his seat at the bar, those who hadn’t lined up standing ready to do so, but the note of warning went unheeded, met instead with grins, and a prim look from Makino as each pirate bent down for her examination.

Changes were catalogued―beards and ill-conceived moustaches, deeper laugh-lines and grey hairs, tattoos and scars and missing fingers. Ben’s silver mane was noted, with that demure little smile that managed to say more than ten years of teasing from the rest of them combined, but, “It looks dignified,” Makino said, considering their first mate where he stood, his arms crossed and his long-suffering expression conveying that he should be above this kind of foolery, but he’d still lined up like the rest of them.

“Hear that, Ben?” Yasopp shot in, grinning as he leaned close. “Our efforts paid off!”

“I’m so pleased,” Ben deadpanned, although the grin jutting around his cigarette ruined it somewhat.

Undeterred by their teasing, “Many women love a silver fox,” Makino pointed out.

That got their attention, as every head down the line turned to look at their first mate, some of their younger members muttering under their breaths, raking their fingers through their own hair. For his part, Ben just grinned.

“Not everyone needs the silver hair to be a fox,” Shanks said. “Red foxes are a thing.” He swept his hand across himself, and saw how her eyes darted to his half-bared chest. “Exhibit A.”

“Don’t speak too soon, Boss!” a voice called from down the line. “We’ve all seen them!”

“Won’t be long now!”

Spluttering, Shanks flipped them off, although catching Makino's eyes, didn’t think she looked so opposed to the thought, and his look softened as he let their cheeky insubordination slide.

She’d stopped before Yasopp, whose grin said enough about his own assessment, as he turned this way and that to give her a better look.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, as he flexed for good measure.

“You probably should hold back,” Limejuice said.

“For all our sakes,” Snake agreed.

Her eyes smiled, and, “You look spry,” Makino chirped, and had moved on before Yasopp could choke out a reaction, his laughter chased by theirs.

Stopping before him, “Lucky Roo,” Makino said warmly, as he beamed down at her. “You haven’t changed.” Then to the hulking figure beside him, so tall even craning her neck couldn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t cower, only said, prim, “Bonk Punch.”

That grin usually sent their enemies running, although the look in his eyes was softer, as, “Little monkey,” Bonk Punch returned, his teeth bared, but his fearsome expression faltered when Makino reached up, her palm pressed to his cheek, tilting it a bit to inspect the new scars mapping it. And she said nothing, only saw them, but Shanks knew how it felt to be in the direct trajectory of that look.

Reaching out to touch the top of her head, Bonk Punch just grinned, although Shanks saw how his fingers shook, brushing her kerchief.

Monstar chittered then, climbing down from Bonk Punch's shoulders to hers, his tail curling around her neck as she laughed.

From his seat at the bar, Shanks watched as she moved on, a gentle captain where she walked down the line, tiny compared to every single pirate in his crew, but fearless as she made a point of inspecting them all, like eager cabin boys on their first voyage. And those she didn’t know she took the time to introduce herself, to ask their names and rank and where they came from, her face open and attentive, and in that way that could turn even a sea-weary sailor flustered, and no pirate who’d been in his crew when they’d left her showed surprise at the gentle deference she compelled with only a smile and a few words.

"What do I call you?" she asked the pirate beaming down at her.

"Rockstar, mistress."

She laughed. "Please, just 'Makino'."

"Aye, mistress. I-I mean, Makino!"

"She'd give Garp a run for his money in intimidation," Yasopp mused, observing with amusement as they straightened their backs, some even going so far as to take off their hats.

"Who do you think she learned it from?" Shanks asked.

Her inspection of his crew complete, she came to a stop before him, reclining against the counter; his favourite seat that he’d returned to claim. She was so short that even sitting, she barely reached his chin, but he felt the sudden compulsion to sit straighter in his seat as Makino said gently, “Captain.”

Smiling, “And?” Shanks asked, the roughness in his voice betraying a feeling he hadn’t counted on, but then wondered why he was surprised. “What’s your verdict, barmaid?”

Soft eyes roamed his face, noting the changes, the deeper lines and the salt in his beard, and the occasional vein of silver glimpsed between his red hair, but then for all their teasing, the grey hairs were the least of his worries, observing her thorough inspection, before those doe-brown eyes met his.

He realised he was holding his breath, but before he could release it, a small hand reached for his chin, a touch so gentle it seized his whole body, as she tipped it.

Then Makino smiled, and quipped, “You’ll do.”

His laugh choked from him, and her demure cheek lasted only a second before her grin ruined it, even as the look in her eyes remained; the one that said all he needed to know, but then even if he’d acknowledged his own differences, the one change he’d feared was the way she looked at him.

Still, “This is what I get for my efforts,” Shanks sighed, as she brushed her thumb through his beard. “Didn’t wash or shave for a few days just so I’d look especially rugged for you.”

Makino hummed. “That explains the smell.”

“Hey, you’re going to have to deal with a lot worse when you come out to sea with us,” Shanks reminded her. “Consider this a trial run.”

Her smile brimmed, a feeling in it that couldn’t be contained, and turning his cheek to kiss her fingers, he felt how they shook, but then the reminder had been deliberate, because they hadn’t just come back to her; they’d come back for her.

Turning to her crowded bar, barely big enough to seat all of them now, “It’s quite the crew you’ve brought me this time, Emperor Red-Hair,” Makino said.

He tried not to latch onto the moniker, but then with her, he’d only ever been Captain, but like the salt in his beard and his scars, it was a change, to be acknowledged and catalogued like the rest.

Shanks looked at them all, wearing those stupid grins. “Rogues and vagabonds,” he said. “It’s a wonder I manage to keep them all in line.”

“You manage?” Ben asked.

Ignoring him, “It really says something about my leadership skills,” Shanks said.

Her grin was too sincere to be teasing, and he felt his instinctive response to it, as ridiculously gratified as it had ever been. “And you?” Makino asked him. “Who keeps you in line, my lord of vagabonds?”

He really shouldn’t be so pleased, but it was hard with that look on her face. “I thought it might be a nice challenge for you,” Shanks said. “Shake your quiet life up a bit.”

Her smile trembled, and this time there was no teasing in her voice as Makino said, “You’ve always been good at that.”

A tender beat passed, their eyes holding. And he didn’t fear what she found now, his changes acknowledged but with a fearless acceptance that made his fingers itch to pull her into a crushing kiss, which he might have done, had they been alone.

His gaze shifting sideways found his crew grinning at them, but his chagrin wasn’t even half-convincing as Shanks said, “This moment would be a lot more tender if we didn’t have an audience, but then your expectations of a sweeping romance must be well-subverted by now.”

“I don’t know if I agree,” Makino said, and the words were directed at all of them as she told them fiercely, “This is everything I want.”

Their grins wavered, their silence more telling than even the glassy sheen in their eyes, and few things could render his crew speechless, but then there were few like her.

“Speaking of inspections,” Yasopp said then, leaning forward to tap her nose. “You missed one.”

She blinked. “Who?” Makino asked, turning to the room, the genuine concern that she’d forgotten someone prompting Shanks to shake his head, his grin helplessly affectionate.

“Gents?” Yasopp asked. “What say you?”

Shanks saw the moment realisation hit her, as brown eyes darted to his, but his grin offered no assistance as she was ushered into the centre of the room. But she complied as they inspected her in turn, rough hands tugging teasingly at her kerchief and her longer hair, remarking on her beauty until her cheeks were flushed and her laughter flustered as they circled her thoughtfully, her chin tilted and her spine straightened.

“This won’t do,” they sighed, their arms crossed. “No pirate I know is this cute!”

“Sitting right here, guys,” Shanks called, and was promptly ignored.

“Not enough salt in her hair,” one said, before her hands were inspected. “And no rope burns!”

“Just the one scar,” Hongou said, touching the little one bisecting her eyebrow.

“And no weapon,” Gab said, with a look at Shanks. “Unless you count the serving tray.”

“I’ve seen her wield that serving tray,” Shanks said. “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you.”

“I taught her to shoot, too,” Yasopp shot in with a grin. “Unless you’ve forgotten?”

Her blush deepened, as though at a joke they weren’t privy to, Shanks thought with a flicker of intrigue as Makino cleared her throat, her eyes making an admirable effort of not meeting his. “I remember the basics.”

“Glad to hear it,” Yasopp said, with a grin thrown Shanks’ way as he chirped, “I’m sure Boss is, too.”

“I think I’m glad to be out of the loop on this one,” Shanks said, as Makino covered her eyes with her hand.

“But being a good shot will come in handy,” Limejuice said. “And she’s nimble, as a pirate should be.”

“She’ll be climbing aloft like a monkey in no time,” Bonk Punch agreed, to Monstar’s chittering approval.

“All that’s missing is a wanted poster,” Snake said.

“And a moniker,” Lucky added.

“If she has any sense, she’d get out while she still can,” Ben said, although the grin around his toothpick held a different assessment.

Makino endured the attention, their adoration offered without mercy where they’d surrounded her, one of the most feared crews in the world, but with her they felt none of it.

Turning towards him, her eyes sought him through the crowded room, and Shanks heard the din growing quiet, their attention on him now, and their newest member, brought before the captain of the ship.

And his own inspection wasn’t as cheeky as theirs, taking her in where she stood in the midst of his crew, a dainty anomaly among his rough and rugged men, whose grins had already named her what she was, even as it was his confirmation she sought now.

And smiling, Shanks gave it. “I’ll be expecting the mutiny any day now.”

Her grin broke, and their laughter swept her up like their hands as she shrieked, but they didn’t drop her, hoisting her up, a pirate’s initiation, and her shanty lifting with their voices, until she was blushing to the roots of her hair.

And regardless of their changes, their scars and wrinkles and grey hairs, the one thing that hadn’t changed was the way they loved her―loudly and without reserve.

[blaiddfailcam]

OH HELL YA I was tagged by @lovthievs for this particular tag game thingamajig! This one looks fun lol

When did you last cry? I feel like I always want to, but it takes a lot to actually get the tears jorkin. Def when I lost my health insurance and had a panic attack that offset my anxiety for like 6 months after tho lol

Do you have kids? In THIS economy? No and I don't really have any desire to, but I don't mind hanging out with my friends' kids and making sure they're up to speed on good music and movies lmao. I am soon to be an uncle which slightly terrifies me but it is exciting nonetheless!!

Do you use sarcasm a lot? Absolutely not, sarcasm is the mark of the devil

What sports do you play? Cornhole

What's the first thing you notice about people? The Vibes. And I do that weird thing where I try to match them so I can attempt to better communicate but the mask slips and I reveal I'm a fukon weirdo

What's your eye color? "Hazel," but I still don't know if that's true. They just look like, green to me.

Scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies, but I also love to hate them lol

Special talents? I'm weirdly good at memorizing geography and navigating. I like overanalyzing art (particularly movies and video games) to the point I tend to crack open The Lore in ways that sometimes makes headlines, which is either cool or way too dorky depending who you ask..

Where were you born? Same place that I'm still trying to get out of 🥲 There are Amish,

What are your hobbies? Video james, drawing/painting, worldbuilding, pretending to be a screenwriter, discussing fiction with others like we're trapped in a monastery together and we only have a day to converse before the next year of silence, primatology, setting up fundraisers for animal conservation, going to concerts

Do you have pets? Our cat Evie, her son Grayby, our fox hound Passion (we didn't name her), and our jack russell, Pebbles!! Evie's the eldest but most spry, Grayby's technically an old man but perpetually a baby, Pash is getting older, and Pebbles ages backwards

How tall are you? 5'8" (5'9" if I didn't have scoliosis!)

Favorite subject in school? Art, literature, then randomly biology

Dream job? Always wanted to work in film, whether screenwriting, cinematography, DoP. I Can Be Your Gaffer. But not with the way that industry's headed lmaoooo

I TAG..... uh. Shit. @amygobrrr @blugoos-corner @fairygodbomber @leftyllama fuck it up!!!!! if any of you feel up to it haha i'm not a cop

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

for those who havent been here all that time and have no idea who taira is:

in short, taira is the name I use for a novel I first drafted November of 2022 (such a time ago!) which was originally based on Narnia and started out life as a Narnia fanfic ("A Rabbit's Trust", on AO3 and FFNET, you can probably find it, my username is where I got the cat bit of this name from). I developed it from that into the most joyful story I've ever written, featuring a centuries-old war that has shaped the entirety of that world, characters who are so in earnest it almost hurts, and explorations of where precisely morality falls in difficult circumstances. it's fantasy, the main character is a rabbit, and Paddy protection squad go brrrrr. Paddy is a fox and an oddball and a DARLING. I don't know what else to say about taira's story (or Taira, the white rabbit, herself) except that it owns my whole entire heart and I've only not been working on it because depression and I needed to be in a better headspace to work on it. It was really the last thoroughly joyful thing I worked on before depression got its claws into me, the last thing I wrote consistently high quantities of, and represents my life before severe depression (I was already depressed by then, but not to the extent that it made me almost unable to write as it has since).

so anyway that's taira. expect her to pop up a bit more now that I'm into editing her story.

main characters:

Taira - white rabbit, full of faith and hope. fairly clueless due to her upbringing. anxious

Nadia - black rabbit, Taira's sister, informs Taira and conveniently the audience of all the important things

Paddy - red fox, a bit full of himself, a dear hearted menace, too earnest. madcap. goals

Lilac - black fox, Paddy's love interest, her vibes are like 'will ye no come back again'. accidentally develops an ED while in mourning

Sheba - Canadian lynx, hard, ruthless, general of the tairen army (note: Taira is named after the same word, the meaning of which I forget in universe but the good guys), really pushes for doing anything to stop the alyen (bad guys)

Minna - Canadian lynx, Sheba's second-in-command, a moderating influence

edit: forgot SPRY - murder duck - amazing guy

there are probably more but I forget who and those are the mainest of them

also shoutout to the next gen bunch - Namesake, Andrey and the rest whose names I forget

[azure-cherie]

Sylvia Plath for each zodiac

All rights reserved to Sylvia Plath

Aries

Burning the Letters

I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wastebasket. What did they know that I didn’t ? Grain by grain, they unrolled Sands where a dream of clear water Grinned like a getaway car. I am not subtle Love, love, and well, I was tired Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack Holding in its hate Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets, And the eyes and times of the postmarks. This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless: A glass case My fingers would enter although They melt and sag, they are told Do not touch. And here is an end to the writing, The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles. And at least it will be a good place now, the attic. At least I won’t be strung just under the surface, Dumb fish With one tin eye, Watching for glints, Riding my Arctic Between this wish and that wish.

This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless: A glass case My fingers would enter although They melt and sag, they are told Do not touch. And here is an end to the writing, The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles. And at least it will be a good place now, the attic. At least I won’t be strung just under the surface, Dumb fish With one tin eye, Watching for glints, Riding my Arctic Between this wish and that wish.

So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress. They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl, They console me — Rising and flying, but blinded. They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels Only they have nothing to say to anybody. I have seen to that. With the butt of a rake I flake up papers that breathe like people, I fan them out Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage Involved in its weird blue dreams, Involved as a foetus. And a name with black edges.

Wilts at my foot, Sinuous orchis In a nest of root-hairs and boredom — Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals! Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing. My veins glow like trees. The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like — A red burst and a cry That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop With the dead eye And the stuffed expression, but goes on Dyeing the air, Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water What immortality is. That it is immortal.

Taurus

Rhyme

I’ve got a stubborn goose whose gut’s Honeycombed with golden eggs, Yet won’t lay one. She, addled in her goose-wit, struts The barnyard like those taloned hags Who ogle men

And crimp their wrinkles in a grin, Jangling their great money bags. While I eat grits She fattens on the finest grain. Now, as I hone my knife, she begs Pardon, and that’s

So humbly done, I’d turn this keen Steel on myself before profit By such a rogue’s Act, but—how those feathers shine!Exit from a smoking slit Her ruby dregs.

Gemini

Two Views of a Cadaver Room

(1)

The day she visited the dissecting room They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey, Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume Of the death vats clung to them; The white-smocked boys started working. The head of his cadaver had caved in, And she could scarcely make out anything In that rubble of skull plates and old leather. A sallow piece of string held it together.

In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow. He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.

(2)

In Brueghel’s panorama of smoke and slaughter Two people only are blind to the carrion army: He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin Skirts, sings in the direction Of her bare shoulder, while she bends, Fingering a leaflet of music, over him, Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands Of the death’s-head shadowing their song. These Flemish lovers flourish; not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

Cancer

The Everlasting Monday

Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon.

The moon’s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold Upon our bedspread. His teeth are chattering among the leprous Peaks and craters of those extinct volcanoes.

He also against black frost Would pick sticks, would not rest Until his own lit room outshone Sunday’s ghost of sun; Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon’s ball, Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle.

Leo

By Candlelight

This is winter, this is night, small love— A sort of black horsehair, A rough, dumb country stuff Steeled with the sheen Of what green stars can make it to our gate. I hold you on my arm. It is very late. The dull bells tongue the hour. The mirror floats us at one candle power.

This is the fluid in which we meet each other, This haloey radiance that seems to breathe And lets our shadows wither Only to blow Them huge again, violent giants on the wall. One match scratch makes you real. At first the candle will not bloom at all — It snuffs its bud To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.

I hold my breath until you creak to life, Balled hedgehog, Small and cross. The yellow knife Grows tall. You clutch your bars. My singing makes you roar. I rock you like a boat Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor, While the brass man Kneels, back bent, as best he can

Hefting his white pillar with the light That keeps the sky at bay, The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight! He is yours, the little brassy Atlas — Poor heirloom, all you have, At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs, No child, no wife. Five balls! Five bright brass balls! To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.

Virgo

Virgin in a tree

How this tart fable instructsAnd mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrapSet in the proverbs stitched on samplersApproving chased girls who get them to a treeAnd put on bark's nun-black

Habit which deflects All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the virgin shapeIn a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first DaphneSwitched her incomparable back

For a bay-tree hide, respect'sTwined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lipCries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demursWon her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and wateryBed of a reed. Look:

Pine-needle armor protectsPitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:For which of those would speak

For a fashion that constrictsWhite bodies in a wooden girdle, root to topUnfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowersShrouded to suckle darkness? Only theyWho keep cool and holy make

A sanctum to attract Green virgins, consecrating limb and lipTo chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,They descant on the serene and seraphic beautyOf virgins for virginity's sake.'

Be certain some such pact'sBeen struck to keep all glory in the gripOf ugly spinsters and barren sirsAs you etch on the inner window of your eyeThis virgin on her rack:

She, ripe and unplucked, 'sLain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripeNow, dour-faced, her fingers Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly Askew, she'll ache and wake

Though doomsday bud. Neglect'sGiven her lips that lemon-tasting droop:Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomyTill irony's bough break.

Libra

Epitaph for Fire and Flower

You might as well haul up This wave’s green peak on wire To prevent fall, or anchor the fluent air In quartz, as crack your skull to keep These two most perishable lovers from the touch That will kindle angels’ envy, scorch and drop Their fond hearts charred as any match.

Seek no stony camera-eye to fix The passing dazzle of each face In black and white, or put on ice Mouth’s instant flare for future looks; Stars shoot their petals, and suns run to seed, However you may sweat to hold such darling wrecks Hived like honey in your head.

Hatched with a claret hogshead to swig He kings it, navel-knit to no groan, But at the price of a pin-stitched skin Fish-tailed girls purchase each white leg.

Mouth’s instant flare for future looks; Stars shoot their petals, and suns run to seed, However you may sweat to hold such darling wrecks Hived like honey in your head.

Now in the crux of their vows hang your ear, Still as a shell: hear what an age of glass These lovers prophesy to lock embrace Secure in museum diamond for the stare Of astounded generations; they wrestle To conquer cinder’s kingdom in the stroke of an hour And hoard faith safe in a fossil.

But though they’d rivet sinews in rock And have every weathercock kiss hang fire As if to outflame a phoenix, the moment’s spur Drives nimble blood too quick For a wish to tether: they ride nightlong In their heartbeats’ blazing wake until red cock Plucks bare that comet’s flowering.

Dawn snuffs out star’s spent wick, Even as love’s dear fools cry evergreen, And a languor of wax congeals the vein No matter how fiercely lit; staunch contracts break And recoil in the altering light: the radiant limb Blows ash in each lover’s eye; the ardent look Blackens flesh to bone and devours them.

Scorpio

November Graveyard

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees Hoard last year’s leaves, won’t mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn To elegiac dryads, and dour grass Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness However the grandiloquent mind may scorn Such poverty. No dead men’s cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones Paving this grave ground. Here’s honest rot To unpick the heart, pare bone Free of the Fictive vein. When one stark skeleton Bulks real, all saints’ tongues fall quiet: Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind: Whatever lost ghosts flare, Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor Rave on the leash of the starving mind Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.

Saggitarius

Maenad

Once I was ordinary: Sat by my father’s bean tree Eating the fingers of wisdom. The birds made milk. When it thundered I hid under a flat stone.

The mother of mouths didn’t love me. The old man shrank to a doll. O I am too big to go backward: Birdmilk is feathers, The bean leaves are dumb as hands.

This month is fit for little. The dead ripen in the grapeleaves. A red tongue is among us. Mother, keep out of my barnyard, I am becoming another.

Dog-head, devourer: Feed me the berries of dark. The lids won’t shut. Time Unwinds from the great umbilicus of the sun Its endless glitter.

I must swallow it all.

Lady, who are these others in the moon’s vat— Sleepdrunk, their limbs at odds? In this light the blood is black. Tell me my name.

Capricorn

Recantation

‘Tea leaves I’ve given up, And that crooked line On the queen’s palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage This moon-pocked crystal ball Will break before it help; Rather than croak out What’s to come, My darling ravens are flown.

‘Forswear those freezing tricks of sight And all else I’ve taught Against the flower in the blood: Not wealth nor wisdom stands Above the simple vein, The straight mouth. Go to your greenhorn youth Before time ends And do good With your white hands.’

Aquarius

Insomniac

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole — A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie Exposes embarrassments—the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams, Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, A garden of buggy roses that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue— How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of gray mirrors. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end. He lives without privacy in a lidless room, The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments. Already he can feel daylight, his white disease, Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions. The city is a map of cheerful twitters now, And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank, Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Pisces

The Sleepers

No map traces the street Where those two sleepers are. We have lost track of it. They lie as if under water In a blue, unchanging light, The French window ajar

Curtained with yellow lace. Through the narrow crack Odors of wet earth rise. The snail leaves a silver track; Dark thickets hedge the house. We take a backward look.

Among petals pale as death And leaves steadfast in shape They sleep on, mouth to mouth. A white mist is going up. The small green nostrils breathe, And they turn in their sleep.

Ousted from that warm bed We are a dream they dream. Their eyelids keep the shade. No harm can come to them. We cast our skins and slide Into another time.

Thank you 💕

[justforbooks]

Alan Brownjohn, who has died aged 92, was a prolific and seemingly indefatigable poet and novelist. Although best known as a poet, a recipient of the Cholmondeley award in 1979, Brownjohn also wrote well-received novels – winning the Author’s Club prize for his first, The Way You Tell Them (1990), a satire set in the world of standup comedy – and two children’s books, collaborated on plays, and worked as a freelance writer and critic.

He was poetry editor for the New Statesman from 1968 until 1974, and later poetry critic of the Sunday Times for more than 20 years. He was also a diligent campaigner on behalf of poetry.

Brownjohn was chairman of the Poetry Society (1982-88) and worked on the Arts Council literature panel, drawing on a prior experience of, and appetite for, public service, first demonstrated when he and his first wife, the poet Shirley Toulson, were elected Labour councillors in Wandsworth, south-west London, in the 1960s.

In a long writing career Brownjohn was something of a rarity, arguably producing his very best work when already well into his 70s. Among an array of well-observed, various and spry collections, Ludbrooke & Others (2010) stands out as perhaps most successfully representing his blend of emotionally astute, rigorously downbeat and wittily rendered character dissection.

Written in 13-line “sonnets for the unlucky”, in the poet Peter Reading’s phrase, the suite of 60 poems shows the titular Ludbrooke’s self-defeating attempts at seduction, titivation and a resentful brand of empathy, pitched somewhere between the metropolitan tone of the Robinson poems of Weldon Kees and John Berryman’s courtly, chaotic Dream Songs.

For all their possible influence from those two North American poets, Ludbrooke is a singularly English concoction: raffish and highly attuned to divisions of class and gentlemanly behaviour. The sequence of Ludbrooke poems speak to many of Brownjohn’s own concerns and foibles but ratcheted up for – at times poignant – laughter and a kind of wounded recognition.

The roots of Ludbrooke can be found in some of Brownjohn’s previous work, especially a proto-Ludbrooke known as “the Old Fox”, who first appeared in poems decades earlier, albeit with a cannier, more malicious edge.

Brownjohn’s early poetic life was inextricably bound up with the Group, a long-running workshop run by the poet and teacher Philip Hobsbaum, which fellow poets, such as the stylistically diverse Peter Redgrove and Peter Porter, would attend to discuss and dissect each others’ new work.

They were chiefly guided by a spirit of close reading, based on the “new criticism” of Hobsbaum’s Cambridge tutor FR Leavis. The Group had as its guiding principles “rationalism, democracy and humanity”; during Brownjohn’s time as a member, his work was most visibly influenced by the Movement, another loose grouping of associated poets, including Philip Larkin and Kingsley Amis, who came to be the dominating force in mainstream British poetry in the 50s.

Larkin would remain an enduring influence for Brownjohn, who later published a critical study of the Hull poet in 1975, as well as learning plenty about form, reticence and the sometimes inadvertent comedy to be found in attempts at navigating life in modern, secular, middle-class Britain.

Brownjohn was born in Catford, south-east London, the son of Dorothy (nee Mulligan) and Charles Brownjohn, and was educated at Brockley county school and Merton College, Oxford, where he studied history. Much of his working life was spent in education, as an assistant master at Beckenham and Penge boys’ grammar school from 1958 to 1965; a lecturer at Battersea College of Education (now London South Bank University); and a lecturer in poetry, and later in creative writing, at the Polytechnic of North London (now London Metropolitan University). His experiences as a teacher fed into his poems, sometimes directly as subject material.

He also demonstrated an interest in leftwing politics, and was actively involved in the Labour party. He was elected to Wandsworth Metropolitan borough council in 1962 and stood as Labour candidate for Richmond in the 1964 general election, but did not win the seat.

Brownjohn, in his early years, and bearing the trace of the Movement’s ordinary-blokeish sensibility, wrote poems out of seemingly mundane everyday life, usually in well-organised stanzas, regularly using rhyme and a colloquial, downbeat diction. His poems were, however, more interested – even from the start – than those of the Movement in leftwing ideals and shot through by a sense of the importance of doing one’s social duty.

As Sean O’Brien pointed out: “Like Larkin, he has spent much of his career pondering the contradictions between desire and obligation.”

He could also be formally innovative, playing with reported speech, song and ballad forms and more postmodern techniques such as footnotes and other forms of self-aware commentary. He had an astute eye trained on working life, the eco-systems of the office, particularly well rendered in one of his outstanding poems of the 60s, Office Party, in which “the girl with the squeaker / Came passing” and the cruelly ignored narrator ends on a note of wry despair: “I’d never so craved for / Some crude disrespect.”

Brownjohn proved adept at writing narrative sequences long before Ludbrooke’s travails, with other highlights including The Automatic Days, from The Observation Car (1990), in which the power struggles and jostling for a fair shake by the staff at a department store take centre-stage, and Sea Pictures from the same volume, its 40 snapshot-style lyrics building an atmospheric, sepia-tinted look at memory and escape.

Brownjohn’s life was, in many ways, an exemplary version of the contemporary person of letters – a dutiful committee-man and champion of other writers, looking towards Europe and the wider literary world for inspiration and to shine a light on neglected figures, as well as ranging across various art-forms for material. He also wrote obituaries for the Guardian.

When asked to name his favourite poetry quotes to accompany a recording made for the Poetry Archive, Brownjohn noted that (leaning on Matthew Arnold) “the poetry comes first”. For Brownjohn, despite his many other enthusiastically undertaken obligations and diligent acts of service, poetry was – and remained – the heart of it all, as a way of scrutinising and documenting postwar Britain as well as his own intellectual and emotional life.

He and Toulson, with whom he had a son, Steven, divorced in 1969. In 1972 Brownjohn married Sandra Willingham; they separated in 2005.

He is survived by Steven, and by two stepchildren, Ian and Janet, from his first marriage.

🔔 Alan Charles Brownjohn, poet, novelist and critic, born 28 July 1931; died 23 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[brinefrolick]

@skyfcx liked || starter call (accepting) 📼

another night in the lab, one would presume. screens provide flickering lights, the gentle glow of lanterns in a tunnel, as rain pitter-patters against the windowsill. it was anyone's guess as to what the spry young inventor was up so late working on, but it must have been important. perhaps just a project he was particularly passionate about, though. lord knows the kind of sleep decisions a bit of excitement in your work could cause. but regardless of what exactly kept the fox up so late, the gentle sound of falling rain wasn't all he'd hear outside.

a distant roll of thunder in the distance. the rain picks up, and a louder 'crack' of sky-splitting lightning followed. even more sounds of the sky booming. you would think if there was a bad storm rolling through, the meteorologists would have at least had something to say about it. maybe tails doesn't keep up with the news? who knows.

perhaps expectedly, the lights in his room begin to flicker a bit. then, a small surge knocks out the computers. extremely unfortunate.

one fox, no screens, flickering light, thunderstorm, middle of the night. your move, miles.