8-bitbasil

[theclaravoyant]

Thinking about how Crowley thinks Aziraphale calls him when he’s bored (when nothing is happening) , when he’s “done something clever” (when something good happens), or when he needs help (when something bad happens) . Like. Crowley my beloved that’s all the times.

[statusquoergo]

A loud hissing sounds from a ways down the road. Diane opens her eyes just as a bus drives by, one of those big black ones with the padded seats. Sometimes they have television screens that fold out from the ceiling, she remembers that, but everyone has to watch the same thing and the movie is never very good.

Some guy walks out of the general store across the street, and she runs forward as though she might be able to catch the door before it falls shut behind him. She doesn't, of course. She didn't really think she would.

Apart from the young woman behind the counter, there doesn't seem to be anyone around. The shelf by the door is full of baking ingredients, flour and sugar and colored sprinkles and things, and Diane wanders toward the produce section like she does it all the time. What would be something good to take? Celery, maybe, a bunch with a lot of stalks she could eat one at a time. Or maybe carrots would be better, a whole bag of them that would last a while. Yeah, carrots would be better.

Picking up the biggest bag, pressing it to her chest, she zips her windbreaker up to her chin, lowering her head and folding her arms in front of her so the bag doesn’t fall out past her waist. The carrots are a little heavy, and her jacket doesn't fit exactly right.

The floor tiles sure are dirty.

The woman at the register is watching her. She feels it, her eyes on the back of her head. It'll be fine, though. She'll keep her head down and walk out the door fast, and she'll never come back in here, and everything will be fine.

Little buds of broccoli are stuck to her fingers. She shakes her hand and wipes it on her jeans.

The woman at the register is watching her.

“You really suck at this.”

She closes her eyes tight.

Well. Can you really say you're surprised?

“Take Nutella next time,” the woman says, “if you want something you can resell. Or peanut butter, if you need something that's gonna hold you over for a while. And don’t look so cagey.”

She shouldn't be listening to this. This is probably a trap. This woman is trying to set her up. Trying to make her look stupid. Trying to trick her into making a fool of herself.

“You wanna stick a can of beans in your pocket and sneak out the door while I check inventory?”

Diane unzips her windbreaker and puts the carrots back on the shelf.

“Make sure you take one with a pop top.”

Don't you pity me. Don't you tell me I'm not good enough to do it on my own.

Crossing her arms, she ducks her head down and walks past the flour and sugar and colored sprinkles and things, and shoves her shoulder into the front door.

Better luck next time.

[pigeonstab]

yeah but what if reaper is 7ft tall. actually.

[warning-heckboop]

This is the dynamic I want out of season 2 actually

[sunlit-mess]

(I'm pretty sure you've seen me spam your notifs I'M NOT STALKING I SWEAR I JUST LOVE YOUR WORKS!!! But I just want to ask)

You're CLEARLY underrated and some of your posts from vent arts said you don't care about relevancy. How do you do that? How do you manage as an artist?

anon thats so.. wow AHHAHAHA anyway-

As I mentioned for a billionth time, I've BURNT OUT ENOUGH.

I'm in-and-out in burnout, recovering from it is always a challenge but there are always lessons from it...

Before, I had always felt inferior even at a young age because I'm the type to have something- but never was acknowledged for it. Life revolved around what others think/what others have and it fed envy so much.

I had tried to keep up with an insane pace, and tried to stay perfect, tried to squeeze out affirmations, like a competition. The toxic part of it is being two-faced with other people's accomplishments/work.

And always feeling, so, so, disappointed that you expect nothing but that: Dissatisfied. It gets tiring, from the feeling of being envious to self-hatred to depression.

2022 and I realized a lot about inferiority. College already greets you with a variety of skillful people, so what will happen if you start working in the creative industry itself?

I degraded, so so much. To a point, I almost gave up on passion and myself. But I kept clinging. I didn't want to be stuck feeling that way with others. Rather, I started to appreciate and be more grateful for the things/reasons that kept me going in the first place, while kinder to others. This 2024, I learned how to let go of what weighs me and restricts me from doing what I like: drawing/creating. I stopped caring about numbers/count, I don't care who sees them, I don't care if others may think badly of it. I am honest with myself and my work while being open-minded to perception. I LOVE and APPRECIATE those who stay as a fellow audience that enjoys the same thing or whatever! I LOVE learning from other people who are more knowledgeable/skillful than me. I LOVE any advice/lessons I get from others. Loved and applied them!

I stopped wallowing in self-pity and just went: nah I'D WIN.

Mentioning this again, pain is where I strive best because it's what I was accustomed to. I learned grit from clinging to the tiniest spark of hope to battle negative thoughts and just kept going.

And until this day, I'm really grateful I'm still here. I can never get anywhere without any of you, and many other reasons I stay determined.

[petricorah]

another comic wip bc im an impatient person at heart [id in alt]

[good-advice-ganondorf]

any advice for those of us returning to school?

[crossthread]

No jokes here. The Navy’s best pilot and the Navy’s best admiral. Between them, eight air-to-air combat kills and five stars. These were men who commanded respect with or without your approval. This was the picture of ruthless competence.

Debriefing (& Other Stories) • part 2 of Easier Done Than Said by @compacflt

[kr-yoongi]

Colin Morgan in season 1 of Humans I want you.

(Timelapse below)

[brethilach]

the movies truly didn't do the King of the Golden Hall chapter justice. Where's Háma panicking when Legolas tells him his bow was a gift from Galadriel and trying to touch it as little as possible. Where's Gandalf scolding Aragorn when he gets defensive about handing Andúril over to Háma only to immediately do the same thing when he's asked to hand over his staff. Where's Théoden complaining about Gandalf stealing Shadowfax and telling Gandalf that he didn't mourn him when he heard news of his death. Where's Gríma calling the Hunters dirty beggers and accusing Gandalf of being a meddling vulture. Where's Gandalf freestyling about Galadriel before striking Gríma with lightning because he implied she was a liar. Where's Gríma lying prone on the floor while everyone walks into the light without him. Remember what they took from us

[notetaeker]

Things feel so pointless sometimes and the only reason I continue is because the prophet said if you have a seed in your hand and the end of times arrives, still plant it

[ironsoftie]

Once Odysseus is back home. When everything's settled down and he's able to find some semblance of normalcy… Have you thought about how he fares back on Ithaca? Because I have. How some days are so light and easy yet others feel like trying to tread water in a storm-tossed sea.

Maybe you’ve thought of a moment where Odysseus and Telemachus are outside sparring, and Telemachus lands a really good hit? Odysseus laughs off Telemachus’s concerns, clutching his now bruised shoulder, and turns his head to joke that his son would be a better fighter than Eurylochus soon. Instead though, his words taper off and his eyes go slightly unfocused when he realizes the tall, broad-shouldered friend he half expected to see isn't standing there laughing along with him. Where for a split second, Odysseus could swear he smells acrid ozone despite the sky above them being clear and bright?

Or maybe it was a time when Odysseus had been walking with Penelope in one of the markets across Ithaca, only to catch a passing glimpse of a mop of chestnut-colored curls precariously held up by a red band ahead of him? When, for an unending second, his muscles lock in place and the air in his lungs freezes. That is, until the man in front of him turns his head and sorrow comes crashing back down into his bones like a rouge wave. It wasn't the warm and familiar smile of his dear friend Polites greeting him, but that of a stranger.

Maybe it was one of the times where Odysseus finds himself walking the halls of his palace aimlessly, and his eyes find one specific spot on the floor. The same spot where his mother, Anticlea, had once taken a very young Odysseus into her arms to comfort him after he’d taken an unfortunate tumble and broken the skin on the palms of his hands and knees. Stones that had been scrubbed clean of his blood then, only to have been stained afresh with the blood spilled from one of Penelope’s suitors upon his tumultuous return to Ithaca.

Perhaps there was even a time or two where Athena had begged Hypnos to help her friend rest easy after yet another night of Odysseus jolting awake with the same prayers for her aid stumbling their way off of his trembling lips. As if he was still trapped on that island. The island where his desperate prayers for her aid had been able to go no further from its pristine shores than he himself could.

Do you think Odysseus has moments where he cannot quite quell the discomfort in the disconnect of actually being safe and home within himself? After all, he'd argue, how could he when the loss of his men- his friends- still weigh on his mind and body like the Earth weighs on Atlas's shoulders. How could he while the parts of himself he lost, gave up, and had taken from him were scattered across caves, across the underworld, and across so many islands he could almost loose count if not for what had transpired on them? When, sometimes, he doesn’t quite feel fully himself, and wonders if perhaps he was starting to follow in his father’s footsteps.

Moments where everything weighs so heavily upon him that he feels as if all he can do is sit on his balcony and look out across the waves on the horizon. A sight that once brought him such comfort, now only acting as a reminder of what he had done and gone through while sailing its waters.

Or maybe you've thought of something else entirely. Of how Telemachus would fill the quiet that falls between them when his father’s gaze goes distant. Where he begins to share stories from his own childhood until Odysseus’s eyes are clear and focused raptly on him as he speaks so as to not miss a single moment of the tale?

Where all it takes Penelope's hand brushing his hair back from his face as she hums and holds him securely in her arms for the voices of those who aren't there anymore to gently fade to murmurs in the back of his mind? Where she weaves, and he sits nearby and works. Sometimes pausing just watching her hands dance skillfully across the loom, letting the rhythmic sounds relax him.

Where he finds himself tucking the hair behind her ear gently after catching Penelope staring at him as if she also couldn’t fully comprehend that he is back. Or maybe you’ve thought of times during meetings with visitors to their kingdom where he gets lost in thought so Penelope silently snakes her arm around his and clasps his hand in her own to bring him back to himself subtly enough so as to not alert their guests.

How Athena might sometimes fly past the couple's balcony after Odysseus has had a particularly rough day. Where, landing, she’d rest her wings and perch on the balcony’s hand rail just outside of their bedroom, clearly in his line of sight. And there she’d wait to hear Odysseus's sigh as he finally relaxes into the bed below him. How Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, would keep watch and ensure his family’s safety. He didn’t have to be on guard when he was attempting to try and rest. He could trust her to rouse him if he was needed. Of course, she would simply ensure he was never needed on those nights.

Or perhaps you've thought of the times where Odysseus can simply relax and laugh freely with his family. Where he looks at them and finds peace in their smiles and in the familiar halls and rooms of his palace. Where the sea breeze refreshes his mind as he walks around his island. Where he finds himself fondly remembering those that were lost on the journey home, and doesn’t find guilt smothering him for simply thinking of them. Where he stops questioning if this was yet another dream that he’d wake up from once he opened his eyes next.

Where he reaches out and cradles Penelope's face in his calloused and scarred hands, and the soft warmth of her skin and weight of her hands landing on his forearms to simply hold him back settles something fragile in him like balm on a burn he hadn’t known he’d received in the first place.

Maybe it was the first time Telemachus calls him father and Odysseus knows he means it and wasn’t just using the word as a formality. When Odysseus stops being the unreachable legend he was built up to be, and becomes a man and then a father in his son’s eyes.

Where he feels the familiar rush of Athena's approval in his mind after using a particularly good turn of phrase to secure more resources in a trade deal, and can finally accept that he actually has her blessing and favor again.

He doesn't forget all the bad that has happened, but he finds ways to live more in the present than the past that sometimes haunts him.

He struggles. Of course he does. There’s so much that he still deals with; but having Penelope, Telemachus, and Athena around is enough to get through even the worst of days. Healing is slow, yes. But he heals all the same. They all do.

[ainsi-soit-il]

At this point, the moment any group claiming to be Christian (or to have Christian interests in mind) loses compassion for their enemies, they've lost any allegiance they might have gained from me.

We bear the Name and face of a God who looked on those who beat Him, spat at Him, screamed abuse at Him, and murdered Him, and He still said, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."

If we do not want mercy for even our enemies, we cannot claim we are following Christ anymore.

[seagreenstardust]

Anyone still calling late game Katsuki an abuser in 2024 is just not paying attention. Full stop.

[jvgsjeff]

[finnlongman]

I would love to encourage more people to read the 18th-19th century Ulster Cycle tales so they can enjoy Baby Cú Chulainn with me. Unfortunately they only exist in out-of-print 1940s/1950s editions (with no translation) that are, as far as I can tell, completely unobtainable outside of a select handful of university libraries, and even there, they're often in Special Collections. And even if you track them down, you still have to read 18th century Irish, which is... a headache.

However, everyone should read Tóruigheacht Gruaidhe Griansholus, which does have a translation, and is available online. Story-wise it's the best of them anyway, although Cú Chulainn is 15 and therefore not at Maximum Baby.