Migration Patterns snippet
Long before Elle was curious enough to go looking, old candle wax the strongest smell in the musty, airless space. Years of it populated the floor, spilled from broken votives, saints peeling faces newer and brighter the further you walked.
Elle breathed it in. Dust and the dead, grave dirt in her mouth just half a dream away.
People left all kinds of things. Notes and lights, messages written on the walls.
Until the very end of the tunnel, bricked over, where someone had painted a boy from Crime Alley, swinging up out of the gloom as though by magic.
“Hey baby Jay,” Elle whispered, palm pressed to edge of a lovingly rendered yellow cape. They’d gotten the shape wrong, but not the size. Too large, bright as traffic light, so heavy, in passing faded memory. “Anyone tell you lately that you grew up right?”
Jason’s kindness that felt so, so safe- nearly impossible to turn down- nearly goddamn impossible to turn away from, even when she knew it was the right thing to do.
For now.
She’d had years and years. To mourn this Jason, Gotham’s own and gone much too soon. Years to know he was alive, he was out there, that soulmates did not meet until it was time- what the fuck was the point of time if you’d already met?
Car keys in her hand. Jason, who’d disappeared without a word and would again, fear like the taste of blood polluting so much sugared heat in her mouth.
Jason, steadfastly trying to find a single offering she’d take- when all Elle had to really go on were the lines he’d drawn, and some strange hope for a someday that was so clearly not today.
“Warden.”
His voice came out of the dark, body to follow. Gotham’s original ghost, haunting his own past, stepping soundless out of the deep shadows to come up on Elle’s right.
She watched as he crouched. Bruce, head ducked, gently rearranging to offerings laid at his dead son’s feet, room left for the half-crushed marigold he pulled from his utility belt. An undented batarang. Three pocket Shakespeares.
Batman was the only one who left books at the wall for Robin, Elle had learned over the years.
It didn’t matter that the street kids stole them. It was, probably, half the reason he always came with more.
He relit every candle that had gone out, before standing.
“I wonder,” Bruce said, slowly, eyes forward, eerie in the flickering light, “If you might reconsider my offer.”
12 notes
·
View notes
one of the things about being an educator is that you hear what parents want their kids to be able to do a lot. they want their kid to be an astronaut or a ballerina or a politician. they want them to get off that damn phone. be better about socializing. stop spending so much time indoors. learn to control their own temper. to just "fucking listen", which means to be obedient.
one of the things i learned in my pedagogy classes is that it's almost always easier to roleplay how you want someone to act. it's almost always easier to explain why a rule exists, rather than simply setting the rule and demanding adherence.
i want my kids to be kind. i want them to ask me what book they should read next, and i want to read that book with them so we can discuss it. i want my kid to be able to tell me hey that hurt my feelings without worrying i'll punish them. i want my kid to be proud of small things and come running up to me to tell me about them. i want them to say "nah, i get why this rule exists, but i get to hate it" and know that i don't need them to be grateful-for-the-roof-overhead while washing the dishes. i want them to teach me things. i want them to say - this isn't safe. i'm calling my mom and getting out of this. i want them to hear me apologize when i do fuck up; and i want them to want to come home.
the other day a parent was telling me she didn't understand why her kid "just got so angry." this woman had flown off the handle at me.
my dad - traditional catholic that he is - resents my sentiment of "gentle parenting". he says they'll grow up spoiled, horrible, pretentious. granola, he spits.
i am going to be kind to them. i am going to set the example, i think. and whatever they choose become in the meantime - i'm going to love them for it.
5K notes
·
View notes
Shoutout to mean aros. Aros that are a hard pill to swallow. Aros that aren't palatable. Aros that are angry, cold, and distant. Aros that don't want to be "good representation". Aros that don't love and don't care what's said about it. Aros that do love and don't care who understands it. Aros that don't sit right with alloromos. Aros that want to be left alone and don't want to talk. Aros that are loud and opinionated and refuse to shut up. Aros that are bitter. Aros that don't want to answer questions about their labels. You shouldn't need to be warm and approachable to earn respect for your aromanticism and avoid harassment from arophobes.
2K notes
·
View notes
do you pencil traditionally and then colour digitally, or do you just have a very convincing digital pencil brush? I really love the organic, sketchy feel of your work.
I always sketch and ink on paper first, then scan the piece and color it digitally.
2K notes
·
View notes
[previous]
[next]
In playing a game, we bring its artificial borders weight. In creating something, we inhabit that world to bring it life.
I started Handplates during a really difficult time in my life... no matter what happened, no matter how much things felt like they were falling apart around me or I was going to lose my mind or it all was just too much to bear, there’d always be another Handplates comic to do. Like clockwork that alarm in my head would go off and I’d get to work on the next one, no matter what was happening. It was always, always there. It’s hard to believe it’s been over seven years... a few more months to eight.
By my estimates, the next comic will be the last one. It doesn’t seem real, and when it does, it just makes me sad to think about... but I guess Undertale itself was about that too. How hard it is to let go, and when it’s time to say goodbye...
(I made some long long phone calls to my friends at home
And I told them where I’ve been and the places I’m going
And they said, “Wow, that’s incredible, but we already know,
Because of that long long song you wrote.” - [x] )
[index] [patreon] [comicfury]
3K notes
·
View notes
what do you mean youre technically a detransitioner cause of terf bullshit?
it's a v long story but i detransitioned for a couple of years when i was 16/17, for multiple reasons but mostly because i fell into the blaire white/kalvin garrah chamber of "you have to be This way to be trans otherwise you're not real".
i was already Deeply insecure about myself and my 'passing' and i was led to believe that i couldn't want to wear makeup or skirts, and i couldn't choose not to have bottom surgery, and i couldn't do anything but bind for 12+ hours a day to the point that my ribcage is still misshapen. basically i thought that if i wasn't suffering enough doing 'feminine' things, i couldn't really be trans, so i should just go back to being a girl and suck it up.
the terf bullshit is because i'd seen a lot of terfs/detransitioners talking about the 'dangers' of testosterone and how it would turn me into a horrible ugly evil monster and how there was nothing worse than wanting to be a man. which combined with 'you need to fully medically transition to be valid at all' creates some very dangerous and upsetting feelings to cope with.
it also came from trying really hard to put myself in a little box before i realised that my sexuality/gender are very fluid and it's FINE for me not to have a label and just do whatever i want. when i was 19 or so i went back to using they/them (and eventually he/him) and changed my name again because even though i like doing 'feminine' things, i don't want to be seen as a woman.
tldr: i was conditioned by transphobic/terf rhetorics to think that i was being trans the 'wrong' way so i couldn't be trans at all, so i believed i must actually be a girl if i still wanted to do 'feminine' things. nowadays i am a transmasc who does feminine things because i don't give two shits about what any transmed prick thinks of me anymore.
546 notes
·
View notes