Amen To That Little Dude

what a great meme season !

Unmute !

Ottoman yataghan from the Court of Suleyman the Magnificent, 16th c, workshop of Ahmed Tekelü (possibly Iranian, active Istanbul, ca. 1520–30), steel, walrus ivory, gold, silver, rubies, turquoise, pearls, gold incrustation on the blade depicts combat between a dragon and a phoenix, gold-inlaid cloud bands the ivory grips.

More than 8,000 people on Instagram watched Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez live stream herself putting together IKEA furniture, drinking wine and talking about the GOP and climate change.

mentally i am living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere in the woods of oregon and it’s foggy and i am wearing a big sweater and baking banana bread

PERFECTION

ok but if bruce wayne somehow came upon zuko fresh out of banishment he would lose his mind.

black hair? check. bad parent(s)? check. trauma? double check.

bruce: how’d you get your scar?

zuko: my dad got mad at me for saying that killing people is wrong so he lit my face on fire and banished me.

bruce, vibrating with excitement, already pulling adoption papers from his utilility: that’s terrible. how do you feel about capes.

An Idea To Prevent A Nuclear War

El muchacho de los ojos tristes

as you drive to your final destination for the day, you pass a crossroads. there is a hitchhiker posted next to the stop sign.

they approach your window. had it been brighter, had there been more people in the car, you might've picked them up. it is far too late and too lonely in your car, so you shake your head and begin to accelerate.

they seem to keep pace with your car, running alongside it until you reach 35.

you pull up to the next stop sign, and try not to look. there's a hitchhiker there. staring at you, but they seem longer than before. taller, lanky. you begin to accelerate.

they keep pace with you, for miles they run next to you car, eyes unblinking.

close your eyes, just for a moment. they've gone. you're back at the first crossroads, and nothing remains but the feeling of someone watching from a distance. just a trace, like a memory

Too often, it’s said that black cats are wicked. One with the dark magicks. Their croon the last sound heard of someone stuck in the forest in the pitch night, reverberating like the communal howl of devil worshipers.

Too often, these fables forget to mention their less passive, more aggressive counterpart. The black dog, swift shadows, paws scampering, howls and barks that sound like the screams of the sinners... never leaving you, a reminder of where you’ll be soon. When temptation engulfs you too far for you to escape, desperately groping for solace in bible passages and confession as you play pretend that sins aren’t a permanent black stain on the conscious, the howls will be there. Times like this are where black dogs will find you, their sickening penumbra flickering over the light of John 1:9, your most recent turn in desperation…

The howl echoes around you, enough to knock over candles, clawing at your skin, ice against your ears like the centre of Hell itself reached out to scrape your skin and mark you. Now, you are nothing but a target, precious time slipping away akin to sand tap, tap, tapping against the bottom of an hourglass. You can loom over a bible passage all you want (ephesians 1:7, this time) but their snarls will still grow ever closer, shaking you like it’s knocking the last fight out.

It wraps around you and sends you, ironically, to your knees; too close to prayer for your feeble mind to collect that it is your doom. They’re being polite in their own sickening, twisted way, by giving you your final chance to beg for mercy like God will ever listen.

Crows tore against the sky to get away, akin to rips in time on patches of infinite black. Part of you- the lesser sane part, turned mad by fear, but a part none the less- will feel like screaming after them would somehow save you. They are one with death, sin, Satan, they will do nothing but release a caw like laughter- it shoots into the ear like a cross-bolt: sharp, painful, instant.

Nothing like what will happen to you.

Eyes. Eyes everywhere, fighting to meet yours- dark as night but burning with the hellfire they clawed their way out of- trapped behind them as a symbol of home, a symbol of what they fight for, a symbol of where they will return to. They want to see the weakness cowering in your eyes. They want to drag your twitching, bloodied body behind them as their prize.

They’re getting closer.

Further, further inwards.

Feel their iron claws and leather footpads paw you. Slobber and drool soaking your skin, clothes, the tracking device that will never leave you. Smell: ash- burning elder and holly to be specific- hopelessness, Fire.

Fire.

Of course. Feel it lick against your skin- remembering the taste like a starved animal. The warmth of its shockingly gentle caress. For a second, you’ll be convinced it’s like the demons generously welcoming you. In reality, it’s just a precursor for what you’ll soon feel.

Death will be swift… a blessing, ironically. So much different from black cats, dogs just cannot wait for the main event.

Me, Forget Black Cats