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still very very slowly making art!! i'll have my little 8pg accordion zine about tidepools at seattle art book fair may 11 & 12 -- in slightly different colors because of [fucked up the riso printing process]
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Minute
Through some contrivances known only to the archangel Aziraphale, the representatives of Heaven and Hell were currently huddled together in a rainy field in outer Sheffield, arguing.
Crowley had shown up ten minutes into the meeting, nominally as “The First and Only Representative of Earth,” but the only thing he had done the entire meeting was stare unblinkingly at Aziraphale. It was giving him a headache, the kind right between your eyes that you got after you had been crying for too long.
He checked his pocket watch again. He had been trying to do it surreptitiously, but his anxiety was getting the best of him. One minute to go.
He met Crowley’s eyes.
Eyebrows pinched together, he raised a fist and ran it up and down to the left of his heart. “Sorry,” he signed.
Crowley’s eyes widened and then narrowed in concentration. He shot a quick glance at the others, but they were too engrossed in their argument. Expression stormy, he lifted a finger. “What-”
“No time,” Aziraphale cut him off, tapping his wrist. “I need your help.”
Crowley was so still Aziraphale thought time had paused for a moment. Every line and angle of him was tense. His scowl was so deep it looked painful. His eyes were fiery behind his glasses. Aziraphale held his breath.
Crowley did not lay into him. Crowley did not tell him exactly what he could do with himself. Crowley did not tear him a new one. Instead, Crowley lifted his hands and signed in sharp, jerky movements. “With what?”
Relief flooded through Aziraphale like he had stepped under a waterfall. He could feel his expression brighten, and he tried not to read too much into it that Crowley twitched slightly and his eyebrows softened somewhat at nearly the same moment.
“New recruits,” he signed. He felt a smile start to bloom across his face. “I’ve found some more representatives for Earth.” As he inscribed the arc to indicate the world, it felt like he truly was encompassing all of it – the moths and the cracked book covers, the mud and the clogged rain gutters, the Thursday afternoons and the motorcycles - between his hands.
The minute was up.
Aziraphale felt a desperate flutter in his chest, like a bird trying to escape a fox, and then it was still. Looking around, it was clear the others had felt it too. Crowley rubbed his breastbone.
“What…” Michael’s expression was pinched. She tilted her head, as though trying to hear distant music.
Uriel had her hand over her heart. Her expression was shattered. “I can’t feel Heaven anymore,” she said.
Hastur’s expression cleared with realization. “Oh yeah, I can’t feel Hell anymore,” he said. Panic crawled across his face. “What does that mean-”
Aziraphale cleared his throat. All eyes fell on him.
“I’m afraid your administrative privileges have been revoked,” he said, straightening his cuffs and dusting off his coat. He lifted his chin. “You’ll find you no longer have access to your respective agencies.”
Silence met this pronouncement.
“What –” Sandalphon choked out. “Do you mean – we’re stuck here?”
Aziraphale gifted him with a benevolent smile.
The collective response to this was panic.
Michael shrieked and looked around at the grass she had been standing on the entire time like it had suddenly turned to lava. Her feet started an ungainly shuffle.
Hastur fell to his knees and started tearing up chunks of sod with his bare hands, howling.
Uriel looked around her desperately, taking in the clouds, the rain, the field. “But – but – ” she stammered. “But – what is there to do on this stupid rock?!”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and looked at Crowley. “Sushi?” he suggested. He had missed it so.
Crowley was trying not to smile, but one corner of his mouth betrayed him. “That might be a little advanced, angel,” he said. Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “Maybe we could start with a ploughman’s?”
Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, very well.”
#good omens#fanfic#aziraphale#crowley#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#but soft what light#for some reason I love the idea of them signing to each other#sign language#I do not speak BSL#feel free to rake me over the coals#why do descriptions of anger all sound like euphemisms
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This is gonna sound rather conceited but I feel like it highlights an issue we have in Art.
I'm good at art. I've never had a hard time making art. I started using crayons before I could walk. Painting, Beadwork, sculpture, sketching, stippling, whatever- once I have a feel for the material, it doesn't take long to start doing what I want with it. It's been a common theme my whole life.
(Y contrast I'm awful at things like dancing, performance, sports, etc- in all things there is balance, right?)
Now, I've taught myself to use so many artistic mediums now that I KNOW how to most efficiently integrate them into the brain database. Once you really *understand* a material, it's much like memorizing the layout of your house, or flexing a muscle, or something in-between- it becomes PART of your brain in a way I cant quite articulate. But to get there involves just fucking around for a bit doing nothing in particular.
And I've found, especially in group settings, that nobody seems to be able to see you make something badly and leave you alone. Even if you say you're fine, you don't want help, you're happy, you're having fun, it's fine, they gotta ride your ass and hover.
I was at a class the other day for something I hadn't done before. The medium was one I've never used, so once the instructor told us the basics I started experimenting with weight, gravity, texture, viscosity, saturation, temperature, etc. The instructor had given enough info to know what was dangerous and what was safe, and beyond that I just wanted to absorb what I could about it.
And no insult to the instructor, but they kept checking in. Which was fine the first few times.
But then, without asking me what I was trying to do, started giving tips. That I told them I was grateful for but didn't really need just yet. If I had a question, I'd ask.
But they kept coming over. And touching my shit. And manipulating my project. And touching my hands. And using my tools. Without fucking asking.
And this happens every time. EVERY TIME. And by now I know the best way to get them to fuck off is to make something way beyond their expectations so they know I'm capable, then go back to doing what I want.
So I did. I wanted to keep having fun and learning, but instead I made something beautiful that I really didn't want to make, and wasted my time, and really didn't learn what I wanted to learn at all. I knew the formula to create a beautiful thing, so I followed that formula the same way I have a hundred times before, and didn't get to try anything spontaneous or ugly or exciting, just so I could be left alone.
And I know when I was a kid, I was aware aware people saw me puttering alone on something ugly assumed I had a special issue and treated me like I was stupid because of that. (I was neurodivergent.) And at at time I knew that I could do a neat trick for them like a trained pony and they'd go, "Oh, surely they aren't defective if they can do something like that!" And piss off.
But what if I hadn't known how to do that?
What if I hadn't been talented, or "special"?
What if I'd been just any other average kid trying to learn, and I couldn't pop something pretty out of my ass to get them off my back?
My problem my whole life has been that I haven't been allowed to make anything ugly in peace. I'm capable of beauty, so I have to make beauty, or get stepped on. And once people see what I can do, they get loud about it. "Look at this! Look what they did! We all know who the best is, don't we?". And that used to feel good, but it's tiring.
And how many people like me just wanted to play? Just wanted to have fun and experiment? Who were having fun with no goal in mind, or just took longer to learn, who gave up because of all the obnoxious helpers breathing down their neck with no way to shake them off?
How many of us are made to feel defective because we aren't doing things beautifully?
I have a lovely piece of art I didn't want to make.
I think I'm gonna frame it.*
(*I think I'm gonna burn it in my yard.)
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an aromantic person is someone who (fill in the blank here) // april 10 2024
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Glass
After it was all over, Aziraphale sat on the edge of a bluff and let his feet hang over the side. Rivers and farmland stretched before him. In the distance he spotted a church crouched behind a copse of trees. His heel knocked loose a pebble. He watched it tumble into empty space and wondered what it would feel like to follow.
Behind him he heard the gentle rumble of an engine. The sound of a door slamming shut was muted, as was the crunch of boots on gravel as someone approached. He didn’t look around.
A wine bottle was thrust before his eyes. Automatically, he noted the vintage. He must have gone to some effort for this.
“Drink?”
Aziraphale nodded.
Crowley dropped beside him, sending another cascade of pebbles down the cliff. He produced two wine glasses and handed one to the angel.
Once the wine had generously been decanted, Crowley knocked his glass against Aziraphale’s with a bright ring that vibrated through his fingers.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” he said, taking a swig.
“Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured. He peered into his glass. He could see his reflection along the outer rim.
Crowley cleared his throat. “They underestimated you.” He hesitated, then made an aborted gesture with one hand. “I underestimated you.”
Aziraphale took a long pull from his glass.
Crowley planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eye. When the angel didn’t look up, he turned away, face etched with resignation. He kicked a heel against the cliff and watched dirt shower down.
Aziraphale took this opportunity to eye the demon’s profile.
“How does it work?” he asked.
Crowley looked over his shoulder. “How does what work?”
“No Heaven. No Hell.” The icy hand that had been stalking him the last few months seized his heart. “How do you know good from evil?” A dark void threatened to open up beneath his feet. If he put one foot wrong he would fall in and keep falling, forever. He struggled to breathe. “What if you can’t? What if there…isn’t? At all?”
Suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He could hear his breath harsh in his ears as he looked at it. He looked up into Crowley’s yellow eyes.
“It’s okay angel. Breathe.”
Aziraphale could feel tears gathering in his eyes. “The sheer – arrogance,” he murmured, “to think that I – ”
“Arrogant?” A strangled laugh struggled in the demon’s throat. “Aziraphale – you are the only person I met in all of Hell or Heaven who cared – at all – to even try to figure out what was right and wrong,” he said intently, every line of him leaning forward, eyes wide, trying to make him understand. “The arrogance to try? What about the arrogance of thinking you don’t have to?” His breath pulled rapidly in and out of his chest.
The tears Aziraphale had been fighting spilled over.
“I’m not sure this is going to be comforting but – I don’t think anyone knows for sure, certainly not me,” Crowley said. His grip on Aziraphale’s arm tightened. “I’m not sure that what the Almighty imparted in the garden was knowledge of good and evil so much that it was knowledge that everything is complicated and all of it matters so much. It deserves your conscience and your doubt. It deserves your best effort.”
He tilted his head, tried to catch Aziraphale’s eyes. “I am not worried about you at all,” he said, lips quirking in an attempt at a smile. “You, who gave your sword away at the very Beginning. You’ve always had a heart for these things.”
Aziraphale raised a hand to wipe his eyes and Crowley let go, turning to look out over the landscape below. Aziraphale immediately missed his grip; but he was still close, shoulders brushing together.
“’Sides,” Crowley said, aiming for nonchalance and falling staggeringly short, “I’ll still be here. It’s easier together, I think.”
Crowley looked out at the fields and Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He was swamped by the urge to put his head on Crowley’s shoulder and only just managed to resist it.
Aziraphale looked into his glass. “About what you said – in the bookshop –” he began.
Crowley flung up a hand to head him off. He drained the rest of his glass in one go. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he rasped.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Don’t we?”
Crowley shook his head emphatically. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I said anything. Or…” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to Aziraphale’s lips before careening away. “…did, anything. You don’t need to say…what you’re going to say. I promise I won’t do it again.” He sloppily crossed his heart and pushed himself to his feet.
Aziraphale listened to his footsteps crunching back toward the Bentley. A kind of calm anger poured in and began filling up his chest. His face set like stone. “That’s a shame,” he said out loud.
The footsteps paused. “What was that?”
“I said – ” Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet and turned around. Crowley stood halfway to the car, bottle and glass in one hand, keys in the other.
“I said,” he said, “it’s a shame that you will never again tell me that you love me; will never kiss me again.” He twisted his hands together, fingernails biting into skin. “I was rather hoping you would.”
Crowley stared at him.
Aziraphale moved forward until they were only inches apart. He held Crowley’s eyes.
Crowley hesitated for a long moment, searching his face. Finally he swayed forward, almost helplessly, head tilted, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply and leaned into the kiss. He brought one hand around to grip Crowley’s shoulder, and used the other to cup Crowley’s face. A tremor ran down Crowley’s body. Aziraphale brushed his thumb along Crowley’s jawline and deepened the kiss. That icy hand retreated and Aziraphale dared to hope he would learn how to keep it at bay. He felt like he had stepped outside in winter and found a patch of sun.
He pulled back and smiled to himself at the dazed expression on Crowley’s face. “Do you want to get rid of…” he indicated the bottle and glass still in Crowley’s hand.
Crowley slowly dragged his eyes away and looked at the offending objects. “Hm? Oh, right.” Unceremoniously, he tossed them away, stuffing the keys back into his pocket as he did so. His arms encircled Aziraphale and pulled him back in for another heady kiss.
The glass hit the ground, but instead of shattering into shards, it shattered into seeds, which germinated far too rapidly, extending tender green shoots and fragile white roots until a patch of wildflowers had rooted in the gravel beside the road, an eddy of pink, red, purple, and impossible blue.
#good omens#fanfic#soft#but soft what light#i hope everyone is having a good week#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands
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Always love how much folklore especially creature folklore emphasizes that there is a way for you to win. These are the steps to ensure the dead don't rise: take them out through a hole in the wall and give them iron shoes. Vampires cannot abide sunlight. If you hear a dog howl on a churchyard path turn around and get home as fast as you can. Iron and salt and the colour red. None of this doomed idea, the world is incomprehensible but if you're a bit clever you'll survive it just fine, there's always ways out.
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Enough random notes that have a written story on them as environmental storytelling, explore the space, get crazier with it.
You move into a house and aw cute, it has the kids height on the walls but you notice there's a three foot difference in height between measurements, you check the date, they're a month apart. The final measurement is on the ceiling. It's dated two days ago.
You're part of a recovery team that have finally found a stranded ship, they were found too late and have all passed a long time ago. They all died of starvation. You enter their storeroom, it's filled with food. In the dining hall you find the tables laden with perfectly fine looking breads, cakes, cured meats, jams, candies. Your medic says all the people sitting at the table didn't eat a Thing.
You wake up in an apocalypse. You can't find anyone at all as you wander the streets but you do hear faint music playing from somewhere. You stumble into a supermarket, to see all the aisles still full, except for the shelf that was full of ear plugs, which look to be the only thing that was looted.
Like there's light, sound, props. Having a street where every house is decimated except for One. Landing on a planet known for having No Water and a plant is growing and you don't know where it could have possibly gotten moisture from but you can't find the citizens Anywhere.
I'm sorry, I'm just kinda over the "graffiti on the wall to show the bad guy is around". That's not environmental storytelling that's just normal story. Show me I'm in the villains territory by the rain suddenly cutting out above me as I'm driving, even though it's meant to be raining all night. I park the car and step out, and realise the constellations are Wrong, until I see they're Not constellations, they're the blinking lights of a massive ship-
I Will stop now because everytime I go to write a sentence it devolves into another prompt but I'm just saying we have a Lot of senses, engage them, show me the Environment in environmental storytelling.
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sea pancake plates 🥞
stingrays don't have bones, but they do have cartilaginous skeletons!
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a Guy
need to do some testing to see if this guy is food-safe or not, because some of the clear glaze was applied a little thin, so there's a rough (but not pinhole) texture in some spots. but I may just mark him as not food-safe just to be safe. he can protect your trinkets instead
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Червь плоский желтопятнистый (Thysanozoon havomaculatum) . Морской червь из класса ресничные черви, или турбеллярий. Принадлежит отряду Поликлад. Имеет уплощённое, овальное тело, покрытое ресничным эпителием. Длина этого симпатичного создания около 4 см, а толщина всего пару миллиметров. Передний конец его тела несёт пару щупалец. Мускулатура этого плоского червя многослойная, хорошо развитая, благодаря ей он способен подниматься в толщу воды за счёт ундулирующих движений краёв тела, а не только обитать на дне. Этот свободноживущий плоский червь питается преимущественно как хищник, водными беспозвоночными. Встречается в морях вокруг Австралии и Индонезии.
Yellow-spotted flatworm (Thysanozoon havomaculatum). A marine worm from the class of ciliated worms, or turbellarians. Belongs to the Polyclad squad. It has a flattened, oval body covered with ciliated epithelium. The length of this cute creature is about 4 cm, and the thickness is only a couple of millimeters. The front end of its body bears a pair of tentacles. The musculature of this flatworm is multi-layered, well developed, thanks to it it is able to rise into the water column due to undulating movements of the edges of the body, and not just live on the bottom. This free-living flatworm feeds primarily as a predator on aquatic invertebrates. It is found in the seas around Australia and Indonesia.
Источник:https://t.me/+t0G9OYaBjn9kNTBi, //www.webdive.ru/fotocat.php?t=11&id=20542&mode=view, http://mylongdongbay.blogspot.com/2007/07/save-ocean-cherish-marine-lives.html, /ru.pinterest.com/pin/630644754053053958/, http://www.akkiira.com/hiramushi/yoimiyaminohiramusi-swimming.html, //foxford.ru/wiki/biologiya/tip-ploskie-chervi?utm_referrer=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2F.
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