Making Long-form Webcomics Is Like

its gonna

not even Burt and all of his Bees could save me this time

I love everything about this.

Ching Yeh

Day 3 - Bait

Prompt: Bait

Title: Take the bait

The media had gathered for the weigh-ins for each competitor. Massive rigs designed to accurately measure the monstrous competitors, constructed from modified shipping cranes. It was here that the press could get their first look at the opponents and read their energies. Most of the time, it was a noble meeting between two strong warriors. Like the two stepping off the scales now. Cassidy Quake slipped his ARMORFLEX T-Shirt on to take a promotional shot with his newest challenger. The two flexed and traded confident smiles. The cameras flashed, and they went their separate ways.

Simple, civil, easy.

But such is not always the case. And certainly not for the next competitor.

Raptor strut out to the weigh-in stage. The newcomer had struck the scene like a comet, showering the KFL scene with glittery drama and chaos. His massive jacket, covered in rhinestones that spelled out his name, trailing behind him, he sauntered up to his rig. He raised his fists in the air.

“Hello, losers.” He called out and ran a hand through the spines on his head, made up to look like a radioactive mohawk.

Opposite him, his opponent entered. The hot-headed Rawhide was a barbaric minotarus fighter, known for the merciless beatdown of his opponents. He saw the bedazzled Raptor and gave an agitated grunt.

They stripped down and stepped on their scales. A number tumbler hanging over each scale clacked out their individual weight. In order to brawl at the Monstrous weight class, they had to make it under a certain weight. When the numbers finally stopped, the officiator at the center of the stage squinted at Rawhide’s total. He shook his head. The bullheaded kaiju growled through gritted teeth, glaring at the official.

“Aww, what a shame.” Raptor said, shaking his head, “Maybe ya’ll oughta keep off them barbecues, pahrdner.” He put enough drawl into his words that his jaw threatened to slack off his head.

Rawhide glanced down at his gut, but in doing so, spotted the scaly tail pressing down on his scale. The offending limb whipped back to Raptor’s side, and he glanced around innocently.

The officiating security robos shifted from their stations to get within tackling range of the kaiju fighter that was visibly shaking from bottled rage. But the hot-headed fighter had been warned of the prodding of opponents and slowly counted in his head to calm his emotions. The bots stepped back.

Rawhide settled back on the scale and heaved a hot breath through his nose. The officiator jotted down the correct weight and nodded to the competitors.

Raptor watched Rawhide regain control of his emotions and frowned to himself. He’d need something to push his opponent over the edge. One last push. He didn’t want to have to dig this deep. But he’d be damned if he was going to try and take on this guy without an edge.

The two competitors faced off for the photo op. Within intimate distance of Rawhide, Raptor gave a cocky smirk and said, just quietly enough for his opponent to hear.

“Say, is your daughter still single?”

Everything happened in an instant. Rawhide roared in rage and drew his giant, meaty fist back. The security bots pounced on the fighter. The resounding sound of meat on steel clattered through the weigh-in stage. The security bots struggled to hold the rage beast in place. Rawhide’s shaking fist mere inches from Raptor’s smug grin. The reptilian fighter, for his part, had not shifted an inch at the attack. He turned and left the stage while the security bots struggled to keep the flailing, wailing, raging fighter from going totally off the rails. The media trolls would have a field day with this chaos, as they usually did with Raptor’s antics.

In the prep room set up beside the weigh-in stage, Raptor confidently stepped inside and gently closed the door behind him.

“How’d it go, tough guy?” His coach, a giant mothman, asked.

Raptor turned back to face him, then promptly let his knees give out as he collapsed to the floor. He put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart rapidly pounding against his chest. He fought to get his breathing under control. 

“Just as planned,” Raptor said at last. He struggled but managed to put a smirk on his face, “He took the bait.”

This is a neutral post

Feel free to stop here and rest before journeying to the posts below.

Old man from Kanto. Bulbasaur started it all.

What Pokémon region are you from?

So it’s pretty simple, Whichever series was out when you were 10 years old is where your from.

This chart will help everyone out

In 2007 I had turned 10 so the game series that was out was diamond and pearl, which means that the region I started my journey in is Sinnoh!

Reblog with what region you start your journey in and what starter you picked.

Anyway I’m from Sinnoh and my starter is turtwig.

The Sound Of Silence really does exist, and it’s the lingering echoes of the Big Bang. Without warning, those echoes finally fade and stop… and you can hear what true silence sounds like for the first time…

How to Tell Your Friend That You Need a Break From Supporting Them

When I worked at a mental health crisis centre, I couldn’t believe how many people came to us, not because of their own problems, but because they were so lost in a friend’s pain that they couldn’t take it anymore. I saw a lot of people who were so worn down from helping someone else that they couldn’t sleep, eat, socialize or focus at work or school. They were consumed with guilt every time they put down their phones, went to sleep, or dared to enjoy themselves and have a good time. All because they had no idea how to set boundaries.  Helping your friends through a tough situation is a wonderful and noble thing to do, but it only works if you’re mentally in a place to do so. If you’re dealing with issues or mental illness of your own, you’re not always capable of being someone else’s shoulder to cry on 24/7. And that’s okay. Sometimes, you have to put yourself first. You can’t help someone else if you’re a mess yourself. You can’t save a drowning person with a sinking ship.  Telling a friend that you’re overwhelmed and you need a break is one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do. Honesty is the best policy - don’t go radio silent on them, or avoid answering their messages. Be honest about how you’re feeling, and what you need from them. If you’re stuck on what to say and how to start the conversation, here are a few suggestions. Feel free to copy them exactly: It’s really hard for me to admit this, but I’ve been feeling like I’m on the verge of a breakdown lately. I love you and I care about you, but I need to take some time to take care of myself for a while.  I’m really concerned about you, but I honestly don’t know how to deal with this and I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing. I really think that you should talk to a professional about this.  This is hard for me to admit, but I have a lot going on in my life right now, and it’s getting to be too much for me. Would it be okay if we talked about lighter stuff for the next little while?

You deserve more support than I can give you. I think you need to tell a close family member or professional about what’s going on. 

It seems like every time we talk about this, things are worse for you. I’m worried that my advice isn’t helping you at all, and I think you should talk to someone more qualified than me. 

I’m really worried for your safety, and it breaks my heart, but I can’t keep you safe all by myself. Would it be okay if we told someone else what was going on? 

I’m sorry, but I can’t answer my text messages 24 hours per day. I really want to make sure that you always have someone to turn to if I’m not available. Are there some other people you would trust with this? I can help you tell them, if you’re not comfortable doing it by yourself.  I hope these suggestions are helpful - best of luck to all of you, and make sure to put your own mental health first when you have to. 

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

Day 3- We are tip-toing closer to Halloween and I got a case of the Morbs. I hope the quality is everything you have come to expect of me.