“Did You Choose To Ignore The Fact That It Was You, Or-

happy pride month

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[ID: A flyer titled "Toy Raffle!" featuring five handmade, red and green bipedal toys with no arms and heart-shaped faces. Two of them are full sized and three of them are miniature. Flyer text: "Would you like to have one of these things in your home?" (arrow pointing to the toys) "Donate €5 or more to Ezzideen's GoFundMe to enter the raffle for a chance to win! Ezzideen and his family are fundraising to be able to evacuate north Gaza. I made these toys to raffle off to raise money and awareness for their situation. Please read the description below for details!" There is a QR code leading to Ezzideen's fundraiser with the text "Scan or go to gofund.me/2b7f982c to donate!" end ID]

A little overview of how this is gonna work! These are small handmade toys (measuring 2 and 1/8th inches/5.5cm tall for full size and 1 inch/2.5cm tall for the minis) made with polymer clay, acrylic paint, and polyurethane varnish. The raffle will last from today, May 1st, starting from the time this post goes up until 9 P.M. Pacific (12 A.M. Eastern) on May 15th.

To enter, you must donate a minimum of 5 euros to Ezzideen Shehab's evacuation fundraiser. Donations made before this post goes up do not count. Then fill out this form to claim your ticket. If you do not fill out the form your entry will not be counted! You can also get an extra ticket after donating by resharing this post.

Each entrant can only win one toy so I will draw for the full size toys first to make sure nobody misses out. I will cover all shipping costs and ship to wherever accepts shipped mail from the U.S. You must be comfortable giving me your shipping address so that I can send them to you. Thank you and good luck!

the survivors

See, the thing is, Grian isn’t lying when he says that the snails aren’t his doing.

He gets why people are saying that; the timeline of him finally getting the stupid book and the snails emerging from the sea line up near-perfectly, as if they were another manic machination of his boredom. It’s also the fact that they just straight up came out of the sea, or at least should’ve- he swears up and down that the pink one shot down from the sky, he saw it with his own two eyes. But, considering he doesn’t control the sky, the pink snail cannot be his doing at the very least. And the teal one? The one that people are calling his snail? He just found it after a particularly stormy night, chilling on the docks, and he found it just so damn cute that he took it as a pet. Both of those aren’t Grian’s fault. They can’t be, by that logic.

But honestly, by now, he’s getting a little worried about the snails, in either case of his innocence with them. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s not the sanest person on the Hermitcraft server—he’s not sure who is, really, when everyone has their own things going on—particularly within the past few weeks, if the beard and book count as indication. His memory has been a little foggy for a while, so it very well could’ve been him putting snails everywhere, and he just flat-out forgot for one reason or another. Though, that doesn’t seem likely- he’s strong, but not strong enough to haul a giant snail out of the sea and onto a literal freight train, nor does he have the patience to meticulously choose snails that are sturdy enough to replace the wheels. That had to be a meticulous and pre-planned process, something Grian doesn’t really have the time for.

This leaves him with three conclusions: if it is him behind the snail acts, he’s not the only thing occupying his body. If it isn’t, well, there’s still something causing the snails to make their way through the works of Magic Mountain, and it certainly isn’t another hermit, based on their reactions. If it’s a mix of both—considering he’s found himself freeing snails from the cages Scar put them in without remembering how he got there—then the snails aren’t so cute anymore, and Grian’s just about ready to—

To—

He’s just—

Where was he?

Right. The snails. They’re not his doing, pinky promise. Grian got his book, he filled the prophecy, and he’s stopped fishing like it’s his last day on earth. The bit is over. He’s moved on- why would he beat a dead horse into the ground like that? Sure, he can still smell rot wafting from the river, but he’s Gem’s neighbor, and she’s got that whole fish horror thing going on, so it very well could be her. Nevermind the fact that they were eating her lighthouse, and she wouldn't do that to her own hard work. And sure, she came to him when a snail chose her--the way he said it would--but she was probably under the assumption that it was his, just like everyone else. It wasn’t. He’s sure it wasn’t.

The snails would explain his white-hot anger at Scar’s little cooking prank; the way Grian’s skin felt like it was burning every time he looked at the pan. How, despite knowing that his friend was just messing with him, every instinct was telling him to kill him where he stood, no mercy. How it felt like the same seething rage he felt when Scar had fished up a copy of the book weeks prior, and he’d done that very thing. And maybe, just maybe, it would explain how sometimes, on the nights where his dreams are the most vivid and gross, he wakes up in the Chamber, positioned as if in a prayer.

But if it is…

A streak of fear runs up his spine. The weather, despite his dedication to the sea released, is still stormy and grey. The water is still murky and washing slime up onto his shores. The dreams of the book haven’t stopped, despite him clutching it like a rosary on even good days. The whispers of the wind are an angry, menacing thing in his ear. He thought it would be over once he got what he wanted. He thought it would be enough to satisfy whatever the ocean needed from him.

There is a rod in his hands, he realizes. He throws it as far away as he can. It lands next to a clump of snails, who all turn to look at him with an otherworldly menace in their pitch black eyes.

Just what has he released onto his home?

Pearl never understood why no one seemed to like the rain.

They said the rain was sad, with its darkened skies. Though Pearl admitted the theme was fitting, like the heavens themselves were crying, there had always been something more to the rain in her eyes.

It watered the farmland, breathed life and vibrance back into the grass. The sound of those little drops was soft and calming, the echo of thunder seeping into her bones. And the lightning, a bright and otherworldly spectacle that carved lines of gold into the stone sky.

Sometimes Pearl would just sit next to an open window, watching and appreciating the cool air in her lungs. Other times she would grab a coat and stand under the open sky. If it was warm enough, she would forgo the coat entirely, feeling the raindrops against her skin.

The rain had never done anything wrong.

So why did everyone speak its name through barred teeth?

the queen of decked out!

Actually, all artists will go insane if you draw art of their art. The same goes for fic writers. It could be a stick figure and we'd still love it. We're also kissing you on the lips

What a lovely Permit Office…

Don't stop talking about Palestine 🇵🇸

Don't stop talking about Palestine 🇵🇸

Don't stop talking about Palestine 🇵🇸

Don't stop talking about Palestine 🇵🇸

Don't stop talking about Palestine 🇵🇸