Reblog If Youre A Writer Who Feels Guilt Whenever Theyre Not Writing And Being Productive, So I Know

reblog if you’re a writer who feels guilt whenever they’re not writing and being productive, so I know I’m not the only one lol

for the stalk prompt—

imagine a borrower with a phone who just stalks their human

and sends them the pictures they take

and the human is like bro wtf

and the borrower just smiles innocently and runs back into the walls

this won’t leave my brain please help

I just think everyone should take a moment to consider the question "what is your visual shorthand for cruelty?" and then follow it up with a critical "and who taught you that?"

specific examples include but are not limited to

why is an evil timeline character design disabled? (why do the heroes go through equally punishing battles and never lose an arm, a leg, an eye?)

why are the futuristic scifi terrorists uniformly darker skinned? (why are the heroes so much lighter?)

why is the greedy boss fat? (why are the heroes skinny?)

why is the criminal mastermind heavily scarred? (why is the brooding, traumatized hero unscathed?)

why is the predatory creep a bearded person in a dress and makeup? (why are none of the heroes trans women?)

who taught you that this is how things are?

how long do you plan on repeating it?

Fun fact: I’m autistic I’m gonna do a thing inspired by another person

Reblog if your blog is safe for autistic people or is ran by an autistic person!

oh and

Reblog if you stand against Autism Speaks!

I dug up this piece from an old journal and decided to post, hope you enjoy! ^^

No hood could obscure the stranger’s eyes. They flared unnaturally, blue fire reaching the edges of the hood and casting their face in an otherworldly glow.

The witch, however, was unfazed. “What quest have you been sent on,” she said, “what reward offered for you to face such doom?”

They said nothing, only took a step forward. Their cloak was pulled together with only a silver button, yet it seemed no wind could reveal the form hiding underneath.

“Who was it that told you it was a good idea to invade a witch’s lair?” Her home was in the darkest reaches of a forest she had cursed herself, and if if weren’t for the fireflies that constantly fluttered around there would be no light. “You do not know the land as well as I; what could you possibly expect to accomplish?”

“I am not here to fight you,” they said, “but to bring you elsewhere. Death has called, and you shall answer.”

“Ha!” she said. “I answer to none, not even a god.” Hands raised, she drew his electric blue in swirls of flame towards herself. It danced and weaved through her fingers, spinning an intricate net. As threads of light touched her fingertips, they glowed the same color before returning to their usual brown.

It seemed that the moon itself sent its shine to her as the markings around her face and body illuminated the space. She was a beacon shedding light on the trees looming above them. Intricate patterns danced up her face and neck. And despite all this power, the stranger only looked on in amusement.

“For I am a goddess in my own right.” As she said this, her smooth black hair rose around her face.

But it was the stranger’s turn to laugh. “Such arrogance!” they said. “No mortal being deserves to be called a god, something you would do well to learn.” The earth underneath them glowed blue.

Vines began to crawl their way up the witch’s stone-grey dress, the same way fire erupted from the ground around the stranger’s cloak. Neither had no reason for this except to display their power in an effort to intimidate the other.

The flames snapped back, swallowed by the dirt. “I have no time for pointless games,” said the stranger. “You are to come with me and find what Death has to teach you.”

She meant to laugh. She meant to say, amused, So soon? But she found herself frozen and mute as blinding light enveloped the scene.

The stranger had disappeared. She was standing on the bank of a great river that she could not see either end of. It seemed as though her vision was filtered through a golden lens; even the river was yellowed as an ancient map is. In front of the witch, the river cleaved a path through the barren land.

Not a single soul stood with her, but a voice itched the back of her mind.

“Welcome, dear Silanei, to your hell.”