October 22, 2014   1 note

shkspr1048 said: Why do the numidids feel the way they do about scientific curiosity?

Science is dangerous.

The Numidid are a pretty paranoid species. And why not? They’re not from a deathworld like us. The world they came to was not the paradise they expected it to be. Everything growing on it was at the same time familiar to, and very different from, the biota they left behind them. [Eg: A perfectly delicious fruit from home looks exactly like a toxic doppelganger on their new world]

Broken bones lead to death from shock.

And since nobody wants to die, they treat safety as a priority.

Science, on the other hand, says, “Wow. Those two chemicals went bang and I nearly caught fire. I wonder if they’ll go bang if I mix them again in different proportions?”

Science says, “That’s an interesting-looking predator species. I wonder if I can observe its habits without being eaten?”

This is equivalent to a death wish to the Numidid.

Science is insane.

And, since no mother wants to see her children die, science must be controlled. To take up the call of science is to listen to the siren song and head directly towards the metaphorical rocks of certain doom.

Numidid scientists, before the events chronicled in The Amity Incident [coming soon!] were often disowned by their families and had to jump through hoops upon hoops of red tape in order to be able to reproduce. And even then, they were only permitted to breed. Not raise their own young.

You don’t want that scientific nonsense to catch to all your keets, after all.

Numidid scientists generally live short and danger-filled lives. And they find it interesting. They freely talk about dangerous things like they’re exciting.

Not the sort of thing your regular Numidid wants to share a cote with.

October 22, 2014   42,357 notes

socialjusticekoolaid:

Last Night in Ferguson (10.21.14): A state senator was arrested (and mama may have been legally packing), one of the lead organizers, nettaaaaaaaa, was roughed up by police, and one of the main sources of footage/live feeds, Rebel Z, was detained in what seems to have been an intimidation and straight up harassment tactic. The police are out of control, and it’s only getting worse. If you think this is over, you need to look again. #staywoke #farfromover

Ferguson is still happening. Are you still paying attention?

Tune into Z’s UStream tonight to watch developments live. 

(via cosmignon)

October 22, 2014   14,457 notes

johannesviii:

Nine trying to send a distress signal to any potential other survivor of the Time War. That’s not a good idea.

Inspired (a couple of months ago) by this picture made by this user on DA.

(via lyrical-ood-writes-things)

October 22, 2014   1 note

Challenge #00653 - A288: But Why?

Curiosity in humans vs. numidids, how the adults handle it in children

Before the attitudes changed, it went like this:

Humans

"Momma? Why is the sky blue?"

"Some say it’s a reflection of the ocean. Some say it’s dust particles. Others sat it’s the air refracting the suns’ light. I think it’s a little of all of the above."

"Oh. Okay. Can I have a cookie?"

"After dinner."

"Aaaaaawwww…"

Numidid

"Firstmother?"

"Yes, Tyrtyr?"

"Why are the plants here dangerous?"

"Because the scientists analysed them and told us they are."

"Yes, but… how did they get that way?"

"We have already forwarded that question to the proper authorities, Tyrtyr," she lied. "You must wait in faith and patience for the answer. If it exists."

"But—"

"The next thing I want to hear from you is, ‘yes, first mother’. Now go learn your homework."

Sigh. “Yes, Firstmother.”

She watched her chick move into her cote, and then dived for her co-wives. Literally. They were five Leaps below in the markets.

"I think Tyrtyr is in danger of Scientific thought. She persisted in seeking explanations beyond the accepted answers…"

Her co-wives gasped.

"No…" whispered her gene-mother. "I was so careful…"

"Nobody blames you," said the third wife, who certainly did. "These things happen, sometimes."

"We must discourage her at once."

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October 21, 2014   38,365 notes

Anonymous said: Towards the whole "pronouns hurt people's feelings" topic. Am I REALLY the only person on the planet that thinks people are becoming far to sensative? Nearly to the point that they shouldn't leave their little home bubbles in the case that a bird chirps next to them in a way that sounds like a mean word. Maybe, JUST MAYBE, we're becoming a little TOO coddling and people need to learn to deal with simplistic shit like words. And yes, I've been insulted and made fun of. I got over it. So can you.

thefrogman:

Supposedly invented by the Chinese, there is an ancient form of torture that is nothing more than cold, tiny drops falling upon a person’s forehead. 

On its own, a single drop is nothing. It falls upon the brow making a tiny splash. It doesn’t hurt. No real harm comes from it. 

In multitudes, the drops are still fairly harmless. Other than a damp forehead, there really is no cause for concern. 

The key to the torture is being restrained. You cannot move. You must feel each drop. You have lost all control over stopping these drops of water from splashing on your forehead. 

It still doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. But person after person, time and time again—would completely unravel psychologically. They all had a breaking point where each drop turned into a horror. Building and building until all sense of sanity was completely lost. 

"It was just a joke, quite being so sensitive."

"They used the wrong pronoun, big deal."

"So your parents don’t understand, it could be worse."

Day after day. Drop after drop. It builds up. A single instance on its own is no big deal. A few drops, not a problem. But when you are restrained, when you cannot escape the drops, when it is unending—these drops can be agony. 

People aren’t sensitive because they can’t take a joke. Because they can’t take being misgendered one time. Because they lack a thick skin. 

People are sensitive because the drops are unending and they have no escape from them. 

You are only seeing the tiny, harmless, single drop hitting these so-called “sensitive” people. You are failing to see the thousands of drops endured before that. You are failing to see the restraints that make them inescapable.

October 21, 2014   2 notes

Children of the Night…

I thought I was alone as I silently entered the house, but a voice caught my ear, making me freeze.
"Funny thing about gaining immortality, it can happen to anyone, at any time, whether it is wanted or not…"
I turned, seeing nobody around at first, then I spotted a small girl sitting in the corner, facing away from where I stood, seemingly oblivious to me as she played with her dolls. Had she been here the whole time?
"I met a strange man one night, who claimed he was a predator… but he wasn’t after lusts of the flesh like most who were called such. No, he wanted something… more vital." It indeed was the girl who was speaking, for she continued as she looked up at me, eyes turning eerily luminous… and red. "But, that was three thousand years ago…" She smiled now, and her too-long and too-sharp teeth gleamed…

(#00653 - A288)

"Ah," I said. "You must be the permanent installation the realtor told me about. Hello. My name’s Melanie Brisko. What’s yours?"

The little vampire boggled, fangs withdrawing back into hiding. “You’re supposed to scream,” she said. “They all scream…”

"I’ve frequently mourned that I’m not like all the other girls," I smiled for her. "It’s high time that that sort of thing became beneficial. Can you eat human food, or is blood all that you can subsist on?"

Haunted eyes. “I… don’t know. After everyone went away I lived on rats. And when the rats went away I lived on pigeons. And when the pigeons went away…” she hugged her favourite doll tight. After three thousand years of being loved, it was showing the strain. “I can hypnotise deer. They come right up to me.”

"That’s a very useful talent," I said, setting up. "Does your hair grow?"

A dumbfounded stare. “You’re supposed to be scared. You’re supposed to be afraid of me. Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

"I’m too busy being afraid of cities and crowds. You? You’re a little girl who’s sorely in need of a bath, fresh clothes, and a good combing. Then we can work on some hot food and probably some sorely needed cuddles."

"Why? I’m a monster."

"I’m of the opinion that being monstrous doesn’t necessarily make one a monster. With love and care and attention to your needs, you could become a reformed citizen."

"I’ll try it," she said. "I’ll probably eat all your blood tomorrow."

"That’s why I bought the pigs."

Since neither of us knew about her hair, it took quite a few baths and washings to get all the tangles out. Were it not for her paleness, she could have passed as any other little girl with her long brown hair in pigtails.

I fixed up her dolls for her, of course. And thanks to satellite internet, I was able to fix up the house and some of the caves that had been converted into living space in ages past. She took the name Grace, and she flourished in my care.

That was how it began. Four hundred years ago, now. Oh, I don’t blame her for biting me. The poor darling needs a mother. And I was mortal.

We keep the pigs for when we need blood. They’re immune to the vampiric virus. For the rest of the time we could almost pass as normal humans.

Almost.

Let’s just say that there’s a reason we don’t allow our photos to be taken. Just like there’s a reason we don’t go out in the sunshine without heavy protection.

Now don’t panic. See? This is why we don’t tell people about us. I can assure you, you’re perfectly safe. That asparagus? I feed it to our guests to make sure my Grace doesn’t get it into her head to add members to our little family. Changes your flavour. Makes you… unappetising.

And anyway, we’re going out to talk to the deer. Sweet dreams.

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October 20, 2014   2 notes

The Spine’s ex-Hats

According to Jennifer’s Beret, the Spine once owned many hats. It is rumored that behind closed doors, these hats fought over who got to wear him because he made them all look good. Now, only Fedora remains.

(So is that the right idea?)

[AN: Yes it is]

(#00652 - A287)

There used to be a Hall of Hats, just like there is a Hall of Faces in Walter Manor. It isn’t there, any more. It got re-absorbed owing to it’s emptiness. Why?

Well, for that story, one must understand a few things. For example: Walter Manor is one of the few places on the Mundane Plain that is riddled with Kazooland magic. The house, since it has been continuously loved for generations, is alive.

Things can be imbued with life. All it takes is enough love. Or, in a pinch, enough Belief.

Before they took him away for his military overhaul, The Spine had loved each and every one of his hats. He would play them elaborate sonatas on the violin. And he had a roster so that no hat would feel neglected.

That all changed because of Vietnam.

They took him away in the 50’s. And he didn’t come back until the 70’s.

And during those twenty years… well… things got ugly.

"He hasn’t come, today," murmured the Beret. "It’s my turn and he hasn’t come today."

"It was my turn, yesterday," said the Trilby. "He didn’t come then, either."

"Maybe we should look for him," said the Tam o’Shanter. 

"Maybe he decided he doesn’t like us," worried the Toque.

"Nonsense," insisted the Boater. "He loves all of us. He must have… got caught up in something.”

"You only say that because you’re the oldest," said a young and cocky Fedora. "If it were up to strength, some of you old dusters would be shredded."

"I’ll take you on," challenged a Top Hat. "I’ll take you all on!"

Many of the cloth hats were the first to fall. Torn asunder by others’ brooches, pins, and hard edges. It was when some hit on the idea of using weapons that things went mad.

No holds barred. Survival of the vicious. The youngest amongst them had the most to fight for.

It was the most brutal war that had ever been fought inside of one room.

*

Power on. Systems green. The Spine opened his eyes and saw his friends. His family.

"Welcome back, th’ Spine," cheered Rabbit.

The Spine was never happier to see his[1] face. Or the beaming grin of The Jon. The man in the lab coat was not the Peter Walter he remembered. “Mister Walter, I presume?”

The young man nodded. “That’s right. Another Peter Walter. You’re good to go. Need anything?”

The Spine reached up to touch his head. Bare. The helmet he’d perched up there must have run off. Or rusted. Kind of a mercy. He didn’t really like helmets. “One of my hats, if you please, Mister Walter.”

"…uh…" said one of the Walter Workers. "There’s only… one… hat. In The Spine’s room."

Odd. Something must have happened to them. “That hat will do, thank you ma’am.”

It was a black Fedora. Which matched his black clothes. Stylish and simple… although it had a slight nick on its outer edge.

A brim reminder of the conflict that it survived.

[1] period-accurate gender.

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October 20, 2014   49,256 notes
itseasytoremember:

tronjavolta:

laughterkey:

adulthoodisokay:

fastcompany:

"It’s not dead. It’s resting."
Read More>

That is an ex-parrot.

He has ceased to be.

He has expired and gone to meet his maker

He’s probably pining for the fjords

He’s joined the choir invisible

itseasytoremember:

tronjavolta:

laughterkey:

adulthoodisokay:

fastcompany:

"It’s not dead. It’s resting."

Read More>

That is an ex-parrot.

He has ceased to be.

He has expired and gone to meet his maker

He’s probably pining for the fjords

He’s joined the choir invisible

(via prototype-the-walter-girl)

October 20, 2014   61,597 notes

deducecanoe:

teapotsahoy:

randomthingieshere:

ALL IT TOOK WAS A RIDICULOUSLY LARGE PHONE TO MAKE POCKETS FOR WOMEN IMPORTANT

I don’t have a reaction gif for ‘I’m getting what I want, but in a way that makes me want to go on a killing spree.’

Lol omg. Pockets. I love pockets.

When companies’ products have more influence on fashion than the consumers…

(via betterbemeta)

October 19, 2014

Challenge #00651 - A286: It Works on Everyone

The universal phenomenon of chasing the laser pointer dot.

"Stay there. When I say ‘run’ you leg it."

Barstaw boggled at the human. Their colourful phrases had no discernible end… and yet they were instantly understandable. For all her deathworlder status, she was extremely helpful to have around for this escape.

She hunkered down, ready to run at the door that was currently being supervised by one very bored guard. Barstaw half expected the human to happen to them in a typical deathworlder blur of shouting and violence. And, perhaps, explosions.

What did happen was a spot of anomalous light on the floor.

It jittered around in interesting squiggles until the guard noticed it. And then made very obvious play-with-me motions.

Even Barstaw, concealed in the shadows, had to control her impulse to chase it.

The guard did not, and left hir post to investigate the little wiggling dot. Which jinked away by a few Standard Distance Units before it wiggled some more.

Bit by bit, the guard got further and further away from hir post.

Then, abruptly, the light began to run about in a standard pattern.

Approaching footfalls. “RUN!”

The human smashed through the door that should have held any other known cogniscent firmly on the prisoner’s side. Barstaw scrambled to keep up.

"What was that?"

"Laser pointer. It works on kittens, ducks, babies, drunkards and now the obligatory stupid guard. Wooo!"

Barstaw boggled anew as she followed the human. She would never understand these mad apes.

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