#Story Tumblr posts

  • The two of us had a Production meeting and did some storyboarding and script work on the 12th. 

    Some work was done, some wasn’t. We kept getting destracted.

    Exited for some more work. We will post some more samples later.

    Any questions for us? We’re going to answer any before christmas, if you send them in before we go on break.

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  • #Holly Black #The Lost Sisters #The Folk of the Air #The Folk of the Air Trilogy #Necessary Quotation Marks #book#quote#book quote#Jude#Carden#Locke#taryn duarte#Faerie#stories#lessons#story
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  • In Albert of Aix (I, 31), we’re told a story in which it is discovered that a band of crusaders travel to Jerusalem with a goose and a donkey they think are inspired by God to guide them to Jerusalem.

    Albert of Aix is not happy with that.

    “ En montant aux cieux [notre Seigneur] lui-même a institué pour guides et pour directeurs de son peuple les très saints évêques et abbés qui sont dignes de Dieu, et non des animaux brutes et privés de raison ! “

    When he went back to heaven, [Our Lord] himself instituted as guides and directors of His people the very saint bishops and abbots who are worthy of God, and not brute animals deprived of reason !

    #crusades#first crusade#wholesome crusading#story #damn Church trying to control people #just let them enjoy their prophetic animals you killjoys
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  • A vengeful spirit killed by tormentors. Buried in a forest and lurks around. Flowers attracts attention amd used to lure pptential victims.

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  • The Spoon, The Moon And You

    Enter me

    your silver spoon.

    You’ve made me your buffoon.


    Could I afford

    to be restored

    I’d skip this cheerless tune.


    I’d sip no seething spoonful

    from your fingers’ shaky grasp.

    No eye could spy the moon full

    and no ear could hear me rasp.


    For since this body’s of this essence,

    and this essence of this mind,

    and your wretched adolescence

    couldn’t hope to feel or find


    that the answer to said sickness

    isn’t “Drink! Voilà! Begone!”

    Rather think– “Could there be thickness

    to the things we’ve left behind?”


    Now your treatment’s a misnomer

    and your stake in me’s withdrawn.

    You may think you’ve hit a homer

    but your wit has drawn a yawn.


    I’m not stripped of what you’ve taken.

    I’m not whipped to feeling shame.

    You’re asleep but I awaken

    to the loopholes of your game.


    And so I slip into the bedsheets

    by the indent of your frame

    and remember (on the inside)

    your said treats and open wide.


    Enter me

    your silver spoon.

    I would drink the midnight moon


    and I’d follow

    what I swallow

    like your love to a saloon.

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  • Lighting the tree
    It took them nearly two hours to pick one from the dozens of trees
    waiting in the clearing down the road for their ritualized slaughter
    by the hands of clumsy city-men-turned-woodchoppers-once-a-year.
    To him, the one they picked looked exactly like the two beside it,
    but who was he to judge it for that? She liked it and that was that.
    It took them another hour and a half to go through the grueling process
    of decorating it that she took to with the same kind of strategic
    planning as an old military general might to a final battle
    to make sure, that the distribution of tinsel to bauble to straw star was just right
    and “No, not there, it messes with the symmetry. Maybe one higher, yes, that´s it.”
    He spends an hour trying to unwind the electrical fairy lights
    his mom gave to them last year as a gift (feels more like a torture device now, if he´s being honest)
    and clip each little candle to the tree to the general’s satisfaction.
    At last she turned to him, smiled that smile that put the electrical candles to shame and said:
    “Let´s light it up”
    Turns out, the wiring of the fairy lights was faulty.
    It took about ten seconds until they smell something smoking.
    Another five until they made out the tree as the culprit.
    And two more before she started shouting.
    I´m sure mom did not intend this at all, he thinks, while firefighters create a moderately severe flood
    in their living room, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet and cold air in through the windows.
    “Maybe no tree next year?”, he hedges an hour later, half joking, while they sit on the couch next to the wet carpet and the blackened remains of the tree and share cookies and eggnog with the firemen (and woman) who regale them with stories of other Christmas-related fire mishaps through the years.
    She smacks him in the shoulder. And smiles a little. “Ask me again next November.”

    - Karin

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    After their visit to the Canterlot Art Museum, the girls all decided it was finally time to get something to eat.

    Keira: So, what do you girls think we should go?

    Rarity: I say we go somewhere fancy. The bride to be should be pampered as much as possible before the big day.

    Pinkie: I say we get something festive! We are out here to party after all!

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    Rarity: Fancy.

    Pinkie: Festive.

    Rarity: Fancy!

    Pinkie: Festive!

    The two ponies stared each other down, neither one of them backing out of their dining opinions.

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    Awkwardly, Fluttershy spoke up in an attempt to calm the air.

    Fluttershy: Um… Excuse me? Maybe we should let Keira decide. This is her time before the wedding.

    Applejack: I agree with Fluttershy. We don’t need to be stressing over where to eat at a time like this.

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    Twilight: Well then, Keira. What would you like to eat?

    Keira: Actually, there was this neat little cafe I saw that I wanted to try out. Would that be alright with you girls?

    Rainbow: Anything sounds good right now! I’m starving!

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    Twilight: Then it seems like it’s settled! Lead the way, Keira!

    As Keira started off, every pony started to follow her. For a moment, Pinkie and Rarity seemed like they were about to fight again, but knowing that Applejack had a point about being stress free the day before the wedding, they dropped it completely and followed the group.

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  • When my sister was pregnant she asked me to be one of the godparents. Obviously I was honored accepted. He was born happy and healthy and to this day he is one of the most adorable (and clumsy) kids in the world, I love him so much. I didnt know until the baptism, but they had chosen to have two godmothers and I mean who really cares it was like 2017, its really a purely symbolic title.

    When I came out as a trans man a yearish later my sister was probably the most accepting of my family. She switched my name and pronouns very easily and was upset I didnt feel like I could tell her sooner. She told her kids and husband (who is a good friend of mine) and had them switch my name amd pronouns as well. The fact I was changing from their aunt to their uncle never seemed to bother the kids at all. I was the same person. The name and pronouns were a little bit difficult since they were kids, but with time they changed. The only question I got was if I was trans then could my dog be trans too. The change was easiest for my godson who was only about 2 at the time. Everyone around him changed what they called me and so he did as well without thinking. He has really only ever known me as uncle Peter, I dont even think he remembers that I was anything different. When we ask him “hey is ____ a boy or a girl” he always points me out as a boy (or sometimes a kid, he really doesn’t understand gender). Now he has a godfather and a godmother, and I think its pretty cool how that worked out.

    (I also just want everyone to know my nefew had a giant bump in the middle of his forhead for weeks because he got so excited to pee in the potty that he fell into the toilet face first and smacked his head on the inner rim.)

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    A one-page manga of my OC ✨

    If you want to repost it, make sure to give credits, thanks!

    Hope you guys like it! 💞

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  • (So i had to come up and write a story in English class (not my first languge) in less than an hour. So I will regretfully show you the result)




    Once upon a time there were two sparrows living happily in their nest, their names were Adalberta and Eustaquio. These sparrows had been married for two years and they were deeply in love, you could say the were couple goals. 

    It was in the middle of Autumn, the perfect time to migrate: a long trip to Asia. The couple flew together all the time, though at night time, there wasn’t enough space for sleep together, so they had to be separated. 

    But the female sparrow couldn’t sleep, she was thinking about this pretty pigeon she had seen in the indian coast.

    The next day Adalberta noticed that the pigeon had been following her since sunrise. 

    “Oh my God, she looks so pretty!” - the sparrow thought. They kept flying this way the whole day, some meters apart. However, when the sun went down, both knew what they wanted to do.

    Making sure everyone was sleeping and everything was as quiet as a mouse. They got close and started to take off their feathers. From this you can already guess what happened next in that crazy Asian night. While the sparrows were flying the next day, Plasencio, Adalberta’s friend, flew close to her and whispered “I saw you last night” - Adalberta looked at him startled at him and whispered back “Mum’s the word!” - to which Plasencio replied “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed” -

    Adalberta tried to take it easy but it was difficult knowing that someone like Plasencio had discovered her secret. Everyone knows how Plasencio barely bites his tongue. 

    The flock of sparrows landed next to a lake to take a rest and to hydrate. Eustaquio approached his wife and asked her if she had also heard the noises last night. She managed to keep a poker face and answered in a carefree tone “Eustaquio, what noises are you talking about? … I heard nothing” - The male walked away wondering if Adalberta was telling the truth or if she was keeping something under the hat…

    Next day Plasencio runed to Adalberta  screaming: “I’m so sorry, I hope you can forgive me for this but… I had to get it out of my chest, I cracked and spilled the beans” Adalberta looked horrified at his friend. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. Behind Plasencio, she saw how her husband was running and looked as if he really wanted to talk to her. He was angry. He knew it. Everyone knew it. Plasencio left, letting them both alone to talk. The couple looked at each other and none of them said nothing. They stayed like this for some minutes until Adalberta broke the ice: 

    -“You… you know it, right?” 

    Keep reading

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  • It’s the in between. Not just the moments I’d written about, but the other seconds, minutes, pauses, experiences that we share together. The Sundays we live in bed and build pillow forts and watch movies. She draws little pictures with her fingertips across my chest while she lays with her head in the curve of my shoulder and it travels lower until we’re both lost, the pillow fort destroyed in our exploration of each other.

    Staying in on Friday nights and showering together. I wash her hair and style it in crazy patterns, giving her devil horns and laughing as she smiles mischievously and paints my body with the soap. We trade places, waltzing in the basin of the bathtub to get under the shower head and I play with her hips as her devil horns melt into long dark hair.

    We cook dinner together, bouncing into each other as we go about our respective tasks, pausing to kiss and then the food is forgotten as we make love across the counter. The stir fry burns and the only thing we stop for is to lean back and crank off the stove top. While we go up in flames, we want to make sure the house doesn’t go down in flames.

    These are the in between. The moments that belong to us and us alone.

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  • Writing stories is much like writing poetry. 

    But longer, more in depth, with most of the lines in the book simply glossed over unlike poetry. 


    Where every word has many meanings and must be selected carefully for the task, as with punctuation, that separates the lines creating tension and breathlessness and panic. 

    However, prose texts are much more lenient. They can develop and change and breathe as you breathe. They twist a tale in your mind, something much like a childish fantasy, but dictated by the letters and the endless combinations they form.




    I can’t decide which I prefer.

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