#shortform Tumblr posts

  • An ornithological field guide in parts. 

    These birds used to roost near my second apartment in Los Angeles. The property manager warned us that the spacious two bedroom two bath condo was directly under the flight path of LAX. An Airbus roared by, banking over the beach. “It’s not so bad. The sound really depends on which way the wind is blowing,” he said. A statement I tried several times to prove/disprove in the year we lived there, listening extra hard to the jet engines on overcast, sunny and windy days. The property manager did not warn us about the Mourning Doves, however. Their constant cooing was deafening. I’d come home, ask Jess how her day was. “These birds,” she’d yell. “They won’t shut up!”

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  • Thank you to Drama Geek Studios as well as ComedySportz Maine for allowing me to perform as a guest perform last month.

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    “I just can’t…I don’t want to talk about it.”

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    Amaranth looks confused by Cipher’s words. 

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    “I can’t answer for Mara here. Don’t even know what they are let alone if they have psychic abilities.”

    [ @themeowsticvigilante​​ ]

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    “Hello! This is wonderful! Thank you!”

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    “I suppose so. Is that what the little one is doing? I don’t understand them either. Perhaps I should try and learn the language.”

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    “Why are you two pointing at me and lookin’ over here like ya’ll are talking ‘bout me? Don’t appreciate it.”

    [ @quietmew​ ]

    #im in an extreme art block hhhhhhgh #ic#shortform#quiet mew
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  • “No, should we? I don’t go associatin’ with humans for no good reason. They’re too touchy.” 

    #shortform#ic #wont use these often but sometimes...I just have no idea what to draw kjghjmfvj #they'll be tagged shortform jsyk
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  • I haven’t ever linked it on tumblr, but a few months ago i started an introspective gender-ramble comic called Transperience ft; Callie Ohpeee

    currently its very bite sized

    #schrodinger's finale; it is marked as a completed work due to writing being shortform #not actually completed #homestuck#homestuck 2#calliope#callie ohpeee#my art#mycomics#alpha kids
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    ~Thursday Night Break Ups~

    © quietlittlechurchmouse

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  • Would We Rot?

    BRICK, who has tried and will try to escape.

    CONCRETE, who has given up before trying.


    Two cells in a prisoner-of-war camp, side by side. They are separated by an ankle-height wall which, within the narrative, is full-sized. Both cells contain a bunk bed, a bucket, and a prisoner: on the left, CONCRETE; on the right, BRICK. BRICK is playing with an invisible baseball, throwing it to bounce off the floor and into the wall separating the two cells, then back into their hand; over and over. This goes on for some time, the noise getting steadily louder with each throw. CONCRETE is laying on their bed, eyes closed, until the noise becomes unbearable and they abruptly sit up on the bed.


    CONCRETE, exasperated - How do you do it?

    BRICK, still throwing the baseball - Do what?

    CONCRETE - Get the ball back. Every time.

    BRICK - I hide it before I escape.

    CONCRETE - Before you try to escape.

    BRICK, rolling their eyes - Before I try. Whatever. That way, I have something to do when they put me back in here.


    BRICK catches the baseball one last time, and looks at it intensely.


    CONCRETE - That’s planning for failure. What you should do…

    BRICK - I’m not taking escape advice from you. We’ve talked about this.

    CONCRETE - Only trying to help.

    BRICK, getting up - But you never help. You don’t help with the preparation, you don’t help with the execution…

    CONCRETE, interrupting - Oh, I see where this is going.

    BRICK - If you did help…

    CONCRETE - It wouldn’t change anything. You can’t get out of here.

    BRICK - I haven’t yet, but I can.

    CONCRETE - Then why haven’t you?

    BRICK, hesitating - I will.

    CONCRETE - When?

    BRICK - When you help me.

    CONCRETE - Your plans have never worked, I can’t help with that. Your ideas are preposterous.


    BRICK jumps up, outraged. CONCRETE stands up as BRICK speaks.


    BRICK - My ideas are fine! The theory is fine! I just need a partner!

    CONCRETE - You’re not getting one! I’ve told you time and again that I wouldn’t help!


    CONCRETE looks away, frustrated. Beat. BRICK looks at their feet, fiddling with the baseball.


    CONCRETE - Why do you keep planning for two?


    Beat. BRICK doesn’t look up, and slowly sits down on their bunk. CONCRETE turns towards BRICK.


    CONCRETE - Well?

    BRICK - Because I need your help.

    CONCRETE - You need my help because you plan for two!

    BRICK - Because no one can get out of here alone! They’ve all tried it and they’ve all failed!

    CONCRETE - That’s right! It’s not possible to get out!

    BRICK, jumping to their feet - You’re not listening! (Beat.) It’s not possible… if you’re on your own. But with two people…

    CONCRETE - You can’t guarantee that it will work.

    BRICK - I think it’s worth a try.

    CONCRETE, looking away - Is it?


    Beat. BRICK struggles to process what CONCRETE means.


    CONCRETE - What’s out there? Do you know?

    BRICK - I…

    CONCRETE, louder - Is it good? Is it better than what’s in here?

    BRICK - It has to be.

    CONCRETE - All things considered, this is alright. (walking inside the cell) We have our own rooms…

    BRICK, quietly - Cells.

    CONCRETE - We’re fed regularly, we barely ever see the guards…

    BRICK - They torture us.

    CONCRETE - Rarely! When’s the last time you were tortured? Last week?

    BRICK - You were tortured today! They almost drowned you!

    CONCRETE, triumphantly - And I’m still alive.


    Beat. BRICK fiddles with the invisible baseball while they glare at CONCRETE.


    BRICK - So, the Devil you know…

    CONCRETE - …isn’t so bad, if you really think about it. I’m safe here, even when they beat me up. I know what to expect.

    BRICK - And you don’t know anything about what’s outside.

    CONCRETE - Exactly. But I know this (gestures towards the cells, BRICK, everything). I know it by heart.

    BRICK, in disbelief - And you like it?

    CONCRETE - No, I don’t. Liking it is not the point. But I know what to expect from it.

    BRICK, sitting back down on their bunk - You accept it, you mean.


    BRICK considers the invisible baseball in their hand, looks up at CONCRETE, then back at the ball, then back at CONCRETE. They start bouncing the ball off the floor and into the wall again, catching it several times while CONCRETE speaks.


    CONCRETE, struggling - It’s not that I’m choosing to accept it, but it’s the way things are! Right? We get hurt, we get fed, we get locked up… That’s just how it goes in here. Who knows what’s out there? Who knows how much worse it could be?


    Beat. The only sound is that of BRICK’s baseball. CONCRETE regains some confidence when BRICK offers no counter-argument.


    CONCRETE - It’s normal, even if it’s not what we would prefer. But we’re used to it, no matter how bad it is. (firmly) We know it. We expect it.


    Drawing their arm back, BRICK throws the invisible ball as hard as they can at CONCRETE. It passes through the wall, hits CONCRETE in the head with a mighty thump, and CONCRETE falls over, landing on their bunk. Beat. CONCRETE looks up at BRICK, in shock. BRICK gets up to pick up the invisible baseball, which has landed back inside their cell.


    BRICK - Didn’t expect that.

    CONCRETE, still in shock - Why…?

    BRICK - Because I’ve never done that before. You’re not used to getting things thrown at your head, are you? (pause) Not by me, at any rate.


    CONCRETE stares at BRICK in panicked silence.


    BRICK - So I’m going to do it again. (CONCRETE braces themselves) Not now. Later.

    CONCRETE - When?

    BRICK - Eventually.


    Beat. CONCRETE gets up and cautiously approaches the wall. They place one hand against the wall, trying to reach BRICK through it.


    CONCRETE - Look, I understand that it’s difficult. Living here. But you can’t take it out on me.

    BRICK - I’m not. I’m just making a point.

    CONCRETE - What point?


    BRICK throws the invisible baseball at CONCRETE again. CONCRETE ducks just in time, and the ball bounces off the wall behind them. BRICK catches it.


    BRICK - The unexpected is worse than…

    CONCRETE, exasperated - I know that! All of this is only bearable because I know what to expect! I told you that myself!

    BRICK - Yeah, and what I’m doing is…

    CONCRETE, interrupting - I know you’re going to do it.

    BRICK - But you don’t know when!

    CONCRETE - I never know when. When is not the point. (Beat) You think I ever let my guard down? In here?

    BRICK - You could do that out there. You’d be free.

    CONCRETE, skeptical - Do you actually believe that?

    BRICK, shrugging - It’s not impossible, is it? You keep saying living out there is worse than living in here, but it could also be better. Or it could be the same!

    CONCRETE - If it’s the same…

    BRICK, interrupting - We don’t know. We won’t know until we’re there, and getting there will be the hardest thing we’ve ever done.


    CONCRETE walks back to their bunk and slowly sits down. They look at the ground, the ceiling, the bucket, and finally through the wall, at BRICK.


    CONCRETE - Do you think we can do it?


    BRICK lightly tosses the ball to CONCRETE, who catches it. BRICK walks towards CONCRETE, passing through the wall and into their cell.


    BRICK - I think it’s worth a try.


    End.

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  • a while ago I wrote…well, I don’t rightly know what to call it, but I wrote a thing and I posted it on Facebook, because I wasn’t actually sure where else to put it. it wasn’t a story. it wasn’t really an essay. it was just me thinking, and needing to get my thoughts out on the page before I forgot what I was thinking about.

    and I still kinda like the way those words lined up. so I still don’t know what to call it, but I guess I’ll post it here.

    (like it? maybe support me on ko-fi.)

    Eventually, everyone’s world falls down around their ears. In one way or another, by happenstance, by their own hand, by the hand of another, they will know how deeply they can be hurt. And when it happens, it seems as if everyone else’s first inclination is to share the worst moments of their lives, as if spreading the misery out will help. 

    Stranger still is just how often it does. 

    Time and again, people share moments of heartbreak, of opportunities missed, of wrong choices, of loved ones lost, of terror. They crack open their ribcages and bare their scar tissue to those whose ribs are still freshly bleeding, and they make themselves soft, and in those moments they help. 

    For there is a truth buried deep within the hearts of nearly everyone, even in people who have not yet had a reason to see it and those who have not yet recognized it. 

    There is a comfort in solidarity. In knowing that as dark as the hole you’ve found yourself trapped in is, you are not the only one who has been trapped in it. You hurt, and that pain may be uniquely yours, but you are not the only one who has hurt. There is a comfort in knowing that the world has not singled you out; that the raincloud is not yours and yours alone. You have been hurt, but so have others, and others will be after you, and maybe even when new people hurt, you’ll be able to share your own pain. 

    For there is a comfort, too, in knowing that things end. People crack open their ribcages and bare their scar tissue, and they say ‘look, see, it heals,’ even if they aren’t aware that’s what they’re saying. ‘Look, see, it heals, and you will, too. You’re still bleeding now, but it heals. It hurts, and it bleeds, and it hurts, but eventually it clots and it heals and I can show you.’

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  • I’m 4, home alone. I walk to the tv. No cartoons for me, I turn it to DVD and play one of the many Queen concerts my father, who’s travelling on work, has shown me. I watch, transfixed. It’s a dream of mine to sing Radio Gaga to a crowd someday. I don’t comprehend, at the moment, at least, that what I crave is the liberation of flamboyance that Freddie Mercury, in his tank tops and tight trousers, the power of being before a crowd that loves every move I make, and tells me that. What I want, I now realise is acceptance, validation. 

    I’m 7, distorting the hell out of the shitty speakers on my shitty keyboard with the shitty harpsichord tone. I feel it, I feel the rock,, the roll and everything that Keith Richards and Mick Jagger and Billy Joel and Green Day and Mark Knopfler have taught me. Why, I do not know, but I play, for hours, or so it might have seemed. 

    I’m 15, I blast the blues off my cheap speakers that I adore so. “ Teach me”,  am begging, as I listen to hour upon hour of Eric Clapton’s heroin-fueled madness. “How?” I demand, screaming expletives at Led Zeppelin’s debut album. I pretend to study things I will know longer than I bargained. I drink green tea and steal cheese from the fridge. I make my way to my apartment building’s roof. Here, I feel solitude and peace as I gaze upon the stars and a city’s lights. I smoke a cheap cigarette while pondering love and what it should be. I then put my earphones in, and spin round like a little girl as I listen to Taylor Swift. “Someday”, I whisper to Taylor, for she alone feels as I do. 

    I’m 13. Preteen angst proliferates with an addiction to Abba. SImple, elegant, and uncomplicated, as I wished my life to be. I rap along to Eminem and Drake, unaware of the addiction I am about to develop. To rhyme, to alcohol, to nicotine and to attention. 

    I’m 14. I have written my first punk song. My first song. It’s all it can be; “Where do you think you’re going with this, this pointless argument?”. it asks, only half passive-aggressively. It is this hopeless and protest that will, in the ensuing year, lead to things that will then warrant a tattoo from a shady parlour with birthday money. This is my protest, against authority and rules that will, but 4 years on, become comfort and who I am. 

    I’m 18. I write. I seldom listen. Listening reminds me that there is work to be done, a craft to be honed, people to be answered to. The future, near and immediate, the world’s and my own, looks bleak. My reassurance is my ego, my self-importance as I stretch myself thinking: The lord, if not the world, will surely reward my toil, my tears, my blood and my sweat. Uncertainty plagues my now unwavering drive, while my conscious mind is in overdrive with thoughts of negative perception to beings outside myself. I look back, on all I have told thus far. I breathe. This too shall pass. 

    #essays essay autobiographical confession confessional #shortform#nonfiction#napowrimo#poetryinprose #20th century women #inspiredby20thcenturywomen#spilledink
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  • Harry was buzzed. Buzzing. Not buzzed. That would mean that he had been drunk and was no longer. But he definitely was. And not the good kind. The sad kind. The dark, still night kind that reminded him of dry air in the lonely Texas night. 

    His head hurt, and his hands hurt, and the handcuffs were cold and sharp.  Lily was gone. Harry wasn’t sure if they’d let her go or taken her away. If his act of misplaced chivalry had meant anything at all. 

    “We’re gonna call your parents, son.”

    Harry laughed, and it hurt more. He nearly fell to the side. “My parents are dead. We killed them.”

    Family secrets, Harry. Mustn’t tell the family secrets.

    #c: mr osborn #shortform #cw drugs / alcohol
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  • Her butt was cold. It was not something former Soviet spies tended to admit, but Natasha was genuinely freezing in the catsuit. Barton would have had a field day, but Barton was halfway across the world. She hadn’t hesitated to take the assignment without him, but as she perched on the Hell’s Kitchen fire escape trying to look like she was about to break and enter, she couldn’t help but wish she had someone watching her back. Someone who would know where she wasn’t looking.

    Her quarry tended to hit first and ask questions later, if at all. She’d only seen grainy surveillance video, and she was pretty sure could take him. Well, he’d get a few hits in, especially if he got the drop on her, but she could handle it. She always handled it.

    #c: guilty choir boy #shortform
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  • The Start 

    Vine, a massively popular short-form video sharing app, gained traction among the teen demographic in the early part of this decade. Vine stars were born and users found new ways to creatively express themselves using a 7-second share format. The app empowered users to create with simple video editing tools and filters. Subsequently acquired by Twitter, many thought that the social network had big plans to integrate Vine into its future. Unfortunately, it did not.

    The company shut down the app in early 2017, and in its place, few competitors remained. Snapchat and Instagram were different. One was primarily used for ephemeral messaging and the other favored images and longer form video (60-seconds) which creatively didn’t have the same feel as Vine. Overseas, a Chinese company called ByteDance had an app called TikTok that was gaining popularity. Recognizing the need to expand into the US market, ByteDance’s co-founders acquired popular Karaoke-lip-syncing app, Musical.ly and converted its user base over to TikTok. The app soon filled the void that Vine had left and is cruising to massive popularity, specifically among the teen demographic.

    What is TikTok?

    TikTok combines the best of Vine with improvements over the social networks of Instagram and Twitter. Users are able to create 15-second clips, overlaying songs and utilizing video-editing effects or AR filters. It’s an app that fully embraces the idea of the camera as a platform. The + button, indicating the ability to add new clips, is front and center of the navigation bar and opens directly to the camera. From there, users are able shoot or add video to their post, combining short clips together to enhance creativity.

    Similar to other social networks, users then post clips to their profiles that show up on others feeds. The differences come in the nomenclature. There is no following, only fans. There is no liking, only hearts. Those differences lead to somewhat of a different feel when using the app. It’s feels friendlier, more inviting and contributes to an atmosphere that fosters positive interactions. This, along with the creative freedom that the app allows for, explains why TikTok has shot up in popularity in the latter half of 2018, becoming the most downloaded app on the app-store over a period of time.

    Brands Want In

    Of course, with this popularity, comes interest of large brands. Currently, TikTok does not yet offer any traditional marketing plays, currently focused first and foremost on customer experience. However, being ripe with popular influencers, brands have found ways to drive massive traction on the platform, tapping into users propensity to create. A popular way to do this is through Hashtag challenges. Brands challenge TikTok users to create videos inspired by the brand’s initial video (which is posted from their account and propagated from popular influencers).

    According to TikTok’s head of global marketing, Stefan Heinrich, he explains that TikTok drives a new level of engagement for consumers. “If I go as a marketer to another platform I get likes, shares or comments. If I get a video on TikTok, I get 20 to 30 minutes of a person’s time to create and share. I’m turning someone into a brand ambassador to start of a conversation”

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    And that’s what makes this app so intriguing for marketers. If people are inherently looking for places to create and share, and TikTok currently offers the best tools to do so, being a part of that conversation is incredibly important.

    Implications

    Marketers that are focused on reaching a younger audience should be keeping a watchful eye on TikTok and should be thinking of ways that enhance users ability to create. Tapping into popular hashtag categories and providing thought starters are easy ways to drive engagement through the app, but it’s also important to stay  genuine. If there’s one thing that will continuously ring true, it’s that teens are incredibly digitally savvy, they can see right through the façade of a fake profile.

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  • everyone’s feeling good from the family & friends holiday (and somewhat about politics?) so i might as well practice saying this nower than later.

    i have had, do have and will have (a) chemical imbalance(s). it’s pretty clear just from observation after finally convincing my doc to prescribe me ambien: treated, just still undiagnosed. look forward to health updates in a couple weeks! Love you guys! i’m okay!

    #poetry#shortform#mental health#insomnia #unusually personal update
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  • Doctor Who is a long running British science fiction tv show. It follows the pursuits of an alien being called The Doctor, a time travelling adventurer who fights for good. It is known for rabid fans, imaginative plots, occasionally very silly “monster of the week” costumes, and the mixture of lighthearted romps with dark themes and sad content.

    The Doctor appears human but is actually the last of a race of aliens called the Time Lords, who were also masters of time travel. Time Lords can regenerate their bodies when they are grievously harmed, which is why The Doctor has been able to be officially played by (as of Nov 2018) thirteen different actors. 12 of the 13 have been men; the most recent has been a woman.

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    Originally posted by doctorwhogeneration

    The Doctor travels in a time machine/spaceship called the TARDIS. It looks like a retro British Police Box, which is about the size of 2 phone booths. On the inside, it is much, much larger due to the ability to fold space, leading to a running joke in the series when new people go inside for the first time, saying with wonderment, “It’s bigger on the inside.” 

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    Originally posted by promisedyouforever


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  • Sometimes you just have to let them beat you up… @pouncingtigers #pouncingtigers #warriorpath #shortform #kata #sevenelbows #martialarts #hapkido #karate #farangmusul (at Pouncing Tigers)
    https://www.instagram.com/p/BpDrdCdlj2I/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qmbcw3bhgron

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    By Bianca Moran – 9.29.18

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