REBLOG if you have amazing talented artist friends!
Writers too!!
both
Never reblogged faster !!
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
🚨This is a Red Alert for net neutrality 🚨
Last December, the FCC voted to to kill net neutrality. If we do not take action, this will kill the free and open internet as we know it. The internet needs you—all of you—to make sure your voices are heard NOW.
We need all hands on deck for this one. It may be our last chance. If you’re feeling under-informed and overwhelmed about why net neutrality is so incredibly important, we have this handy guide just for you.
Here’s what you can do to save the internet:
- In mid-May, the Senate will vote on a resolution to overrule the FCC using the Congressional Review Act (CRA). We only need one more vote in the Senate to win. Write or call your Senators or Representatives. You can also text BATTLE to 384-387 to get more information on how to write to your reps. You can do this, Tumblr.
- Join us and dozens of your other favorite companies like Etsy, Vimeo, Reddit, and GitHub to raise awareness with the Red Alert campaign being run by Battle for the Net. Just add this small widget to your Tumblr to let your followers know how they can contact their reps. It’s as easy as copying and pasting the small line of code right into the customize theme page on the web.
This is important. This matters. It’s up to you to help.
Honestly, if you don’t need a kitten stealing a pancake on your blog, it had better be because you already have a kitten stealing a pancake on your blog.
PETA
you guys remember when PETA stole people pets off their porches and euthanized them?
you guys remember how it came out that PETA kills about 90% of the animals it takes in, including healthy and adoptable puppies and kittens, stating “ We could become a no-kill shelter immediately. It means we wouldn’t do as much work”?
you guys remember when PETA advocated killing all pit bulls for the crime of being pit bulls?
you guys remember when PETA handed out these comics to children when there were no adults looking?
you guys remember when they made a porn site and then filled it with videos of animal abuse, and (also in that link) claimed cats should be vegetarian?
you guys remember when PETA lied about sheep shearing, got caught, and defended the lie as true even after they admitted the sheep in their picture wasn’t even real?
you guys remember when they tried to excuse their horrifying ways by claiming that the person who exposed them was manipulating the facts by taking them and putting them in the wrong context?
Because I remember. I remember everything.
And I’m gonna make sure everyone else remembers too.
Why would they kill pit bulls they’re sweeties
Because PETA does not care about animals. they do not care that these dogs live and breathe and feel and want love like every other dog. they do not care about the history of human/dog bonding and co-evolution, they do not care that dogs and human beings have relied on each other for millennia, they do not care that its cruel and morally repugnant to put down an animal just because you can, they do not care about animals.
PETA cares about money and publicity, its a corporation run by a psychopath who is afraid of pitts as it states in the link: she was apparently bit by one, and now she hates them.
PETA doesn’t give a rats ass about animals. They just want to kill and make money off of idiots who fall of their spiel.
Some celebs support them
ah c’mon, dear-tumb1r, I think you’re being a bit harsh. I mean, okay, PETA’s done some questionable things, but it’s not like they’ve also
-spread false information about milk causing autism based on outdated bullshit information
-used holocaust imagery to compare the meat industry to concentration camps (no pictures)
Nah. PETA’s not that bad.
(/the heaviest of all my fucking sarcasm, I am salty as a fucking winter road, lord do I fucking hate PETA)
Did you think i was fucking joking, PETA?
I will make sure everyone fucking remembers what you’ve done.
Bringing it back, because it’s charity season and people need to know NOT to give charity to these fuckers.
justatouchofdeath
this is a collection of her photos, drawings and her suicide note,
this is so even if her mom deletes her blog, everything is saved,
her blog has already been removed and posts are being removed. dont stop reblogging this, dont let them silence us, dont let Leelah Alcorn be forgotten
iamsapphirecrimsonclaw
REBLOG LEELAH FOR INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY
When Leelah died, I made a slam poem of my feelings. I am more than happy to share it with anyone who would like it.
cookie-stars-arts
Awww I’m sure it’s well written :3
I remember this. It still hurts me to this day. If you ever feel like you can’t be yourself, remember you can always be yourself to me. ❤️
So like, last YEAR someone said something about my 3D Renders that really hit my confidence. I haven’t touched Blender or Poser since.
But then a good friend of mine convinced me to pick it back up recently. So I’ve done a nice, simple render of an old OC, Lyn the Angel. Looking as annoyed as ever.
She might be an angel, but that doesn’t mean she’s all sunshine and rainbows. A good afternoon to Lyn is spent indoors, curtains closed, binge watching that thing the humans call ‘Anime’ and playing video games.
She has a twin ‘sister’ of sorts, I might do a render of her later. I’d need to remake her model first.
And yes, she is missing an eye.
Nice work.
FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR DOG, DONT SCROLL PAST THIS
IMPORTANT! Gravy Train Dog Food was had a recall.
The food was tainted with and contains euthanasia.
Source: (x)
A bunch of dogs, including my own, eat Gravy Train. It’s a very affordable wet canned dog food, so many people buy it. and my dog has to eat it because she’s lost most of her teeth and can’t chew.
Please, SIGNAL BOOST THIS!
Even if you don’t have a dog, your followers probably do, and plenty of them are at risk.
You could save a life.
((I really want to just.
break my tablet, throw it across the street. For the longest time art was one of those things where it was really fun, and I did it, at all times, everywhere, in all of my books and etc. because it was fun. I could illustrate almost anything and to my undeveloped brain the fact that it was super simplistic didn’t matter. I made something, and it was good and had value.
But now it’s just.
This isn’t fun. It’s drudgery. I can’t draw anything that I want to draw. every time I try it violently fails to live up to expectations- and I’ve lowered them! I’m not even looking for “a masterpiece” anymore. I’m looking for something that doesn’t look like shit. Something that kind of looks like how I intend it to in my head. And I’m honestly starting to think
Maybe I’m not good at this. Practice is fucking impossible because it feels grindier than the most boring of Korean MMOs, for even less payoff, because the amount of practice you need to do seems to scale really nonlinearly- I’d say exponentially, or even hyperbolic. Author’s Note: hyperbolic functions have extremely rapid growth rates, to the point where the function itself can basically just stop being defined.
That’s where I’m at right now. It feels like in order to actually escape the ‘skill plateau’ I’m in, I need to exert more effort and train more than what is physically possible.
I think this is a sign that I’m not an artist, and never was.))
(I’m not normally one to drag people into other things, but at this point I’m going to have to phone a friend here to offer help?
@steveman would you mind? As you’re an artist and I know you’ve reblogged related details about an issue like this before?)
It looks like you’re strapped in a protracted plateau of the art learning helix. Your ability to see the flaws in your work grows inversely to your ability to draw as well as you’d like. Like this:
It’s a curse but the fact the you’ve made it far enough shows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are improving.
And here is how you break it: Life Studies.
Pick a thing related to what you prefer to draw, like hands or faces, or in the case of my last life study feet. And just keep drawing just those from reference every time. Even trace a few. This is training not a paycheck so it’s perfectly fine. Sometimes draw them on their own. Sometimes really hammer down on from memory. But usually from reference. Sit down for an hour or so every day or so and do a study. You can do this while also drawing other things, but for the most part, just keep studying until the studies are easy and look good enough.
And Good Enough is the key word here. No one ever actually thinks their art is perfect. Only that they’ve found a good enough that they can share. It’s a very hard skill to learn.
MFW I’ve been in the last column for years
deoxyrebornicleic
I drew/made characters based off of chess pieces
Reblogs are better than Likes
full picture of the pawns:
