i dont think you guys appreciate how rad this site is
because first of all you got your basic fantasy and game race names for like
BUT AS IF THAT ISN’T ENOUGH
REAL NAMES WHICH ARE GOOD FOR BOOKS
AND THIS THERE’S MORE????
BAM, PLACE NAMES
AND STILL MORE
SO YOU SEE THESE LITTLE OPTIONS HERE
GO AND TRY TO HELP A GOOD PERSON OUT
Write Real People
click and drag game
- ONE RULE: DON’T CLICK AND DRAG UNTIL YOU FIND SOMETHING YOU LIKE!
- if you want me to add anything just write me. i’ll add that and update the post!
I love all the click and drag games on Tumblr and after I read an article about diversity in YA books, I wanted to make a click and drag “game” myself. (i think this was the article, but i’m not sure, sorry)
omg I got the mayonnaise of the mayonnaise ever.
homosexual, cis male, tall and weak appearance who is kind and patient, of English background and first name E (I went with Egbert at this rate).
like lol I guess I’ll try again. Eggy can just uh.. go back in the closet.
japanese, female, transgender, hetero, lawful evil, tall strong, optimistic(forgot to take a 2nd), starts with T.
…i could make a telu like this, more or less. *takes this away to mull over*
why won’t you love, with your
frozen aorta and scrambled
serotonin levels. is it difficult,
having ice within your soul and
particles splitting your atoms.
in my dreams, i have died a
thousand times, closed eyes
as i fall into the arms of an
angel, she whispers that i will
wake up in five four three two
one, and i am a new person,
free of these nightmares and
the boys that tainted my hips
purple with their bruises.
Lines drawn in sand;
swirling in the rages of wind,
carrying lies thrown
and grit of knowing
the fight was for nothing.
Let the sand fall
down the hourglass,
let time pass and
heal these wounds.
I awake with blood shot
eyes rubbing them raw;
anything to remove
the rainstick is home-made
from second grade when they tried to make us cultured
and the paper towel tube it is constructed of
is frayed at either mouth
and peeling along the sides.
the construction paper that closes it is fading
started fading some time ago from all those days
spent on your shelf
and when you held it in your hands
i remember the way you knuckles looked
like little brass doorknobs all smooth and polished
i remember your sand dune curves and how
my fingers used to be the Sahara desert wind
sliding along the grains and making small dips and dents
in your pliable softness
those same curves could stop wars and end world hunger
i was sure of it
and hardly a day went by when i neglected to tell you that
you once gave me a journal that was leather bound
with creamy pages whose grey lines begged to be set under
a fountain pen and even though you knew
that i only liked my work when i wrote
about you, on the inside cover you scribbled:
for the days when i am no longer beside you—
they will come. they will come
the only love song i have ever enjoyed is the
sound of april showers whose droplets
fall gently on the roof
like the landings of a million experienced parachuters
because it reminds me of the rain stick
which you left on my bookshelf
on your way out
the water bottle you lent me had dings and scratches
all over its aluminium surface, a landscape of
potholes and ditches scored into it with keys and stones and
the occasional meteor
the sweatshirt you gave me to wear that day at the beach
when the weatherman was a disgusting liar had holes
in both pockets and bits of thread that
hung from the hem like streamers at an abandoned birthday party
the watch you let me glance at that one time i
forgot my phone at your house had claw marks in the
glass face and the leather or the wristband was
so worn that it looked like suede instead
they made me worry that you had a proclivity towards
small, broken, disposable things and excuse me
for the moment of indulgent self-pity but i can’t stop
wondering if that’s why you started loving me
the dreams you smeared across
my sky came from a dirty bucket that you
used to hold the water with
which you washed the mud and grime
and tears from your grandfather’s grave one
cold, angry, wrong night when the moon
glared at the already rusted metal
mottling it a ruddy brown with its misdirected
fury. yes, this is the bucket into which you
tipped dreams, watching them gather
at the bottom like the raindrops from
a misty september in-between day.
the paint brush you used hadn’t been cleaned
out properly since its last use and gauzy
gossamer residue gleams in between the
bristles before you even dip it in the bucket
filled with your newest charges.
people have sued for less, i think to myself as your
hand moves back and forth, laying down
one coat and then another and then
preparing for a third.
dreams are serious business and negligence
has dull and terrible consequences.
the colours are so pretty, though
so i let it go. i let you go
the compass you gave me when we were ten—
because i was going through an explorer phase
and i already had cargo shorts
and a telescope—
had stopped pointing north years ago
the needle is still and when it does move
it’s always because i’m moving it
from my desk to the drawer of it to my pocket because
it reminds me of when we got lost in the woods
when we were twelve and that compass
led us back to the bike path
and a memory in your pocket is always a good thing
some children have security blankets
and at the risk of sounding like a special snowflake
i’ll tell you that i had that compass instead
long before smartphones took the magic out of
watching the needle spin
blurring between red and white
when i hold that compass i stop feeling lost
even if the needle doesn’t move an inch
The most valuable chart…
Reblogging in case this is helpful to anyone. It’s a wheel that describes various emotional categories and subcategories.
I’m not up to transcribing it. Does anyone know of a transcribed version?
I don’t know if I completely agree with this arrangement, but I hope this helps?
Note to authors: when a bullet is shot from a gun, it becomes so hot it’s sterile. You don’t get an infection from the bullet itself, but from the wound. That’s why in the short term it’s better not to remove the bullet, because bothering the wound just makes it more prone to infection! That is also why some veterans still have bullets in their body.
she was praying for something to happen to her
everyday she writes words and more words
just to spit out the thoughts that keep floating inside"
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