Like Great Forest Trees

Reblogged from fortysixandtwo

(Source: tayloschilling)

protestthevillain:

Tool - Schism

Reblogged from fortysixandtwo

protestthevillain:

Tool - Schism

Reblogged from fortysixandtwo

dj3y3:

saidbhinluch:

kgm42986:

strongbodyheartmind:

whiskey1037135:

hazeleyes2012:

FUCK YES!! Let’s get this photo on every tumblr blog!

its pretty terrible as is. why isnt there a Sent folder, for example

Also there should be an option to get a mobile alert when someone messages you!

^all of these yes!

THANK YOU!!

MAKE IT HAPPEN TUMBLR

Reblogged from thiscoulddefinealifetime

dj3y3:

saidbhinluch:

kgm42986:

strongbodyheartmind:

whiskey1037135:

hazeleyes2012:

FUCK YES!! Let’s get this photo on every tumblr blog!

its pretty terrible as is. why isnt there a Sent folder, for example

Also there should be an option to get a mobile alert when someone messages you!

^all of these yes!

THANK YOU!!

MAKE IT HAPPEN TUMBLR

(Source: damianshadow)

Reblogged from blackcr0wking

(Source: gottagofast666)

Reblogged from fortysixandtwo

sarahj-art:

Happy Batman Day!

Reblogged from afrocentricheavymetalgoddess

nikaalexandra:

apparently it’s nineteen fucking twenty

I fucking hate it when guys do this shit.

Reblogged from allatonce-wearewe

vixleonard:

I feel like this photo set sums up the entire series.  The men talk about doing shit; the women get shit done.

(Source: thedailylovejournal)

Reblogged from fortysixandtwo

  • Me: Exercise
  • Me: Exercis
  • Me: Exerci
  • Me: Exerc
  • Me: Exer
  • Me: Exe
  • Me: Ex
  • Me: Extra fries

Toad Words

Reblogged from backalleyashes

prettyarbitrary:

jumpingjacktrash:

the-real-seebs:

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

!.

You know how if you go through years and years of “best science fiction short stories”, every so often you find some short story you’ve never heard of before, but it’s just amazing and brilliant and leaves you wondering why you never read stories with that plot before? This is one of those.

Seriously, wow.

this made me smile.

i’m still smiling.

This stunned me.  And then I scrolled up and saw it was Ursula Vernon, and stopped being surprised. (Should’ve known when she mentioned axolotls.)

Ursula’s a writer as well as an artist.  She’s won a Hugo and been nominated for an Eisner.  You can buy her stories and anthologies, and then sometimes she just spits out stuff like this on her blog because why not? 

She does some stuff for adults and also a lot of illustrated kids’ books—but when she does, they’re a lot like this.  Or sometimes they’re funny.  By which I mean, you will laugh so hard you can build an exercise program around it.

Frogs are dying, you know.  Much like bees.  That part is true.  There’s a fungus that grows on their skin till it clogs their breathing pores and they suffocate to death.  It’s killing whole species of frogs all over the world.