Aumbrictsuniwave - Hot-Pink Tsunami

Reblog this if it’s okay to DM you and shoot the friendship shot.

Anyways reminder for folks to maybe stop uploading my shit on Pinterest…

does anyone else feel me. can anyone hear me in here.

Hey guys ❤️

I finally moved into my mom's VERY crowded house, and got settled here, but an old injury has resurfaced and made it to the point that I can no longer do my job. My job also has no intentions of accommodation, as they've already made it clear that they want me back at 100% in 12 weeks, or I no longer have a job.

This being said, I will be unpaid either until the tear in my rotator cuff heals or until I can find a new job.

Please consider commissioning my [Art] or [Writing], or possibly donating a [Rootbeer] on my K0-fi for a thank you doodle!

If you can't or aren't interested in doing any of that, please consider reblogging ❤️🙏

Thank you so much!

Seeing as you already received an ask about Until Dawn, I wanted to ask you what your general opinion about the game and its use of the Wendigo is? I understand if the question has little to do with writing but I'd like your opinion before buying it in case it is offensive.

Until Dawn Game and Use of the Wendigo

From what I’ve gathered about the game, they didn’t have Algonquian people giving input to the story. While Wendigo legends have spread much farther West in modern times because of how much ecological destruction is happening, it’s spreading amongst Natives and is still staying mostly within Algonquin territory (the Cree are an Algonquin speaking people, and their nation is absolutely gigantic). 

While the game pays lip service to the original locations of the Cree, and it is remotely possible the Cree owned mountains, the thing about the bordering Cree nation is they are called Plains Cree for a reason. If you look at a map highlighting the Rockies, and you look at a map highlighting the territory of the Cree, the two barely overlap if they overlap at all.

Disclaimer: I am not Plains Cree— I am Mohawk, Mi'kmaq, and Wyandot— so I could be wrong. Plains Cree are more than welcome to correct me about ancestral lands.

However, the concepts taken from the game make me uneasy.

The Wendigo is not a random horror creature, as I have said before. It has been stolen and repurposed (before anyone comes at me saying that it’s part of their local mythology so it’s free for white people to use, allow me to explain that Native people were not free to practice their religions in Canada from 1884 and the ban lasted about a century; there was no room for there to be equal sharing of religions, because Natives had no ownership over their own). As soon as I see any Native ‘scary creature’ used, I am extremely wary. It is possible to use them respectfully, but more often than not, it’s just appropriation.

Even though the game pays lip service to keeping the Wendigo within the Cree, I cannot find a single piece of information that says the Cree were actually consulted for the game. And that’s a huge problem. The thing about the proper use of Native American mythology is it stays within our control, like the aforementioned Skinwalkers usage. It seems to me that they simply used the Wendigo for the old school horror tropes, which are inherently racist.I can’t seem to find any Native-written pieces about the game, either, which I would love to link to (followers, if you provide opinions, make sure they are either linking to Native-written works or you yourself are Native). 

But from my own glance at it, I don’t like their use of the Wendigo and I don’t like how I can’t seem to find any Native voices anywhere around the project.

~Mod Lesya 

This is an awesome story. Don't give up practicing your art, AI could NEVER match it.

This machine kills AI

Reblog if it's okay to befriend you, ask questions, ask for advice, rant, vent, let something off your chest, or just have a nice chat.

Reblogging this manually. Op doesn't want credit for fear of being terminated.

Week 8 - Waking Up Dead

Creator: me :)

word count: 478

notes: Implied character death.

Basically, sometimes Cross has dreams that he’s living in a past timeline, and wakes up after he died in that timeline, and he’s unsure of his reality for a moment.

————————

He gasped, sitting up straight as he started at the empty training room.

He remembered taking a seat, just for a rest, but he must have fallen asleep.

“Damn it,” Cross groaned, trying to stand up. “I forgot to stretch.” He was sore. 

But that was just a distraction. A distraction from the countless lives he just witnessed. Memories he didn’t experience. Times he never lived. Moments he never saw. 

Deaths he never really felt.

How many timelines were there? At least ten… right?

Each time… he was overwritten. Sometimes painlessly, suddenly, without his knowledge. Other times though… not so much.

He was not hurt. He didn’t feel pain, but dream-Cross didn’t know that. Dream-Cross felt that pain. Felt that fear. Saw the blood. Witnessed the death. Faded into nothing. 

Even when he woke up, completely physically fine, everything within him was screaming something was wrong. Something wasn’t functioning. Something shouldn’t be.

He shouldn’t be alive

He just died.

Or at least… that’s what he thought.

But looking around, trying to remember his techniques, the more he saw that wasn’t true.

The training dummies, the powered off lights, his own hands, the windows leading to the rising sun, his daggers tossed away on either side of him.

His light weight training clothes, the training room floor beneath him, the cold concrete wall behind him, his soul beating in his own chest.

Pots and pans clanging in the distance. Killer’s loud voice occupying it. The sound of his own breathing.

The reminisce of dirt and dust lingering in the air, faint hints of breakfast wafting in.

Blood.

He could taste blood in his mouth.

Wait….

No he didn’t.

That was morning breath. 

He needed to wash up, a new day had started already.

Cross sat there a moment more, replaying what he thought was reality, over and over again in his mind.

He was dying. He did die. Didn’t he? Countless times. Over and over. Timeline after timeline.

Those were him dying.

He wasn’t just dreaming. He was remembering.

He did die. He has died. He was dead.

But… then how could he see the training room get flooded with light so easily as the sun peeked over the horizon. Feel the dirt between his fingers as he was reminded it was chore-day today. Nightmare walking downstairs to the kitchen in the old, creaky castle. The reminder of the old fluff that he tore out of the dummies last night. A reminder he went to sleep last night. 

And he woke up again this morning.

He wasn’t dead.

He was alive.

He was living.

And he had to live today.

He groaned, getting up, sore all over. He steadied himself in the wall and dissipated his daggers. 

He gave another deep breath, before he walked.

Walked away, out of the training room, and into his life.

He was alive.

Snom nom nom nom nom