Tag: non witchy

writing-prompt-s:

The flat Earth society has started a cult that sacrifices people by throwing them off the edge of the Earth. You are their first victim.

You blink open your eyes, groaning at the sudden pain you feel on your forehead. “What happened?” You mumble.

There is shuffling in front of you. “-is awake,” you hear a distant voice say.

Suddenly you’re sopping wet, a bucket landing dully at your feet. “What the FUCK,” you exclaim.

Your hands are handcuffed behind you, and your feet are tied to the chair you’ve just woken up in.

In front of you is a group of five people, all wearing masks and what look like Jedi robes made by a not-very-creative cosplayer. “We are the Flat Earth Society, and you are our sacrifice.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing, “What… the hell-” you manage to get out between giggles, “-are you talking about? The Earth is round!”

You can’t see the faces of this so called society, but if you could, you know they would have just shut down. That was the wrong thing to say.

“The Earth is FLAT!” An angry member of the small cult shouts, “And you are our sacrifice! We shall drop you over the edge of the Earth to appease It!”

“Okay, sure,” you say. 

Obviously, these people are your kidnappers, which is pretty fucked up, but they also think the world is flat and throwing you off the edge will be somehow beneficial, so it’s not like they can actually kill you. In theory. Maybe you can convince them a small ditch is the edge of the world and just crawl out the other side. Hell, even a small ledge would be fine. You’d suffer a broken leg if it meant you could just go the fuck home.

“Why… are you so readily agreeable to be our sacrifice? Do you understand our cause?”

“Ha, no.” You say impulsively. You immediately and internally wince, trying to channel old acting skills from that one time you joined theater club. “I mean… yes. I’m ready to be your sacrifice, and I even know where the edge of the world is. I can take you there. It’s-”

The apparent leader of the society speaks, interrupting what you thought was a convincing spiel, “We already know where the edge of the world is.”

They say this menacingly. You wonder if you should be scared.

“Um, okay.”

“It’s what your people call The Grand Canyon.”

Your first thought is ‘”Your people?“ Dude, you’re also human.‘ 

Your second thought, one you voice aloud, is "Fuck.”

woodys-roundup:

velociraptors-in-hats:

robins-gal-mal:

velociraptors-in-hats:

Woody’s roundup is keeping my dash way safer than Tumblr’s new filters ever could

Okay what is this woody’s roundup thing I’m so confused

You know how sometimes you’d see an argument on your dash, and one person was being an ass, and it got a lot of notes, and the ass’s account deactivated? Someone (likely a group of people) snagged a fuckton of those deactivated urls and turned them into this weird, hivemind-like rp of woody from toy story. So now, on those old argument posts, if you click on the source of a blog saying “racism is good actually”, it’s got an icon of woody and the title is “Howdy Pardner”

 They also “got memeufacturing” yesterday, which increased the attention given to them. Memeufacturing was a popular shitpost blog that deactivated when people claimed the person running it was sexually harassing people (and doing some other icky stuff, I forget the details, it was like a year ago), so now if anyone clicks on the source of an old memeufacturing shitpost, it’s one of these strange woody rp blogs. 

People have also been calling it the Woody Takeover and the Woody Collective, but whoever is running these blogs seems to prefer to call themsel(f/ves) “woody’s roundup”. 

Pardner

caffeinewitchcraft:

ohhbobs:

stop checking on them
they don’t miss you

These are the words written on a post-it (a human invention) in Persephone’s bedroom. They’re written in what she fondly calls New English, aka the English that her mother still doesn’t know, even after all these years.

Every morning, when she wakes, she sees this post-it stuck onto the stone wall and makes herself read it out loud.

“Stop checking on him,” she says, arms wrapped tight around her knees. “He doesn’t miss you.” The words bring the familiar sting of pain, the familiar tightness in her chest, the accompanying breathlessness. There’s still a part of her that rebels at the thought, that clings to what he said before and not after.

She thinks she might have been happier loving a mortal, which is so in fashion these days that her mother is gallivanting about Earth like she hadn’t spent centuries chastising Persephone for the same. If she loved a mortal, she could bind them in ways that it’s impossible to bind a god.

She gets up and gets ready for her day. Being an immortal means that she can’t just spend all day in bed. That path leads to centuries of apathy and she’s still young. So very, very young.

“Go back to Olympus. I should have known better than to let a child into my kingdom.”

There was no “letting” about it. She’d been younger still and in chains and in captivity and in love. She’d beguiled and coerced so that he’d take her with him, made him free her. 

She’d thought she was shedding her chains, choosing new ones that better suited her, but she didn’t see the way her discarded shackles slipped onto him. She didn’t see what a burden she was, what a burden she would become to him, how limiting, how heavy, how stupid.

It’s been five years now and she’s still counting seasons like she has a chance of being let back in. Summer and winter, summer and winter, summer and winter, ad nauseum. Her mother had said that she’d stick to the cycle, that the Earth actually benefited from winter, but Persephone sees the way the summers are growing longer and hotter, the way the winters are short but so sharp she could cut her teeth on them.

Spring? She stopped that a long time ago. The melting of winter is good enough for mortals and gods alike. They don’t notice and, therefore, they don’t ask.

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