Im Screaming

Happy mermay

I just want to see him with short hair

Can you draw Haiti, in a military uniform during the Haitian Revolution? Thank you very much for wonderful and historical art

“The Good Lord who created the sun which gives us light from above, who rouses the sea and makes the thunder roar–listen well, all of you–this god, hidden in the clouds, watches us. He sees all that the white people do. The god of the white people demands from them crimes; our god asks for good deeds. But this god who is so good demands vengeance! He will direct our hands; he will aid us. Throw away the image of the god of the whites who thirsts for our tears, and listen to the voice of liberty which speaks in the hearts of all of us.”

The Haitian Revolution took place between 1791 and 1804, and was an insurrection by the slaves of Saint Domingue, now Haiti, against French colonial rule. To this day, it is considered the only successful slave rebellion, establishing an independent society of liberated slaves.

Historical Footnotes (+ bonus sketches!):

I TRIED ON THE LIGHTING.... I TRIED

The quote from before is Dutty Boukman’s speech, one of the early leaders of the Revolution. Born in Senegambia, he was captured, enslaved, and sent to the new World, where he ended up in Haiti as a carriage driver and a vodou priest. He played a key role in northern Haiti, where he presided over a religious ceremony in 1791 that would kick off the revolution. He is said to have give this speech during the ceremony!

You’ll notice that her uniform looks remarkably similar to those of the American Revolution. This is because the two events took place very close to one another- in fact, many of the freed people of color in Haiti had served in the American Revolution themselves.  

Women played a large role in the Revolution. People like Suzanne Belair had leadership positions in the army, as well as countless other women who served integral roles in the information networks that organized the rebellion.

I probably should’ve added golden embroidery on her collar and wristcuffs but I legit forgot IM SORRY

This was the original sketch for this, cuz I wanted to try to doing more dynamic poses, but it just didnt feel right to me? Part of the reason I took so long to do this was because I took months to mull over it until I had a better vision of what I wanted!

sketch I did to get her features down!

another quiet day in the kalmar family

Sketches that I actually like enough to share here

Can we see Australia please? (sorry if it’s a bit out of your range)

he’s kinda scary

I'm so sorry if I'm bothering, but reading "The Captain" has seriously floored, contaminated and infected me and I'm making a playlist inspired by it - But I was wondering if you had thoughts on Alfred and his people in that context? Because I... Like cowboy Alfred and I can't emphasize enough how many stories would emerge from Alfred losing a dual, lying dead on the ground, just to be gone by dawn and seen again in the next town over on death row to be hanged, just to be seen alive again some time later?

Like, it gives campfire stories and western-tales! 🥹

The Cowboy

Characters: America

The Captain (England)

The Artist (France)

The Cleaner (Scotland)

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Some say there are monsters out on the plains.

Unholy things. Dangerous things. Things that no man should see, and that would drive him mad if he ever did.

The cowboy does not believe all this. He believes in truth, cold and bitter. Life is hard out here, that is true, and sometimes a hard life does things to a man. Turns him inside out with wanting and regret. Makes him yowl for his momma at night like a child from loneliness. Cold nights, bitter winds, and dust choked skies- miles and miles with nothing but the hot sun and ghosts of old lives nipping at your heels.

Because to choose a life on the plains alone is to have come from something. To go far into the desert and stay there means that there is sanctuary in the sands that cannot be found in a town, or a village. And that life changes those who live it. Makes them see their fears manifested in order to understand them. Forces them to acknowledge their wrongs and mistakes by trapping them alone.

The cowboy is no different. He’s seen many things he wishes he hadn’t. Has done many more besides.

There’d been a boy. Many summers ago.

Bright blue eyes, golden hair. Rough broad hands of a working man, but the expensive clothes of a comfortable one. He’d rolled into town with fear behind his wide smile; twitchy fingers and a need for work with no questions asked. He’d been running from things, that was clear, and the cows don’t ask no questions. Nor do cowboys in need of able hands.

He’d been good. Been quick. Great with horses, could calm even the most spooked or rowdy with just a touch. A real gift for them, and a real love for the plains. He grew tall under the wide blue skies, expanded his chest outwards as he rode in a way that made you look at him. Talked much, talked often, but without saying anything at all.

When he’d died, the cowboy didn’t know who to send for. The boy had never mentioned his father, hadn’t spoken of his momma, not even in passing. No family and not even a family name to claim him. He’d had to leave him out there to the sun, nothing but a bright red blanket over his face to offer him shade and the cowboy’s own rings on his eyes to pay for something he didn’t quite understand. It had felt right. It had felt inadequate.

He’d been too young.

The memory of the boy haunts him. The cowboy sees their final ride in his dreams, sees the herd change direction and sees the boy react too late. Sees him realise across the cattle that he was pinned- rock of the canyon on one side, and the stampede the other. He caught the cowboy’s eye and that, that moment of knowing, seared something into him that the cowboy knows he will never forget.

Over the thunder of a thousand hooves, the boy’s scream is an unanswerable battle cry he still wakes to, even now.

The cowboy keeps moving. The herds do not stop. Rides must be finished. Life goes on.

He goes it alone. Wrings out his soul in the dust, lets it boil over with regret. Then he gets another partner. Then another. The cowboy is older, too old these days to head on out to watch the cattle without someone he trusts at his back. The world is changing around them but this life does not change, does not grow easier. Only harder, as his bones begin to hurt and his eyes can no longer spot unfriendly shapes moving in the shadows.

One night and a shared fire like any other- three men and a dog in the middle of nowhere- the cowboy looks up to see a face he knows all too well. It has been years, decades, but the boy’s face is unchanged. Still milk smooth, still full and whole.

He has a chain around his neck that glitters in the firelight. Thin gold links that hold up familiar rings, unused payment for a journey not taken. He catches the cowboy’s eye over a whisper of long ago screams and nods.

There are monsters out on the plains.

Things that creep around campsites, things that stir in the night. Things that wear the faces of long dead men, that put on old skin like clothes and come to sit quietly by your side.

The cowboy cannot look at him. He hears him breathing as the men around them talk, feels the warmth of the boy’s arm through this jacket.

‘Well met,’ the cowboy manages, and offers his old friend his flask to drink from.

The boy does not take it. He looks up at the stars, bright and endless above them, and holds the cowboy’s rings in one hand.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ he says softly, ‘What things we can sometimes think we see.’

The cowboy’s heartbeat beats loud in his ears, ‘Too much sun does things to a man.’

‘It does.’ The boy turns and looks back. His eyes are old, hard things, ‘I’ve heard people tell all sorts of tales. Drunken ghost stories no sane man would believe.’

The cowboy’s gut screams a warning, that he is but prey in front of predator. He knows to listen, has enough sense not to question, ‘I’m too sane to believe most things.’

He meets the boy’s eye and does not look away. The fire before them cracks, and the boy breathes. There is no other sound. Then, he smiles, teeth emerging white and gleaming. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe, it never did.

‘Well met, friend.’ the boys says. He claps the cowboy’s shoulder and settles back. The cowboy’s chest feels lighter, ‘I think we’ll get along just fine.’

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I couldn't help myself Sunny, I was instantly inspired and it's all your fault

As it was written so quickly this may well change, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone and I had to get it out there

If this story is to have a song, it's 'Ghost Rider's' by Johnny Cash which is, and always will be, an utter banger.

once in a while i hear from people that i produce some of the only hetalia content they still enjoy and while i am always chuffed to hear it i realize that most of my content is so niche that it’s barely recognizable as hetalia sO HERE IS AN HETALIA FOR YOU! :D

i have struggled A Lot with my relationship with aph/hws canada over the past decade and I’ve mostly realized that the only way I can make him palatable and relatable again is to portray him (ironically?) closer to how he was in canon with a few of my own tweaks… maybe in there somewhere he has a heart but it gets obscured by his 1. extreme passive aggressive sass and 2. tendency to let every single force in his life no matter how small define himself for him and Maybe if he actually did something about his mental health / quarter life crisis he’d be less of an asshole.

Like, the only reason everyone thinks he’s so nice and polite is because he is constantly apologizing for being a literal train wreck but making absoultely zero effort to be less of a train wreck because for some reason people think his executive dysfunction is Cute and Endearing when it’s actually horribly destructive.

but these days i still find him relatable because i’m currently trying to unpack a lot of figurative and literal baggage and it’s really hard to do when no one’s ever encouraged you to do it on your own before.

also he lives with a polar bear and that can’t be very good for his floors

they walk! 

fic premise meme time! alfred, shortly after the revolution, visiting francis at versailles as a means to thank his monarchs (marie antoinette and louis xvi 👀), but alfred is *incredibly* thrown off by the lavish lifestyle of versailles and francis doesn’t exactly seem like himself (perhaps he feels ashamed of the sheer amount of over-indulgence around him? hmmmm) (anyway, this is just an excuse for someone to write versailles!francis hehe)

oooh Versailles francis would be super interesting to write! he would definitely be put off by it. I also headcanon that nations have a sixth-sense kind of gut feeling and he just knows that this is his ticket to disaster. he doesn’t know why but he just knows. also if you don’t mind me adding - I like to think that despite his discomfort he enjoys it to an extent because, well, it feels like he’s caught up to someone. He remembers the lavish palaces of the Roman empire whose boot he lived under and seeing himself reach this level of opulence feels like he’s finally proved himself as, if not superior, then at least equal to old man Romulus

(btw poor Al, his puritan heart won’t be able to take that trip)

I also can’t help but mention what an amazing job @rebelsandtherest did with a similar premise of America visiting France after the revolution in her fic Amity which I highly recommend