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Intrinsic , book trailer Superhero, Myths & Legends, Greek & Roman

N how interesting that so often the *very ppl*who rush 2 ban r outspoken in their OPPOSITION 2 an ! "[Thinking abt how easy it is 2 ban a n how tough] 2 ban "

Pleased to announce that my debut novel, , will be available on Amazon this Sunday! If you like , the and , and some quite dodgy humour this could be the for you!

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“They alighted on a little plateau covered in purple and orange wildflowers, its grasses hissing in the wind. Abraxos was practically grunting with joy, and Manon, her exhaustion as heavy as the red cloak she wore, didn’t bother to reprimand him.”

tog meme → 5/10 characters

Star Trek - “Elusive Salvation”

A cloaked ship enters the Sol System looking for a crew that went missing there in the 19th Century. Hey, better late than never! Admiral Kirk and his bff Spock enlist the help of Gary Seven and Roberta Lincoln for some light time travel to save the day (though Gary is inexplicably busy and away on vacation for most of the book).


(Where to place: A couple years before The Wrath of Khan.)


Think about it in other timeline 1970. Peter Parker gets super povers but dosen’t control them turning into
Man-Spider all the time.

So he goes to Charles Xavier
Asking to help
and Xavier let’s Peter join in hes X-men.

And X-men member are all Avengers like Hulk, Captain America and Black Panter.
Think about that Stan Lee and Marvel

I did a thing yesterday. Well, two things. First, I posted the next chapter of HEART OF ICE, the first sequel to THE HEIR OF CLAUS, on #wattpad . Then I finished this drawing. It’s the first image I’ve created using a pencil and charcoal set gifted to me by @wesleyalan87 . I think it is the best version of Christopher Nicholas’ backpack I’ve drawn so far. Christopher’s bag is everything. It is an icon itself. And the star? That’s to remind you to click the star on wattpad after each chapter 😁
#art #artist #gayartist #drawing #charcoaldrawing #pencildrawing #book #bookart #novel #novelart #christopher #christopher2

Made with Instagram


I just thought of a new idea for a book! Ahh I really wanna write it!

Idk what genre it would be but it would like a documentary but in book form what’s that called?

“Still as the last drop of water fell,

Smooth like the river that is completely bare,

I am an enigma of my own apatheticness,

No evil nor good touching the mind that has seen and stared.”

- jMEC // the void in which the universe stands, is the place I truly belong no else in my psyche


22.2.18 // I actually promised myself not to buy new books until I have finished at least the ones I bought last but there was a book sale on campus and if they’re cheap and second-hand books I’ve wanted to read for ages…. Who can blame me?

selected poems - WH Auden (poetry)
Christopher and his kind - Christopher Isherwood (autobiographical)
A single man - Christopher Isherwood (classics)
Chaos - James Gleick (non-fiction)

I’ve never been afraid of ghosts. I live with them daily, after all. When I look in a mirror, my mother’s eyes look back at me; my mouth curls with the smile that lured my great-grandfather to the fate that was me.
No, how should I fear the touch of those vanished hands, laid on me in love unknowing? How could I be afraid of those that molded my flesh, leaving their remnants to live long past the grave?
Still less could I be afraid of those ghosts who touch my thoughts in passing. Any library is filled with them. I can take a book from dusty shelves, and be haunted by the thoughts of one long dead, still lively as ever in their winding sheet of words.
Of course it isn’t these homely and accustomed ghosts that trouble sleep and curdle wakefulness. Look back, hold a torch to light the recesses of the dark. Listen to the footsteps that echo behind, when you walk alone.
All the time the ghosts flit past and through us, hiding in the future. We look in the mirror and see the shades of other faces looking back through the years; we see the shape of memory, standing solid in an empty doorway. By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.
Each ghost comes unbidden from the misty grounds of dream and silence.
Our rational minds say, “No, it isn’t.”
But another part, an older part, echoes always softly in the dark, “Yes, but it could be.”
We come and go from mystery and, in between, we try to forget. But a breeze passing in a still room stirs my hair now and then in soft affection. I think it is my mother.

Nunca he tenido miedo a los fantasmas. Después de todo, vivo con ellos cada día. Cuando me miro en un espejo, los ojos de mi madre me devuelven la mirada y mi boca se curva con la sonrisa que sedujo a mi bisabuelo para que yo tuviera mi destino.
¿Cómo voy a temer el roce de esas manos que se desvanecen, que se detienen sobre mí con un amor desconocido?. ¿Cómo voy a tener miedo de aquellos que moldearon mi carne, dejando su rastro para vivir mucho más allá de la muerte?.
Menos aún podría temer a esos fantasmas que rozan mis pensamientos al pasar. Todas las bibliotecas están llenas de ellos. Puedo coger un libro de los estantes polvorientos y me atraparán los pensamientos de alguien muerto hace tiempo, pero todavía vivo en su mortaja de palabras.
Por supuesto, no son los ordinarios y acostumbrados fantasmas que turban el sueño y aterran al insomne. Mire hacia atrás y encienda una linterna para iluminar los rincones apartados en la oscuridad. Escuche las pisadas que resuenan detrás cuando camina solo.
Continuamente, los fantasmas revolotean y pasar a través de nosotros, ocultándose en el futuro. Miramos en el espejo y vemos las sombras de otros rostros mirando a través de los años; vemos la silueta de la memoria, erguida con firmeza en el umbral vacío de la puerta. Por sangre y por elección, creamos nuestros fantasmas, nos perseguimos a nosotros mismos.
Cada fantasma sale espontáneamente de los terrenos confusos del sueño y el silencio. Nuestra mente racional dice: ―No, no es así‖.
Pero otra parte, una parte más antigua, siempre repite suavemente en la oscuridad:
―Sí, pero podría ser‖.
Vamos y venimos por el misterio, tratando de olvidar. Pero cuando una ráfaga de
aire pasa por una habitación y agita mi cabello, creo que es mi madre.