Scipostorm - ScipoStorm

Crabs amaze me. They’re the perfect life form, a tank made of legs and living hate-armor. It’s not just about their physicality, though; it’s the soul of the crab. See, no crab in the bottomless history of the sea has ever questioned itself, doubted itself, worried, or been afraid. A crab is pure motion. A crab is pure id and unrelenting forward force. Crabs invented the word violence and they will scuttle on the surface of the world while the red giant of Sol creeps closer to devour everywhere we’ve ever known. They will look into the sky and clack their claws and there will be no fear. 

ik this isn't my place but it's uncomfortable how people who aren't asian are justifying their support for the asian community right now because they like... east asian entertainment 🤨 why can't y'all...... just protect asians without the ultimatum

foggy morning // Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse

*slides in* *whispers* Keanu Reeves as a water silo... *skitters away*

Hello! I was wondering if you had any advice for me. I found a fresh and fully intact squirrel body in my backyard, and it’s been frozen as I live in a cold place so I was wondering what you thought my best course of action should be to clean it? I can’t bury it since the ground is completely frozen so I was wondering what I should do?

Hi! I’d first recommend “defrosting” it which you can do with a quick soak in some water for a few hours. From there if you aren’t too queasy about it I would skin it. I’ve found that while it isn’t entirely necessary to do so, it speeds up decomp, especially when macerating because the bacteria colonies don’t digest hair.

I always suggest maceration as it’s my favorite method. It’s gentle and effective, but it requires a consistent temperature of about 99° to be efficient. In this case, after skinning you should put the squirrel in a pair of pantyhose or a mesh bag to capture all of the small bones that separate. If you can maintain temperature, it should be done in about 2 weeks. 

If you’re unable to do that, a decent alternative could be to use flies. As the tissue begins to naturally decompose, flies will lay eggs and maggots will eat the tissue. I always prefer beetles, but this is the most accessible insect in my area. Both of these methods smell absolutely god awful, but that’s a given no matter what you decide to do.

To be honest the only reason my work doesn’t halt during the winter is because I use a bucket heater. I bought one off of Amazon for about $60 and it’s lasting me quite a while. If you’re interested in cleaning bones often, I’d recommend buying an aquarium or bucket heater to help in scenarios like this. I hope this was at least a little helpful, even though it’s a long post. Thanks!

So I just had a thought

What if supernatural creatures don’t exist anymore? What if they did once, but through the years, they slowly mixed in with humans?

You can see the blood of fairies in the way a ballet dancer hovers in mid air before he or she hits the ground. You can see it in the way that middle school girl never forgets when someone makes her a promise. You can see it in how that one little boy in the kindergarten class seems more comfortable in the forest on that field trip than the others.

You can see the blood of dryads in hikers who never trip over roots. You can see it in that suburban grandmother never lets any of her garden die. You can see it in that one kid who climbs a tree faster than his friends, barely looking at the branches as he goes.

You can see the blood of naiads in the way a professional swimmer seems to command the water to help them. You can see it in how a cross country runner needs a water break more often than his teammates. You can see it in the way that one girl in your class always has a water bottle on her desk.

You can see the blood of mermaids in a surfer who can be tossed around underwater for a long time without drowning. You can see it in a teenage boy who doesn’t have to pretend to be unbothered by the pressure when he races his friends to the bottom of a swimming pool. You can see it in the little girl who wades into every stream she sees on a hike without quite knowing why.

You can see the blood of sirens in people who never have a problem with getting people to date them. You can see it in that soprano who can hit notes most of her fellows can only dream of. You can see it in the camp counselor who all the straight girls have a crush on, who can play guitar and sing better than any of the others.

You can see the blood of shapeshifters in the way an actor adjusts their personality to become their character with scary accuracy. You can see it in the subconscious, barely noticeable changes a tween girl’s eyes make to match her outfit better. You can see it in the way you always lose that one friend in a crowd if you’re not careful, because he’s just too good at blending in.

People who carry the blood of werewolves don’t change with the full moon anymore, but you can still see it in the way your best friend always knows something is wrong, though even they don’t know they’re smelling the changes in your body chemistry. You can see it in the way that one guy always seems to eat more than the reasonable amount of red meat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can see it in the way that one werido never has a problem when the teacher turns off the lights before a PowerPoint presentation because her eyes adjust quicker and better than yours.

The blood of supernatural creatures may have mostly faded away. But if you look closely, you can still see it.

Circus Tree: Six individual sycamore trees were shaped, bent, and braided to form this.

I love winding trails that seem to go on forever and bends blocked by trees so you can't see the other side and places just covered in moss.

I love the smell of mornings after rain and the smell of autumn.

I love seeing birds of prey flying about and perched above the ground and trying to guess what species they are.

I love the silence of a forest. Even when I'm with other people and they're talking it barely affects the stillness.

I love walking along rivers and streams. And climbing paths made by other hikers to get close. I love finding mushrooms and getting so turned around on the trail that it takes forever to find your way back.

I love driving through mountains and watching as the landscape gets smaller and smaller.

I love the little things about hiking and being outside that make me happy.

Fuck you. This is the coward's way out. This train will not bring you back in time.

It will not take her arm, or his eye. It will not gift your cheeks their stubble. It will heave its way through English fields and English woods and English towns and English rain, and our mother will sit in that compartment with you.

Have you considered that? Mother, who looks at you as a chicken beholds the fox beneath the fence, as a farmer beholds the wolf by the gate, mother, who has long since washed all colour from her face.

Mother, who is grey and damp as the rain.

Hours in a locked tomb. Hours with her. What will she say? How will she sit? What things will she drag from your mouth?

Will she pin you, with those tired eyes, with those faded hands, to the fabric of your seat, to take from you the answers we have been keeping from her for years?

And how could you ever tell her? How could you dare?

Mother, your little boy has died. Mother, your little girl has seen battle. Mother, your children have commanded armies. They've sat thrones and mourned children. They've lost their people.

Twice.

Mother, you are tired. You are weary. You would not understand.

By the lion, you'd despair.

Mother, a witch has spelled your son when his ears still stuck out and he missed your husband with all the violence of a schoolboy. She took him, pointed nails and pearl-teeth, god, she carved flesh and bone and sinew until that paper-thin skin held nothing at all.

Mother, the son you sent to the countryside with the world digging into his shoulders has died. In tiny pieces, at first, and then all at once, as a trickle turns first into a stream and then into a raging river.

Until finally, it spreads into the sea.

Your child lies buried in every decree, every law, and- Christ, who are we kidding, the Narnian soil. The golden boy you wanted so desperately to protect lies in pieces next to the witch, rotting into the earth.

We cannot return him to you.

Will you tell her, I wonder, about the razor blades underneath your floorboards? Will you bare your neck and show her all the mess you've made of the soft skin there when the nights were long and the tremors were terrible?

What of the knives under our little ones' pillows?

Fuck you.

When I was born, I had you. When I was little, I had you. Those terrible, wonderful years - I had you. How am I meant to go on without you? Brother, I don't know how.

Already my lungs are refusing their work. Already my stomach turns. My teeth are aching, my bones have chilled. My cheeks are stained - big red streaks of salt.

Of blood.

I have carved a way for myself through the chalk and the limestone and the mud. With my hands and my teeth, on the last bit of hope I could still heave up in between the cigarettes and the whiskey, I dug my way to sunlight. For days, for months, for years.

With my bare fucking hands, brother.

And you? You've never put the sword down. You've never looked at the dirt. You can't, you say. You're not made for it. Your mouth is the wrong shape and your eyes want nothing to do with the ground.

Instead, you've spent your time picking out the perfect mortician, the right funeral shroud. The coffin. Instead, you've drawn maps and routes into a home that has long been plundered.

Brother, where has your hunger gone?