#All I can think about when I see that picture of Tord I drew is Weird Al's “Virus Alert” song...

[yoinkschief]

I hope these guys explode

[supercherrydraws]

It was a calm day, the whole house was in silence. The only thing you could hear was the sound of a pencil drawing on a paper. Edd and Tord were drawing together on the living room, just some stupid doodles to wast some time together.

- Okay, so…now we draw something special to us. It can be anything-

Edd said, starting to draw, not seeing the funny face Tord made, thinking that this theme was childish. Tom laughed quietly, reading his book on the sofa, resting his legs on Tord’s shoulders, who was sitting on the flour.

- What are you drawing? I can’t see-

Tom asked, receiving a “good” from the other man, who just hid it more. Tom just hit him and rested his back on the couch again, reading his book silently.

- Okay! I’m done! Did you finished?-

Asked Edd, showing his drawing to the other. In some way, Tord was flustered, like he didn’t want someone to see what he drew. Edd laughed and took the paper from Tord’s hands, mocking him.

- Come on Tord, stop being such a kid, it's just a drawing. Let me see, there is a gun, another gun, bacon, a piano, a strange hat, a hentai magazine, of course… oh! Is this a picture of us? Awwwwn, how cute!-

Tom started to pay attention to what the other was saying, caressing Tord’s hair while he was burning in shame.

- Edd haha give it back to him, look at his face, it’s all red-

Now he had two people mocking him, great. All Tord hoped was that Edd didn’t want to show it to Tom…too bad that Edd was in a bad boy mood this day.

- Awwnn Tord, what a romantic boy you are, Tom, I think you will like this one~-

Tord widened his eyes, grabbing Edd’s arm, bringing it to him. He had a strong grip, not enough to hurt the man, but enough to scare him a bit.

- Don't you dare…-

The green hoodie man dropped the paper and Tord held it, releasing the man. Edd was a bit terrified, knowing that Tord is a leader, he shouldn’t have teased him with something like this, especially because Tord had anger issues. But all just changed so fast, in seconds he was normal, holding Tom’s legs on his shoulders and with the other hand, he catched Edd’s drawing.

- My turn, let’s see what you drew…hmm, Ringo, a can of cola, really unexpected haha, a pencil, a picture of us, youtube icon, bacon…really nice Edd, I like it-

He returned the paper and held his pencil, ready for the next theme. Edd looked at Tom and smiled, recovering from the scare. They started to draw plants calmly, like nothing happened. While Tord was too focused on the new drawing, the other paper was forgotten, it would be the easiest thing to catch it.

(Tord’s drawings)

Even knowing that if Tord catches him on act he would be in troubles, he really wanted to know what was so important that he couldn’t see. Carefully and quietly, he tried to reach the paper without calling too much attention. With great difficulty he made it, analyzing the drawings carefully. A piano, two guns, bacon, a hentai magazine, a strange hat and…Tom?

- You drew me? I’m that important to you to draw me?-

Tom let it out for accident, calling the boys attention. Tord super angry and Edd super worried. When Tord was about to reach the paper and yell at him, Tom smiled a bit and asked:

- Can I keep it? I liked, it really looks like me haha, you even drew the piercings! I wish I could draw like that-

Tord stoped and smiled embarrassed, scratching the back of his head.

- Of course you can, if you really liked-

Tom smiled and thanked, bending the paper and tucked on his hoodie pocked.

After that day, Tom always finds “anonymous” drawings on his room.

[idkbecks]

Little story time about Dallon because I feel like it

So, many of you, if not all of you, don't know much about me. A little background, I LOVE hedgehogs. I love hedgehogs so much because I had a pet hedgehog named Tord who really helped me through a lot. He was my best friend and he died of cancer when he was 3, which was the hardest death I ever had to deal with. He really, really kept me together and kept me well.

Anyways, I love hedgehogs and anybody who knows me in real life immediately associates me with hedgehogs because of my love. I have been referred to as ' the hedgehog boy' and then kid who brought his hedgehog into school'. I am happy with those labels. My love for Dallon and IDKHOW is also prominent because I talk about them a lot. When I met Dallon for I think the 4th time, I asked him to draw me a hedgehog. I told him I knew it seemed weird, but I just really love hedgehogs. So, he drew me one, and I've posted a picture of it before, but it means a lot.

It really is just a silly little drawing, but I have it next to this little memorial setup I have for Tord and it has helped me feel better some nights when I start thinking about Tord and I get really upset. Its just a dumb little token, but it has helped majorly at certain times. It reminds me of happier times, like meeting Dallon and Ryan and when Tord was still alive. I'm sure it sounds dramatic, but Tord was like my reason for living at the time. I was at the darkest point of my life and he always made me feel better, so losing him hit really hard, and it still does if I think about it too much.

Anyway, yeah. I just wanted to share about how Dallon drew me a hedgehog and how it actually means a ridiculous amount to me and how it has actually helped me mourn the death of my hedgehog son. Thank you for listening, if any of you did. I will include pictures of it so you can see the drawing and how it sits in relation to all my other hedgehog memorabilia.

This was Tord, sleeping. Very good boy.

This is my whole setup in honor of Tord.

This is his pawprints that the vet gave me.

This is 2 of his quills and a little good luck hedgehog charm that I carry in my pocket every day. They're on top of what I am sure you can tell is the box with his remains inside. I put the charm on top of it at night.

And finally, here is the drawing. Very simple, but very effective. It means so much to me.

[bluegreenamber]

The Artist (1/4)

My younger brother found it in his room. It was stuffed in the drawer of the bedside table that had been left behind by the previous owners. A picture of four smiling boys in a plain wooden frame. I recognized them as the previous residents who must have forgotten this picture. Seemed normal enough. But when my klutz of a brother dropped it face down from where he was trying to put it on the top shelf of the closet, it appeared that the picture was less normal than it seemed. A lot less normal. The glass front had shattered, and the picture was hanging out. When I tentatively picked up the frame, I saw what had been hidden behind the photo. It was a picture with the same four boys, much like the first. But it had been… tampered with. Someone had taken a pencil and marked all over the boys. One now had horns growing out of his head. One had giant black holes for eyes. One had fangs emerging from his mouth. The last was scribbled over completely. It was creepy, to say the least. My dads had no idea what to do with it. They agreed that it shouldn't be kept on display for young eyes to see, but they weren't sure whether to keep it hidden or dispose of it. They weren't exactly the superstitious type, but it seemed way too “stereotypical horror movie” to burn it and have angry ghosts start haunting the place because of it. In the end, they never told us what they did with it. After that initial incident, we continued unpacking like normal, and the thought of the photo faded from everyone’s minds. Until it happened again. I woke up one morning. And there it was. On my ceiling right in front of my eyes was a portrait of me. “Portrait” being a polite term. It was more like a caricature. Something disfigured and exaggerated. I froze, fear rising in my chest. I stayed like that for a good few moments, listening for the inevitable sounds of my oncoming demise. But there was nothing. Just the sounds of the AC running and my older brother snoring. I glanced over to my bedside table and nearly froze for yet another few minutes. The pencil I had laid out there last night was reduced to a messy stub. My dads almost grounded my brothers when they found out. They thought that it had been a prank. But it was obvious that they hadn't done it. So they dismissed it as a form of sleep-walking. What else could they do? But I knew better. I talked to my brothers about it, and while they were of course skeptical of my ghost stories, they agreed to do a few simple “experiments” for me. My older brother left a pencil out on his desk that night. And true to my theory, the same thing that had happened to me happened to him. We were astonished. My parents not so much. They were not impressed with what they thought was our messing around. I'm pretty sure they only tolerated it because it was slightly amusing to them and encouraging to see us finally getting along well enough to plan this sort of thing. Typical. My younger brother tried it the next night. But that's where my theory failed. It was like seeing a floodgate burst from a hairline fracture. All my brother had to do was leave one pencil out, and his room was… completely wrecked. His desk was ruined. Drawers had been dragged out of their places, and art and office supplies were scattered all on and around it. Most of the pencils were so small as to be unusable. That wasn't even a fraction of it. Not only was there a portrait of him on the ceiling. All throughout his room, on the ceiling and walls and furniture… There were portraits of the rest of our family. There were portraits of friends and family who had never been near the house. There were portraits of people none of us even recognized. There were drawings of random objects, some of them unrecognizable. And then there were words. In a messy and vaguely disturbing scrawl, there were ominous writings. Classic scary messages like “Get out” and “Leave me alone” and “You shouldn't be here” and “I'm warning you” and equally creepy but more specific phrases like “The perfect picture” and “I need to draw” and “The perfect artist” and “The one I need to find the one.” In addition, there were several names, but four of them were written repeatedly. Edd, Tom, Matt, and Tord. It didn't take a genius to figure out that those were the names of the boys in the pictures. There were also several labels that I couldn't quite understand. Things like “The Artist” and “The Prince” and “The Blind” and “The Pair” and “The Neighbors” and “The Greeter” and “The Girl” and “The Scientists” and “The Soldier” and “The Mirror.” I guessed that some of them went with the names, but I had no idea which ones went with what. Except for “The Artist.” I had a pretty good idea what they were like, though no clue who they were exactly. No matter what we tried to tell them, our parents didn't believe that the mess was anything but our explicit fault. The three of us were grounded for two weeks and forced to clean off every mark made by the pencils. For once, we didn't grumble or argue with each other as we cleaned. Instead, we conspired together. We theorized about every detail of the drawings, making sure to capture pictures of them with our phones for evidence. If I weren't so worried about the obvious spirit haunting our house, I'd be beaming with joy that we were finally getting along so well as siblings. We, especially my younger brother, were very careful to leave all drawing utensils stored away for the next few nights, and no more incidents occurred. But of course it had to get even worse. My younger brother was in the living room doing his homework while I was reading. And midway through a problem, his pencil started floating. He let out a yelp, and I looked up to see the offending thing fly across the room and nearly impale itself in the wall. I stood, slowly approaching as I put myself between it and my sibling. It started writing jaggedly on wall. S… T… O… P… I froze, barely blinking or breathing. The spirit was actually talking. It started again just below where it had been writing. LEAVE. I shook my head. “We can't just do that.” Could it hear me, understand me? It didn't reply, so I took another step forward. “You're The Artist, right? What's your name?” EDD. Ah, I recognized that name. I tried to conjure up the photograph of the four boys in my head. “Which one are you?” It drew a picture of one of the boys, the one with flat hair and a bright smile and a can of Cola in his hand. It was actually a really good drawing. “Why do you want us to leave?” IT’S MY HOUSE. I shook my head again. “I'm really sorry, Edd. But you're… not actually here right now.” I had no idea if this was an actual ghost, if Edd had died. “This is our house. We bought it and moved in a couple weeks ago.” GET OUT. Okay, so reasoning with it wasn't working too well. Questions… Questions seemed to work better. “Why? I saw that picture. I know you don't mind sharing your house. Why do you really want us gone?” YOU’RE NOT THE ONE. I remembered that from the writings. “The one?” THE PERFECT ARTIST WHO WILL DRAW THE PERFECT PICTURE. “Why do you need this perfect artist and perfect picture?” THAT’S HOW I WILL MOVE ON. Move on… I assumed he was talking about some kind of afterlife or something, move on from being an angry spirit trapped in the living world. “Do you know who is?” HIM. Everything turned into slow motion. The pencil dropped to the ground, lifeless. My brother cried out, and I turned back towards him. He flew off the couch and down the hall, as if dragged by invisible hands. He ended up in his room, and the door slammed behind him and locked. I felt frozen to the spot, but I had to go after him. Time returning to normal speed, I sprinted to his room and tried the doorknob as if it would be magically unlocked somehow. I yelled at the spirit to “Let him out!” but there was no change. I could hear the soft whimpering of my baby brother, and I swore I was going to lose it. “Please,” I pleaded to the door. “Don't hurt him.” A sniffle and he softly called my name. I slid down the door as if sitting was going to bring me closer to his level, to him hearing me. “Yes? What is it?” “He wants me to draw for him.” His voice trembled fearfully. My brain was in overdrive trying to make sense of everything and figuring out what the best thing to do was. It was obvious that my brother had been chosen by Edd as the “perfect artist” or whatever and that the only way to get rid of the spirit would be to have him draw the “perfect picture.” “Is that all? Then draw. Draw your best picture. You're such a good artist. He's never going to ask for any other piece of art after this.” All jokes aside, my brother had been showing signs of phenomenal artistic talent from a young age. As horrifying as the results were at the moment, it actually made sense that he was chosen. “O-okay.” The following silence was almost unbearable, time dragging on at a snail’s pace. I was just glad that my parents and older brother were out. The click of a lock startled me out of my anxious thoughts. My brother stepped out, looking perfectly fine if a bit scared and shell-shocked. I immediately wrapped him in a hug, pulling him away from the room. “He started crying when I was done,” he murmured. “He took the picture and told me ‘Thank you’ and ‘Goodbye.’ And then he was gone.” “What did you draw him?” I wasn't sure I'd ever let go. “A cat. I think he called it Ringo.” That night, I left a pencil out on my nightstand, testing if Edd had really left us. To my surprise, he wrote one last message. On my ceiling, there were the two things he had told my brother. “Thank you” and “Goodbye.” And under the slightly used pencil was the picture of the four boys. Only, the boy that had been completely scratched out was now clear of marks. Edd was grinning up at me, a pencil clutched in his hand and a cat’s muddy paw print on his jeans.