#those 'all knowing' gods DO care enough about the 'insignificant' specks enough to try and help them in various ways even if it isnt direct

[pakeithpsy]

I give up, I give up.

I've simply decided that you are either born with this ancient, arcane unlearnable knowledge of how do draw with absolute speed and precision or you're born a talentless, mediocre loser who sucks at everything and cannot make anything above the level of "B+ middle school art student" no matter how many classes you take or what tools you use or how hard you try.

I don't understand it. I'm using the same tips, same tricks, same tools, same software, same default brush as all the pros yet they're somehow able to create beautiful, amazing masterpieces beyond comparison yet all I can make is ugly, shitty MS Paint garbage with soft lines and broken anatomy that wouldn't have even been impressive during the first year of Newgrounds. I was cursed to be born without a natural talent for drawing and now that the industry is dead and indie is the only way to go now I will never be able to live out any of my dreams, because my art sucks and nobody notices or cares about any of my original works and nobody ever will unless I dramatically improve enough to stand toe to toe with the aforementioned experts or somehow acquire huge amounts of money to hire people who actually can draw to do everything for me because I am a talentless, learning-disabled, anxiety-ridden wreck who can't even do the simplest task with any level of adequacy. That's literally the only way, except I live in the middle of nowhere, I was born into a family of nobodies with no artistic background, my job doesn't pay enough to afford a crew and would require me to save up for DECADES if not CENTURIES, and nobody knows who I am and nobody ever will because all my art is terrible and unremarkable and just gets lost in the ocean of the internet run by algorithms that favor corporations or unrealistic expectations for engagement.

I never even wanted to make the next Picasso, I just wanted to make silly little comics and cartoons that make people laugh, but apparently that's not good enough anymore. Now it's go big or go home, and I am the smallest, most insignificant, most incompetent and worthless speck of dust on the entire planet.

It doesn't even make sense. The key to the sharp UPA lines I've so desperately desired for the past 10 years of my art career are an elusive lost art and the closest I've been able to find is just make really fast strokes, but that's impossible. IF MY STROKES ARE TOO FAST THEY'LL JUST BE SLOPPY, ART IS A SLOW PROCESS, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MASTER THE ART OF DIGITAL DRAWING WHEN IT GOES AGAINST THE VERY RULES OF ART? Even my traditional art is barely impressive, and I feel like the only reason I've ever made anything even close to presentable with plain old pencils and paper is due to my art instructors holding my hand because I'm incapable of creating anything of remotely high quality on my own. That's why I wanted to join the industry - so that way I could focus on my strengths like writing and designing characters while the rest is handled by a team with expertiese in those fields while the studio provides the finances. BUT NOW I CAN'T. The industry is a shithole that hates creatives with a burning passion and only wants to churn out AI-generated reboot slop meaning indie is now the only way to go, and you can't go indie unless you're a big, famous superstar who can outperform Don Bluth and Richard Williams combined with a massive fanbase who will gladly shower you with money, which I don't have. Even when I did have a fanbase from making fetish garbage in Blender they wouldn't even cough up one measly dollar, and it didn't even matter anyway because they were equally entertained by stolen art. Besides, I can't even draw my own damn characters from different angles or in anything other than the basic A-pose, how am I supposed to instruct other artists how to do it, too?

So that's it, my dream is dead because God or whatever outside force that controls this horrid universe decided I do not deserve the gift of being able to draw amazingly or multitask or living a life of wealth and privilege and I'll never be able to change that because I cannot learn this information no matter what and nobody knows or cares who I am. I know SOME PEOPLE on that other godforsaken hellsite will try and go "WELL IT'S YOU'RE OWN FAULT BECAUSE YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE, HURR DURR". Bitch, you think I wanted this life?! Even when I was nice to you people and earnestly showing off my art and trying my damnedest to get myself out there and asking "Hey, does anybody need a writer????" none of you gave a shit! You know why? Because I suck, and because nobody knows who I am, and because the animation world hates writers unless their name is Dave Capdevielle! An audience for my work simply does not exist and social media's broken algorithms mean I can never, ever find one or realistically maintain that audience due to this obsession on making everything into "content" that exists only to be immediately consumed and generate profits for corrupt CEOs.

My whole goal in life was to go to animation school, get a degree, find some connections, and then join the industry so I could finally live my dream of being an animator. I couldn't even handle four months in online college, and now there's no point in even pursuing it because late-stage capitalism has completely destroyed both college and the industry for all but the most rich and famous. Life is a sick fucking joke.

I should've just killed myself in 2018 when I actually had the chance. Even if it meant never seeing any of my dreams come true it would have at least spared me from watching all my hopes and aspirations for the future crumble in real time and my family could've moved on and found new happiness and meaning in their life. I guess I'll just have to accept the fact that I'm a complete and utter failure as an artist and dedicate the rest of my miserable, obscure existence to working part time for slightly above minimum wage, and even that's not guaranteed. I should've never signed up for that stupid online class. I'd rather still be drawing complete and utter garbage with joy and confidence than mediocre, barely-passable concepts that will never see the light of day while being completely and utterly miserable.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

So to summarize:

"If Azazoth wakes up the universe ends" and "Shiva could Dr Manhattan anyone and anything out of existence by looking at them"

are mythologies that can and should co-exist, and picking just one is yet another example of FGO finding the one wrong answer and going with that.

they kept the shiva dr manhattaning ppl out of existence thing but ONLY for kama and ONLY to make shiva look like a colossal dick as well. like lets be real here if you were actively grieving your dead wife (who killed herself protecting your honor against her father no less), had made it explicitly clear you weren't ready/in the mood to remarry even if it was to her reincarnation, and some guy tried to love arrow you to get you to fall for said reincarnation anyway you might lose your temper! and he DID bring kama back to life as anaga as an apology in the actual myth, they just made it happen by accident in fate bc...idk screw the idea of a god trying to make up for hurting someone else i guess? this is off topic tho ghkldsf

like ideally if you wanted to make every religion canon AND absolutely had to bring powerscaling into it youd probably have it be something like current faith of believers+overall cultural impact+age of actual religion/myth/whathaveyou so you COULD give cthulu mythos some weight when up against like...idk the greek pantheon as it DID have a marked effect on specific styles of horror (ie it invented a new one) and is sort of known by most people in a pop culture kind of way (in that it is more relevant to the current cultural zietgiest than greek mythology. this is a bad example bc greek mythology is also still wildly popular just as the stories but ykwim). that being said no one really actually worships them, so actually having them square off against gods is...silly for lack of a better word?

and to use my previous example, if you wanted a like cthulu vs zeus showdown using the parameters i mentioned while its true that lovecraft mythos is much more well known/current to today and operates on a much larger cosmice scale, greek mythology and the culture it created HEAVILY influenced other mediterannean cultures which in turn heavily influenced a whole bunch of other cultures and that would need to be taken into account even if zeus is 'only' a thunder god. (ignoring that he was also actually worshiped, and for a far greater period of time than any lovecraft god)

so like, keeping all of the cosmic scale of the lovecraft gods but going 'uh well actually none of the other gods are like how you heard they were' is annoyingly inconsistent. even with whatever excuses they have re: sefar or whatever its just...bad storytelling. why is this one made up pantheon the only one exempt from their own rules, and why is it the one that actively seems to go against the franchise's general themes of the human spirit? it just BOTHERS me lol like picking and choosing when to follow or break their rules isnt at all new to fate but i think the fact that out of all the god pantheons they couldve left unaltered they chose the one invented by lovecraft touched a nerve in me.

this is all a very long way of saying that if azazoth DID exist and DID have all those powers it wouldnt even matter if he woke up bc the minute he even thought about stirring all the other equally omnipotent omniscient all-powerful gods from across cultures would simultaneously flip him off so hard hed cry

[jacksons-goddess-gaia]

The Dangers of Icicles~ Winter Hearts Imagine

❖ Ateez, San x gender neutral reader

❖ Imagine, angst, fluff, winter

❖ Warnings: Depression

❖ wc: 1385

❖ Tag List: @wonderland-obsession​ @queen-of-himbos​ @gettin-a-lil-hanse​ @atiny-piratequeen​ @atiny-dazzlinglight​ @not-majestic-bluenicorn​ 

❖ Masterlist ❖

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

This was made for the Winter Hearts event for Kdiarynet~ Let me know what you all think!

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

San wandered the streets, a aching hole in his stomach, eating its way through him to his heart. God how he hated the cold, how he cursed the winter storms that so abused the city streets. The squish of 'snow' beneath his feet felt more like slippery slime coating the soles of his boots. The 'cheery' glare of Christmas lights obnoxious reminder of the season of forced joy, inflicted upon them by capitalistic bastards, more than ready to make a profit off lower class citizens scraping together to try and purchase a piece of the happiness awarded to the 'more fortunate' members of society.

"Silver spoons." The irony of a display of cutlery in a shop window reminding him of an English saying Hongjoong had once taught him. Miserable, cold, wet, and downtrodden San made his way through the streets, feeling more miserable with every window he passed. He stopped trying to smile at those who bumped him as they passed, shooting gasping apologies and seasonal well-wishes to him, instead foraging forward. Shoulders hunched up by his ears, tinged pink by the bitter wind. The night air was rife with high shrieking laughter, the calls of it seemed forced and fake. A sobbing laugh left his chapped lips as he turned the corner, the very sound snatched away by the cold, the blaring sounds of overplayed Christmas tunes mocking him from all sides. San felt so small and insignificant as his feet slowed to a halt. Tears beading his long dark lashes.

Mr. Choi San, Ateez, and Atiny's proud mountain was so tiny and insignificant. A peon, no bigger than a speck among the tall glittering buildings of Seouls Yeongdong-daero shopping district. Unable to even lift his head up to the sky, San stared at the edge of the sidewalk, turned brown from salt and sand they scattered upon the snowy streets. The chill of freshly falling snow piling up around his ankles. His members were all relaxing, no one was doing recordings or practicing alone, even Hongjoong was relaxing and enjoying the holiday cheer back at the dorms with Seonghwa. He had never felt so alienated, so estranged and different. Why was he even here? To buy presents for his members?

In his heart he knew it was an excuse to get away from them, unable to join in their celebrations and jubilation, for what was there to be so happy about? This cursed season, no it was a constant reminder of how dark and lonely this world could truly be. And that's how he was now, alone in the dark streets of winter. A lone tear rolled down his cheek, frigid from the wind's bite it burned its icy touch into his skin as it fell. Desolation taking over his senses as hope left his limbs.

"Look out!" Shaken from his thoughts San was yanked backward. The force of the collision taking him off his feet, air leaving his lungs as he landed on his back, the fall barely cushioned by his padded jacket, and the snow upon the ground.

Dazed and gasping, San hardly noticed the screams of shock or the sound of breaking glass, in fact he didn't even notice the kind people who grabbed his arms hefting him back onto his feet, dusting him off.

He vaguely registered someone mention, how lucky he had been as they assisted a puffy coated figure up from beside him.

"Are you okay?" Your wind burned cheeks looked plump and cheery, better than the santa clauses that bedecked the stores and cards so prolific at this time of year.

your eyes sparkled in the light of the department store, so bright and adorable in your oversized sweater and puffer coat, skinny jeans now stained with the wet of snow. San nodded vaguely recognizing you as the new assistant manager from work. You had started just the month before, you had caught his attention previously, your sweet nature and caring disposition making you a uick favorite of the boys and staff alike.

"Oh! Sa-" You cut yourself even as you recognized him, off glancing around realizing that yelling his name might bring unwanted attention.

If you asked him later why he grabbed your hand in that next moment and raced away from the sidewalk, running oast the piece of pavement where he had once stood, now cracked and covered in shattered icicles, he would have no answer. Nor could he explain why the world seemed so uch brighter, the warmth of the christmas lights guiding his way, the firm crisp crunch of snow underfoot refreshing his spirit. There wasn't an answer for any of it. It was only after pulling you into a small cafe secluded away from the hustle and bustle of everyday shoppers that he relaxed.

"Are you okay?" San felt sheepish as you smiled up at him.

"Yes thank you." He bowed grateful, only to see how the knee of your jeans had been ripped during your tackle, the fabric soaked through from snow. "Oh no here-"

"No really it's fine! I'm just glad you're alright! Those icicles would have skewered you! I've always read about the dangers of icicles I never would have thought-" But as you rambled on about how many people died each year from falling icicles, and how buildings should be required to clear them off regularly, and how a one pound icicle falling at maximum velocity could break pavement let alone humans, San felt himself relaxing. For the first time that day, San felt a real smile break across his lips, listening to you as the warmth of the cafe seeped into your bones. The ice around his heart melting into a warm and ticklish mist.  "In Russia, there was once an icicle that hit-"

"Are you two going to order anything?" The barista's chipped words as she finally grabbed your attention caused your cheeks to flush in embarrassment, finally realizing you had been babbling.

"Sorry-" But before you could bow and offer to leave, San stepped forward.

"Two large peppermint hot chocolates with whipped cream." Gently pulling you forward, hand wrapping around yours San paid, before guiding you over to a table to wait.

"You don't have to-"

"Think of it as a thank you. You saved my life, hot chocolate is barely enough." He said grinning as you stopped trying to pay him back for it. "What are you doing around here anyway? Is your knee really okay?"

San was surprised to see you look down shyly shifting your bag in your lap.

"I was trying to pick out presents for you and the boys but I don't really know what you guys might like. Or that I can afford." San had never seen someone so cute. A happy giggle leaving his lips as he leaned forward plopping his chin in his hands, gazing fondly at you. Something felt so warm and comfortable, sitting there with you as shoppers passed by oblivious to your presence.

"Since I was shopping for them two, how about I make it up to you by helping you pick out presents, then I take you for dinner?" Maybe it was the Christmas lights, or the warm scent of peppermint and cinnamon in the air, or maybe how cute you looked in your Christmas attire, but San felt suddenly bold. He felt tall as the sky, shoulders squared and proud. Brown eyes twinkling as he gave you his most charming smile.

"Like a date?" Heat flushed your cheeks as the barista set your cups down in front of you both, candy cane straws protruding from their bed of marshmallow and whipped cream. The bluntness of your question making his own cheeks flush pink, a nervous chuckle escaping his throat.

"If you'd like to."

Looking at your beaming smile melted away the last of the cold in his bones. Suddenly the season seemed so sweet and beautiful. A feeling of joyous thrill filling his stomach with butterflies.

"Lead the way, mister Choi San." Sometimes, it was the little things, San would decide later. Like laughing at a particularly atrocious sweater together that helped make the season bright. His seasonal depression abated by the beauty of the moments spent with you.

And again upon seeing the others surprise Christmas morning as you both wandered out of his room sleepy eyed, and grinning in your matching if truly and horrifically obnoxious onesies.

Let me know what you think!

[alchemist-shizun]

Nothing changes

Word Count: 1,456

Character(s): Roman

Pairing(s): None

Warning(s): Self-deprecation, toxic parenting, negative thinking, toxic relationship implied

Summary: So. Roman couldn't take all those subtle insults anymore. And what could he do about it? Apart from waiting it out until he could live by himself, absolutely nothing.

A/N: Hope you don't mind a vent fic

✾

Middle school.

Roman had been one of the lucky kids.

Not necessarily liked by every single one of his classmates, but not much disliked by them at all. Bullying hadn't bothered him in any of his school years, in fact he wasn't even sure it happened that frequently in their institute.

He had his fair share of friends, his grades were all pretty high, apart from the occasional maths test impossible to comprehend, he had an older sister that minded her own business and parents that assured him a decent lifestyle.

He didn't have much to worry about, only the normal teenage dilemmas.

« What's that? »

« Huh? »

« You have something on your face. »

Only the normal teenage dilemmas.

Roman had been up for less than an hour, talking wasn't exactly his best skill at that moment, but otherwise, he would have angered his father if he stayed silent, which was the last thing he needed as he was the one to take him to school.

« It's a mole. » no matter how many times he told him, his dad never remembered he had a mole on top of the bridge of his nose. He always said he had a dirty spot.

« No, not that one. » the man pointed his finger on his forehead.

Roman reached and found an uneven spot on his skin. Oh god no, not now. Why did puberty have to hate teens like that?

Well, what did he have to do about it?

His father returned to his newspaper reading on his phone and didn't give out any input: Roman guessed he had to fix it by doing nothing and wait for it to disappear.

Only that, it didn't disappear. It spread into many others along his face and he slowly developed the urge to press them all, to which, eventually, he gave in.

Of course, his dad's derision wasn't late to the party either.

Every single bit of interaction they had ultimately focused on some part of Roman's body he didn't like, anything that wasn't exactly perfect was his ideal easy target. And it wasn't like Roman could disagree, what he said were simple facts that subtly left him feeling offended.

That little speck of time they spent together in the morning before and during their car ride to the school, lunch, dinner, the only times they were around each other were enough of a reason for some criticizing to take place.

He felt his pride sink down with every word, but he hung on his sister's words. « It's normal, he was like that with me, too. »

That meant he was going to stop, right?

He told himself way too many times that his arguments with his father were simple routine during his age for him to believe it anymore.

High-school.

« So, how did it go? » Roman's mother was sleeping on the couch, while his dad sat next to her, brand new iPad in his hands.

Why, you actually care?

« It went well, our art teacher is hilarious. » he eyed him while eating some pasta his mum had cooked as he was coming home. His father got up to get ready for work again.

« Yeah? »

« Mhm. He- » Roman smiled as he was talking. Bad decision, he shouldn't have done that.

The man narrowed his eyes at him. « Wait. » he got closer and basically inspected his face, demanding him to keep his mouth open as if he were at the dentist.

Even with no audience to see that scene, that was one of the most embarrassing things he asked him to do. Suddenly, he was reminded of that one time he had started to sniff his hair like some kind of dog, trying to prove the point that he smelled bad instead of simply saying "hey, take a shower". 

« Can't you see your teeth are a bit crooked? »

« I've had braces for five years. »

« I know, but I still don't think they're, you know, perfect. » he marked the last word with emphasis as if he didn't actually mean that word.

« Whatever. » Roman added in a low tone, defeated by yet another imperfection he couldn't fix. It wasn't like that wasn't the first time he told him that.

« What? » his dad's eyes grew hard.

Fix it, you idiot.

Panic rose in his chest, his heartbeat increased and he felt his mind racing. All for an insignificant answer.

« Ah. Nothing important. »

His father eyed the clock and fled the scene as he noticed he was getting late. Shortly thereafter, his mother would have followed.

It went like that for literal years.

His hair, his face, his teeth, his body, his fingers. He talked and his father never listened, he only focused on something to pick on him. Something he could use to graze his self-esteem away bit by bit.

Until nothing about him really appealed him anymore. Until Roman started avoiding mirrors by instinct, until he tried to cover everything with makeup but eventually failed cause he never had enough time.

Until he stopped saying "thank you" to compliments and instead started disagreeing. "I don't believe you", "That's not true", "You're talking about yourself".

He forgot how to accept people's love, which led to him having a twisted version of it in his mind. When his first boyfriend arrived, he thought being more mocked than appreciated was the normality for everybody. He thought having "I hate you" being told to him instead of "I love you" was fine. That the only time his boyfriend ever meant he sincerely loved him had to be in very rare and extreme circumstances and he didn't even remember when that had happened last. 

And when he stopped talking to him for days as punishment since he got annoyed at Roman for simply existing, Roman believed he deserved it and coexisted with the anxiety and anguish while waiting for him to come back.

It took him almost two years to recover from that, at least partially. 

Two years to be able to love again and know better.

But his father didn't stop. Sure, he might have slowed down, but never ceased to point out the first thing that came in his mind. 

Roman developed anxiety at the sole thought of them being in the same room, of his dad stomping his feet while going up the stairs, of when he opened a door with that usual loud noise. His almost constant yelling. Him creeping up behind him to read his messages, him sitting next to or in front of Roman during meals. His father just being there with his forever angered presence.

« Why does your face look like that? »

God please why, I'm just eating, leave me alone, just go to work I beg you.

Roman shrugged. 

« Have you looked in a mirror? » as a matter of fact, no. « You're full of red spots, you're going to end up with a ruined face. But if that's what you want. »

The only thing I want as of now is ripping my entire face off, thank you very much.

He felt numb, but at the same time a fiery rage rumbled in his stomach. He just had to ... repress it. Like any other time.

In the meantime, his dad had started making a fuss out of it, calling his very tired wife to take a look at his son and "tell him what they had to do to fix that". 

With a knowing look of "yes, I know this is normal, we all went through this when we were young apart form him, apparently", she said nothing and waited for him to stop rambling. 

« Well, whatever. Bye. » and, as fast as he came, he was gone, storming down the stairs to get to his car.

And Roman? 

Well, Roman sat there, ripping apart a slice of bread the way he would have wanted to rip apart either his existence or his own father. That was a choice he would have left to fate. 

He didn't exactly register anything his mother told him, ignoring the same old recording he always went through when it came to his face's imperfections.

He went upstairs and didn't really bother to open the windows or think about the huge amount of studying the had to do.

He laid on his bed in the darkness that his eye adjusted to too quickly. Then, he pulled out his earbuds and drowned himself in music.

The urges he felt and the anger at the pit of his stomach slowly disappeared as he distracted himself with the melodies.

Nothing else really mattered. 

[florcarrow]

Merlin’s beard, what is ( FLORA CARROW ) doing out at this hour? For a ( PUREBLOOD ) who is ( 17 ) years old, ( SHE ) really ought to know better. You know, I hear that they’re aligned with ( THE NEUTRALS ), but that could be just a rumor. I do know that they’re ( A CIS-WOMAN ) and a ( SLYTHERIN ) student though. They’re very ( QUAINT ) and ( INTROSPECTIVE ) but also quite ( STOIC ) and ( HAUGHTY ), which could be why they remind of ( STAINED PAGES, FROM CRUSHED LILLIES IN THE PLACE OF BOOKMARKS; GHOSTLY WHISPERS FROM THE INSIDE OF A CLOSED ROOM, ALLUDING TO ANGER, TO FEAR, TO LOVE; THE SOUND OF BUBBLING AND FOAMING, BUT THE ABSENCE OF WARMTH ). Some people say they’re the spitting image of ( SOPHIE TURNER ), but I’ve never heard of them. ( &&. CAMI. 19. GMT. SHE/HER. )

hey yall, cami here. i’m really tired but take this please ily k bye

THE CARROWS

" we are the children of magic itself. " her mother used to put it all in quite a poetic manner. the small house, gloomy and damp, had a floating candle under each painting and photograph of long-forgotten carrows, once the ministers and headmasters of entire generations. blunders happened along the way, as it happened to every other pureblood family, and the paintings were thrown in the fireplace or into the creek running behind the property - the carrows had a deeply ingrained culture of glorifying their legacy, but ruthlessly turning it to ash should it not benefit them.

the great fortune of old was wasted by lavish living, and by the time achos carrow married to an insignificant selwyn, the debt ran deep - certainly aided by the heavy involvement of the family in the first wizarding war. in the stories flora was told, they were martyrs, sacrificing their kin and gold for a greater purpose, mourning the injustice of her uncle amycus and aunt alecto, behind bars. of course, it was easy to let stories fester in the minds of children, miles away from the truth - achos and ellaine had moved to a plot of land hidden between the welsh mounds shortly before their children arrived, and for far too many years, they lived mostly in their own forgotten country, where north was down, south was up, history was a puzzle they would rearrange.

their marriage is a happy one, the product of two lifelong friends with their minds set on one cause only, with the same trains of thought. after giving birth to twin girls, the couple saw in them the tabua rasa they so yearned for at work, in the department of magical education. try as they might, children had entire lives before going to hogwarts, and their efforts, even if the rest of the department wasn't in the way most times, was purely too little too late. hestia and flora would change that, becoming their personal experiments.

CHILDHOOD

given how well little flora took to stories, the carrows would spend endless hours sitting down with her, spewing all thoughts they saw fit, and she'd stare, deep in concentration, quiet end still, what an exemplary student. the image they so carefully curated of a small, charming and polite family was spreading.

soon, however, the well-screened tutors and especially the words of her parents were not enough. flora took to reading as soon as she learned how, and in books she could find new subjects, different people they'd never mentioned, fantasy that sounded much more real than the hollow concept of the dark lord. magic was all around her, but in those pages and in the dusty illustrations she felt every spell. once a little girl who did not ask questions, flora became a fountain of confusions, mostly met with 'who told you that?'.

the frustration towards the younger twin only grew over time. flora's favourite game became a sort of hide and seek, where she'd hide somewhere in the house or the rest of the property, telling no soul or perhaps hestia, at times, and waiting until the screams with her name began. it was fascinating to count how long it took for her little world to notice her absence, how they'd react, how sometimes her mother would begin crying after some hours, how a relative or family friend might be called in to help scour the fields for the little girl. there was something powerful in observing annoyance, anger, and above all fear, yet control when it all starts, when it all ends. in a place strictly manipulated by the two gods of the house, this was when she turned the tables, even if just for a bit. eventually, however, concern faded away. by twelve, she could disappear for the longest stretches, as long as she returned without a speck of dirt and in time for lessons or dinner - and of course, if she didn't meet with anyone but the household.

as a sidenote, someone bring hestia, lets plot more then, cmON

HOGWARTS

before going to hogwarts, flora and hestia had gone to the usual parties and celebrations the purebloods so fancied, and some ministry events where they could be shown off like school projects. they hadn't, however, seen much more than that. the prospect of getting wands, robes, boarding on a train - all little things that identified them as beings, individuals who were more than just a name and affiliation - it meant the world for flora. she relished in the way the shop owner told her father he couldn't keep giving flora the wands the man suggested until the exact one he envisioned worked. she held her ticket with the care one touches thin glass. she walked around the train with a smile thrown at every other first year kid, even began conversations with some. some people in her year still tease her about how much she's changed since that day.

the hat placed on her head took a minute or so to decide, being pulled in the directions of slytherin and ravenclaw, but flora knew which answer would make her parents, two slytherin alumni, the most satisfied. now she wonders if the opposite choice would have positioned her in any way farther away from the heart of the conflict.

flora grew quite happy at hogwarts. the library was the stuff of dreams, the classes a fresh new world, and she'd been lucky enough (or so she'd thought) to have gone to school the same year as the boy who lived, a story that she could never quite believe, even with the boy sitting in class right in front of her. in many ways, flora saw herself as the observer of the perfect spectacle throughout the years, her journals serving as the proof that she'd been the face in the crowd of the myths. flora read other points of view at the library, and heard them in her common room, creating in her mind her own narrative of harry potter, of the war, of the carrows.

her personal library grew even more during school. the easy access to other kids and to hogsmeade resulted in trunks getting heavier and heavier every summer, even sometimes with muggle names she couldn't dare let her family see. to her, none of that ever mattered. words were words, no matter who wrote them, and all she cared about was what incredible tales they told and how they made her feel.

her studious nature thrived at hogwarts, and her grades, while not beyond impressive, were rather good. flora always loved potions above all. she did quite well at all subjects, but she got into the slughorn club not only because of her name, but because of her talent. it was the one thing that felt precise and rational when everything else wasn’t.

while she was a quiet figure, either lurking in some forgotten couch in the common room, on her bed, or beneath a tree, flora showed to the people at hogwarts something her parents only got inklings of. her words often carried venom, and her words an edge as sharp as a cut - a few people even got frontstage to what happened when flora carrow held too much of that poison in herself and it spilled out, the burning flame of anger, the way her voice would at last raise above a whisper.

her parents feared that spark they sometimes saw. she was becoming a volatile little thing, a disgrace upon their projects and a threat to the legacy they'd been so carefully building. a few months ago a discussion began over what to do, a very public one, as a way to instill fear in the girl: perhaps flora needed a proper marriage plan, just like her grandparents and just like far too many of her peers - someone who'd control her, who'd bring some much-needed coin to the family, someone to DISTRACT her. they did, after all, always know of her affection for hopelessly romantic tales, even if they'd never heard of any boy she'd daydream of (and they never would). perhaps flora needed a goal, a purpose like the oath other people from her school had taken upon, like her uncle and aunt before her. a good potioneer like her could become a valuable investment for the dark lord.

HEADCANONS

as much as flora hates to admit it, there’s this hunger for power in the back of her mind that she can’t shut down. she enjoys feeling important, like the name she carries or the blood in her veins places her higher in a contest for worthiness.

umbridge was a personal friend of her parents, and flora saw her as the intrusion of the manipulating hand she knew all summer in the few months she had of freedom. resenting it, she did the most to fail the class, being called to her office often to discuss how her parents would be embarrassed and how dolores believed she could do much better. she just barely finished it.

how does flora feel about the whole muggleborn ‘debate’? she never really cared about it. it was too removed from her. it never personally affected her. she didn’t go out of her way to bully and attack muggleborns or ‘blood traitors’, but she wouldn’t exactly tell others to stop. perhaps insist that she was bored and they should just leave. she never stopped to analyze why she did that sometimes. she just doesn’t care. in fact, all of the events of late seem to barely make an impression upon her, except when they come with the threat of her having to actively participate in it. flora sees the entire conflict as the mighty pureblooded families losing relevancy and trying their hardest to gain it back; a petty little thing - she doesn't, however, grasp the reality that people have died for it, and innocents have been murdered. the details require emotional introspect she does not possess.

she is !! practically mute but if u get her to talk u see bitch is actually very angry?? all the time?? hulk whomst.  angry and annoyed and detached

flora has a hard time grasping the emotional weight of events unless she's writing about them. ever since she can remember, flora has kept journals, parts of it accounts of her days, most of it short stories and poems that serve as practice writing and as a fictionalization of the harsh reality around her. reading dumbledore's murder or the murder of ministry officials little stories about the fragility of mankind and the shortcomings of magic simply makes it easier to understand and cope with.

she loves potions and books. her dream is to just be an old witch living in a forest cottage in wales with ten cats and an equally as quiet girlfriend, brewing the potions that take weeks to complete, writing poems she forgets to put away, the scent of lavender in the air almost sickening.

flora has a little garden at home which she loves with all her heart. she truly cares for her plants, despite how much on the nose that is with her name. at hogwarts she keeps a couple of small pots hidden in the greenhouse.

doesn't own a single pair of jeans or pants. will live her entire life in dresses and skirts and is just fine like that.

she thinks the people fighting against the death eaters are also stupid and cruel. literally takes the term neutral and turns it into apathy and will openly speak about it with that specific dosage of venom should she trust you enough.

your back hurts? your hair needs to grow faster? want to poison someone? flora will gladly brew little batches of potions in her spare time and sell them within school grounds.

lowkey needs a hug and someone who'll take the time to really listen to hER

she also likes to walk around at night, trying her best not to get caught at home by her parents and by prefects at school. it freaks people out when at 3am they hear footsteps and the light from a wand, even if just around the room or the common area. she likes the creepy factor, completely embraces it, people sometimes find her reading with her back to their front doors or doing homework behind some plants in the greenhouse. dark forgotten places are her places.

she has a cat, he’s old and ugly and his name is moros like the greek god of doom. he hates everyone, most times including flora. he's not a nice cat and she'd tear a man limb by limb for him.

flor is constantly writing. unfinished projects are her thing. poetry, prose, plays, journaling. poetry is what she usually dedicates herself most. she has an eye for rhythm in words, and feelings. everything she writes is always either too hopeful and naive, or pessimistic and sad. she doesn’t know an in-between. that goes to say for her life as well. flora dreams of all the pretty perfect pure things she knows aren’t real. all the well-intentioned kisses and soft pink flowery dresses flowing in the wind, and small cottages in the middle of a field and delicate generations old tea sets. this pristine romanticized aesthetic

on the other hand, when her writing is sad, it’s not just sad. it’s miserable. it’s worrying. she talks about that even less. all the scary intrusive thoughts that come to her mind. all the holes she can’t explain why she could never fill. all the numbness that attacks her some days and she can’t fight it back. this loneliness that makes no sense.

okay in a nutshell, she loves her sister more than anything and anyone in the world, she is more naive than she lets on, she doesn’t let on much because she’s so quiet, she loves books and has pretty hair. this wasn’t mentioned anywhere but she does.

[cookiecutterwrites]

Infinite/simal

Summary: Several years ago, immortality hit the market. A man struggles to piece together what happened next.

Genre: Spec fic. Apocalyptic elements.

Word count: 1660

Read more of my short fic here.

Infinite/simal

August the 16th, 2019. That’s the last date I remember. Everything after that… is a slip of the mind, a slip of the tongue, slipping away, like water between fingers.

I remember the pill, powder blue and lacquered. It arrived in a little opaque plastic cup.

The air was still. The facility, stuffy. But I couldn’t complain; I’d gone with my mates. It was a slow summer and we’d wheedled from place to place, like pack animals, bloodhounds, hot on the scent of a quick buck.

Our tablets were identical, but theirs were of sugar and water.

I had no such luck.

Initially, the pharmacists didn’t find anything. The drug was ineffective, the study, declared a failure and never published. They would catch the side-effects a decade later. When people started to notice. It was then, the formula was reclaimed and redistributed at an astronomical premium. To billionaires and likewise worldly men, it was a boon.

Life in a Pill!, they claimed, Just one dose and you too could be everlasting!

My friends grew weathered, lines etched at the corners of their eyes. (I can’t remember their names.) Soft hair turned brittle and grey. But we defied the passage of time. Away fell the shackles of the ticking clock; we could exist oblivious to such constraints.

For the first century or two, it was contagious. An industry emerged dedicated to bestowing eternal life to those who could pay. The packages were plastic back when such materials were legal. There were alternative syntheses, loyalty schemes, smugglers… We didn’t like the advertisements at the time, so gaudy, so bold. Insincere. They claimed the impossible, Eternal youth. The truth is, we did not feel young. Perhaps we looked to be so on the outside. Everything happened so quickly in those days. I miss the good old days. Before it all fell apart.

It didn’t take long for the reports to leak. We’d known the number of complaints doubled or tripled everyday, and that the cache was destined to burst eventually. When it did, it was a sweeping epidemic, indiscriminate. Every continent had its own share of horror stories. Everyday, anchors read from freshly decrypted files; meticulous documentation of yet another starry enterprising inventor, biologically only 45, chronologically much older, turning up in a hospital far from the prying eyes of relatives, having thrown back a cocktail of the most dangerous poisons known to man. He’d still be breathing. Still screaming. Required a round-the-clock team to hold him down. Always cognizant, never unconscious. Felt in minute detail, the walls of his veins dissolving a little more with every beat of his traitorous, hungry heart.

We do not know what it means to ‘succumb’. We have lost that ability.

Shortly thereafter, manufacture cracked down everywhere. The exposure spurred the boycotts. I do not like to say exposure. There is nothing to expose if it was never hidden. We had long suspected the dark trappings of this curse, and yet countless others failed to learn from our mistakes, failed to resist the pull of eternal life, of scorning death and knowing infinity. Some realized too late, they cried though they’d already spelled their doom in the stubborn droplets clinging to the bottom of a glass. Stranger still, is how folks continued to join our ranks long after the industry collapsed. Perhaps they had been waiting for the right moment to step outside of time. Perhaps there was a black market. I don’t know. I didn’t do much but sun in those days.

Today, there is no sun. Only black, stormy skies. From the volcanic ash. A thick, uninterrupted blanket of soot.

I wanted my great-great-granddaughter to have a dignified funeral --- she’s one of the few faces I remember -- but they don’t do that anymore. They leave the dead in mass unmarked graves because no one will care for them after they stop breathing. There is no one to dress the body, and no one will be left to remember them. At least, no one is supposed to be.

There are no priests now. Faith died with those lost in the rising tides and the earth-shattering quakes, their tombs sealed by tumulting pyroclasts and rivers of lava. What kind of God lets his people suffer so senselessly?

People revere us instead, they say, You’ll live through this, I wish I were you. I want to say, You’ll wish you weren’t. At least where you’re going, you’ll be with the people you love, but I mustn't. What kind of God decries the wishes of his people?

The few of us left sought each other out. I don’t know how long we’ve been wandering, but it helps to move, helps to ignore the broken hearts and broken promises. To run from what’s passed.

We’re all alike here, the only things alive on this dying rock.

We wish we still knew how to succumb.

The first one I met was a billionaire, round-faced, balding on top, and never without a winning smile. He’d wanted to be legend, to build an empire. He distrusted his young protege, and in a drunken stupor, vowed to never retire. He’s stayed true to his word to this very day.

The next was a hardened criminal, disillusioned. He’d lashed out unpredictably until we earned his trust.

(There had been a short window in an earlier century when the abolition of the death penalty and the introduction of the miracle pill overlapped. In that window, someone proposed something radical -- it was more cruel than what it replaced, but that was a time before the industry was looked down upon. It was a strange time, when people sought to incorporate the pill in all facets of life.)

He’d escaped a maximum-security prison when an earthquake tore down the walls of his cell. It took him another 4 days to crawl out of the rubble, dragging useless, broken legs behind him. He’d been 358 years into his sentence. He doesn’t even remember what he did.

Next, was a couple. The woman, scarred and frail, the years plain to see in her milky eyes, like scraped and ground glass. Entire lifetimes constantly brimmed and dripped down her cheeks. The man was decades her elder, but not chronologically. They grew up in a poor neighborhood and married young. Just a year after having their first child, she fell terribly ill; she said her goodbyes one morning, and that very afternoon, he gifted her with deathlessness. It had taken his life savings. It would be another 40 years before he’d scrounge up enough to afford just one other tablet for himself. To them, it was obvious they couldn’t live without one another. The pill was discontinued before they could buy one for their only daughter.

As for me, when they ask, I tell them about the sugar pills.

I so love these stories. There’s a thrill in recalling how we used to measure time, in years, weeks and days. When things had a start and an end. We’d reminisce on when time was tangible, concrete, something to interact with, something to contend with, when it slipped away between fingers. How delicious it was to be jettisoned forward through something, like rocks skipping across a lake. How we miss the airy rush of cessation.

Now, we talk about the inconsequential, focus on what we can still change. Though we slip often. The round-faced man reminds us we are mere specks in the vastness of space and insignificant in the all-encompassing span of history. We do not heed him much. We share in an unspoken understanding that we will still be here after this universe and the next is long gone. We don’t know how we know this. We just do. And it doesn’t scare us. After all, we’ve endured this much.

We sit around a fledgeling fire, nestled in the shadow of some ancient fallen metropolitan, breathing in rust and smoke. We listen to the strumming of a makeshift instrument and sing show tunes from childhood. (He’d rest his misshapen legs and insist the singing was necessary for his survival. Soon enough, it became necessary for all of ours.)

The round-faced man peers up at the dark skies, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun, moon, stars, anything to tell night from day. He’s trying to give time meaning again, if only he could count the days. He’s been trying for as long as I’ve known him. But he hasn’t seen anything yet.

Sometimes the couple are silent. Sometimes, they chatter about the plants. How they miss such greenery. They declared life wouldn’t survive without sunlight, they knew it with such conviction. (Except for us. Never us. What we have must not be life.) Other times, they wept for their family, their friends, for their little girl. For the child who so reminded them of her, discovered her after the end -- sprightly, crooked teeth. They don’t talk about her much. I can only guess she never wanted to grow up. They’d tried to take her in but she was insatiably curious and wandered to the ocean ridge where the lava attacked the water. She couldn’t swim. So they wept for the little girl in the boiling sea, for scalding water burned her lungs. Her screams went unheard, mingling with the blasts of steam bursting from the surface. She drowned. Is drowning. Will continue to drown.

As for me, I busy myself recording. I am recording this right now, I record what I remember, what I see. And I hope that when you read this, it is a day when I am no more. When I do not exist, not in memory or name. Because only then, will I finally be able to rest.

Remembering is such pain, I try not to remember at all. I record in hopes that I won’t have to remember. Perhaps one day, I will remember it all. Perhaps in time -- I’m not in a rush.

[the-mf-bread-babies]

28/7/2020

— TRUE VOLUME ONE —

VOL 4, ACTUALLY, BUT WHATEVER.

R. W. NORTH

i dedicate this volume to no one except for me bc i was the only one who wrote this. self love ok

_________________________________

CHAPTER ONE

“Halle Berry Did Two Movies Like This”

Damon was kidnapped. This is bad. Oh, there should probably be some explanation behind this. Sorry.

_________________________________

CHAPTER 0.5

“Short × Backstory × Summaries”

After four years of the most iconic event the universe had ever experienced, The Sixth Augmentation, also known among the locals as The Fusion, Doomsday, and several other names, one particular group of people had formed a good family amongst themselves. This family had three human members and several other non-human members, including, but not limited to, cats, banshees, ghosts in general, reptiles, and beings our planet couldn't invent through biology and even through thought.

This family's main members were Dennis and Aaron, and Damon and Sawblade. Their whole lives were completely changed after having to stick together in a ghost town and raise chickens and cows and plant crops for food. That sounded like a description for a rom-com or something. This is not a rom-com. Well… yet.

The family had settled down in the 74th district of the third Earth that joined the Amalgamation. The district had possessed a variety of… everything, really. The Eiffel Tower was a few blocks away, there was an upsidedown barn there, half of a condominium building, a quarter of a Tesco, and god knows what else. This diverse array of resources had been responsible for new buildings in the area that combined specialties from around the world, and while they were mostly fusion restaurants, there still existed things like Tesco cosplaying events and such. Apocalypses bring odd things to the world, and some are worth trying… for example, otherworldly foods.

This subject was a difficult topic to tackle among the residents there. Mainly, the dangers and morality of doing such a thing– you'd have to consider the effects it would bring to your health, if you're harming their ecosystem, if you're harming the people who lived with the beings before it was introduced to you– it really had to be quite challenging to negotiate a good compromise.

Well, except for Aaron. Meet Aaron… again, this time, since he's changed a lot after what happened. Aaron Russell is a simple man; most of the things he does in life are things a normal person does– eat, sleep, have companions– everyone does that, but not the way he does.

Even before he entered the amalgamation, he was always trying new things, mainly foods, but also things like video games and hobbies. Yes, the sight of the contents of his fridge could bring a stroke to someone from a hundred years ago, because goddamn, is he dangerously experimental.

The reason Aaron doesn't enter discourse on things as insignificant as what one eats is because while he does acknowledge the fact that the opinions of the natives on who should consume their resources should be very much respected, he also knows that it's human nature to hunt, to explore, and to be curious, as long as it isn't endangering oneself. He would eat risky foods, but anything that sets off his fight-or-flight instincts if he saw it live is definitely a no-no. Even though he's an adventurer at heart, he follows the rules and does what's right. But goddamn it, if he gets disappointed at a failed experiment, he's never touching anything resembling that. So, in his opinion, the safest route to an entertaining journey is…

Video games.

His library of games range from first-person shooters to slime rancher, from dating simulators to… well, a majority of video games nowadays have dating in them. But yeah, Assassin's Creed, Metal Gear, Borderlands, Spider-Man, Life is Strange, Smash Bros, and Luigi's Mansion are just some of the many franchises he's into. And then the companions, God, I mean, the man lives in a haunted house with his co-worker, some random kid and, like, thirty cats. He's friends with mythical beings, now. If anything, the amalgamation changed his life for the way better.

Dennis, on the other hand… is sort of the opposite. While escaping from certain clearly bad conditions is something he absolutely loves, he doesn't really know where to go after that, since he didn't really think it was possible. His family was bad, he joined Aaron's. Then? What was he supposed to do, cut them off after decades of living with them? Thankfully, the augmentation came along. Dennis is a man who daydreams about living a life he couldn't possibly achieve, but when he does, he didn't plan ahead. To get to this amount of joy in his life was unfathomable for him; back before he moved out of his hometown, he was essentially living a lie.

His life was planned out for him– move out at 20, get a stable job at 22, marry his old high school girlfriend his parents keep bothering him about at 25, and forever dread his life starting at age 27. Then, kids at 30. Even though this life seemed to be nice, and even to him had its benefits, he still hated it. Sure, he would be open for a very short-term relationship with Chloe from French 2, but jeez, is she super republican.

Dennis's views on life differed significantly from his family's, and even though he disliked seeing anything that reminded him of them, he still moved around in the Midwest, and stopped when…

he saw a certain someone at Krispy Kreme.

Now, everything is history. He and Aaron renovated the old family workshop into a pet store, and thankfully, business was way better. Not only did Gabriel start up a traveling psychic service and Lan, a plant store, but even Dennis sold a lot of art. All thanks to the Krispy Kreme store at the end of the street that was…

… crushed by a condominium building. See, this is where it all gets messed up. The Russell family surely had enough members for now, Gabriel and Lan didn't want any grandchildren in the near future, and so did Aaron and Dennis, but, well, something, or rather someone, came along.

Here's Damon Eddmil Ameakfen, or “Nomad Middle Fakename,” after unscrambling the anagram. He, like Dennis, also couldn't really care less if he, or his family, suddenly disappeared out of nowhere. Outside of having a number of inconveniences, the thought of it doesn't bring any emotional distress to him.

Instead, Damon finds joy in finding out practically everyone he's ever known could've died as soon as he arrived on Eris-6, knowing those unlucky dumbasses don't deserve… well, not exactly ‘they don't deserve to live,’ but really, it's what they all believed, except directed towards Damon and others like him.

If Damon stayed on Earth-3 forever, and in that same, depressing place, he'd be dead by now, really. He's not exaggerating or whatever, he'd probably either kill himself or get killed. Whatcha gonna do.

But, obviously, he's still living, and it's all thanks to Aaron and Dennis for their acknowledgement and appliance of common sense when it comes to living. That sounds like he came from a family of very dangerous carpenters, but really, if anyone important in his old life had even a speck of common sense in analysing people and knowing what's right and wrong about someone, he probably wouldn't have been so suicidal.

So thanks, Aaron and Dennis.

CHAPTER 0.75

“What's Going On Now, Though?”

Moving on to the present, the Russell family now are the only living inhabitants of [town name.] The others were tragically moved into NULL by their forceful officers. Now, they live in stealth, their identities changed. After years of searching, NULL had classified them as deceased and had closed down inspections within the town. However, they still had to be very cautious about their actions– they never went outside the city, and they always preferred to travel in tunnels and alleys, always moving around in the shadows.

For months, they believed NULL was no longer their biggest concern in living there, but unfortunately they were proven wrong.

Apparently, surprise inspections are a thing.

This story's true beginning takes place in March of 2025. Even though it was supposed to be spring, winter still ruled the other seasons because of the location of the district. After years of only experiencing the same season, the family got used to it– except for Damon…

Damon hailed from Malaysia, which, by the way, doesn't have the luxury of experiencing four seasons. Although he did visit Cameron Highlands once as a kid, living somewhere where the temperature was constantly below zero had proved to be a very difficult struggle to him. The unforgiving climate constantly cursed him with fevers and frostbite. Despite that, he absolutely loves the gloomy, cold weather, and wishes he could spend his entire life there, cozily wrapped up in three blankets.

This problem had a butterfly effect on him being kidnapped, though. Snow was one of Damon's favourite things about the climate, and that meant he went outside a lot. He usually made it home safely, except for one unlucky day.

CHAPTER 0.875

“The Abduction”

It was a normal day for the Russell family. They followed their daily routines, but unfortunately, NULL intervened.

“Hoodie, other hoodie, three scarves, watch, bracelets, mittens, metal bat, pepper spray, water, keys, backpack, hockey mask…” Damon muttered to himself, “I think that's all.” He walked over to the dining hall, meeting Dennis and Aaron. “Hey, I'm heading out,” “want anything?” He asked, his face almost covered to protect him from the cold. “Uh, not really. We're outta cereal, though,” Dennis replied, petting Sawblade, who was laying on the dining table. “Moisturizer, if there's any.” Aaron requested, eyes unmoving from his year-old newspaper, annoying Damon slightly. “What brand… what kind… which outlet… how much… just moisturiser, or a whole set?” Aaron pondered for a while, “Two,” “from Wal-Mart.” he teasingly replied. Damon rolled his eyes and stomped out the door. “Heh…” Aaron smirked.

Damon walked outside and immediately jumped facedown into the snow, making a snow angel. “hheheheheheeeheheh” “snoww” he giggled, rolling around. “Okay, enough of that. You're 19, dude,” the man muttered to himself disappointedly, dusting off the snow from his clothes and readjusting them. “Moisturiser… cereal… um…” he thought. “Yeah, that's all.”

Damon continued walking before realising something he forgot. “Camo! Shit!” He yelled, completely disguising as a snowman, carrot and all. He bounced along the street, as it was the least sketchiest way to go to the shops there. As soon as he reached the grocery store, he dropped his empty backpack onto the ground and faced the other way, ignoring the store.

Damon noticed the usual sound of rustling leaves, followed by the backpack being swiftly dragged across the pavement. Chittering, and after that, the bag was thrown back at him. It was packed with the groceries he wanted, and a bottle of shampoo. “Hey, my hair's not that bad.” Damon commented sadly, facing the store again. A small, teasing chitter shot back, making him narrow his eyes. “Sure, yeah, whatever, man,”

Damon hopped back home, questioning what the being, or beings, running the grocery store were, but eventually accepting that he'll never know that. Suddenly, loud squeaks grabbed his attention. It sounded like it came from the store, but why? Did he get the wrong order? Did he steal something on accident? What's going on? Damon anxiously thought of all the horrifying possibilities until he saw what he never thought would terrorise that city again.

NULL agents.

Despite his efforts to escape and hide as fast as possible, an agent caught him and chased him. Damon, seeing this, scuttled underneath a passageway they never used. It lead to a tunnel that they tried to develop for the past year, but ultimately failed to do so. Luckily, it was the perfect opportunity to block himself in with the remaining dirt pile next to it, thanks to Dennis's unwillingness to throw it out.

Except it wasn't.

Frogs hopped everywhere in panic, scaring Damon enough for him to stumble over. Ah, he remembered this. Aaron turned the dirt pile into a froggy apartment. Whoops.

Swatting the amphibians away, Damon was trying his best to cover the hole leading to the tunnel, but…

A NULL agent grabbed his arm and used a stun gun on it, leaving him helpless and screaming in pain. Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind.

Damon sprayed the living hell out of the agent with pepper spray, but sadly, their helmets had proved that idea to be useless.

Then, he was left with no choice but to whack his arm to death with a metal bat. So long, watch he had from 2014. You could've taken the UPSR exam next year…

Well, except he couldn't chop it off, there were frogs on the bat, and he just put on hand cream this morning. That means they could die at his touch, and that would be more tragic than his death. Damon was now running out of ideas, begging for some ghost to hear him and come kill the bastard, but no one came.

Oh, nevermind.

D: “I'LL F**KING KILL YOUR ASS, MOTHERF**KER!!”

A: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Dennis and Aaron came rushing in, with Aaron unsheathing a katana and Dennis loading a rock salt rifle. How they got those weapons, Damon really doesn't know, but thank God they're here.

“DAMON, ARE YOU OKAY?!” Dennis yelled loudly, his voice cracking and tears streaming down his face. “DO I LOOK–” “ARM!!!” Damon shouted back, “OTHER THAN THAT, VERY, BUT I HAVE FROGS!!!” Aaron signalled to Dennis to split up, with both of them on either side of Damon. “TRY NOT TO DIE!!” Aaron wisely advised, grabbing Damon's arm and getting into a fighting stance. “HOLY SHI–”

[squelching sounds]

[gunshot]

[heavy breathing]

[gunshot]

[gunshot]

[loud yelling]

[gunshot]

[splattering sounds]

[gunshot yet again]

“Okay, don't freak out, I sterilise this baby every day,” Aaron softly assured amidst Damon's screams of pain. Dennis aimed the rifle through the dirt, shooting it again. “HOW MANY FUCKING BULLETS DO YOU HAVE??!!” Damon shouted angrily, continuing his screaming shortly afterwards. “Okay, we're just gonna carry you,” Aaron said reassuringly, although Damon felt like he was in walking distance from the grim reaper.

“Herhehsjjdnfbdjs” Damon cried. “YudhrhuYduYdudh” Aaron looked at him sadly. “Okay, there ya go.” Damon thought he was engulfed in the flames of hell by then, but thankfully, it was just the operating table from the old pet shop.

“Hey, this is okay. You can be like Junkrat now.” Aaron said softly, somehow successfully calming Damon down. “Yeah… Junkrat…” “Or like… Iron Man… or something…” Damon responded slowly. Dennis watched them worryingly before realizing something. “Shit!” he muttered before running back to retrieve the arm. Sadly, it was gone and probably under NULL's hands now, so there was no getting it back.

Aaron looked at Dennis while he was treating the wound, hoping for him to retrieve the limb. Alas, the man shook his head, sweating in fear. “Oh, that's okay, I can, like, staple a stick here or something…” Damon assured. “If anything, having a gnarly scar and a fake arm is way cooler than just the scar, guys.” he said calmly as his arm stopped bleeding.

“Is that bad?” Damon asked confusedly at Aaron. “What? No! That's a really good sign!” he said happily. “That makes it sound even worse…” Damon confessed sadly, sending Aaron into mega-reassuring mode. “NO!!! NO!!! IT'S GOOD, DAMON!!! YOU'RE ALIVE NOW!!! ALIVE!!! PLEASE DON'T DIE!!!” Damon just stared at him in further confusion.

“If it helps, you'll see Brendon Urie in hell later.” Dennis said softly. “I'd rather die infinite deaths.” Damon shot back, disgusted in the offer. “What's wrong with Brendon…” the redhead asked. “He's racist, Dennis,” Aaron replied, examining Damon for any other wounds. “Jesus, that's a lot of bacne.” “Brendon Urie's racist? I thought he was g*y.” “G///ay people can be racist.” Damon replied. “I thought you liked the guy?” Dennis asked in confusion, looking at Damon. “Dennis, that's Gerard Way,” “What the hell!”

“Sorry,” Aaron apologized. “just some bandages so it doesn't get infected or anything.” He explained, gently wrapping Damon's… well, what used to be his arm, in bandages. “I'm Rick Sanchez… no wait… Deckard…” Damon mumbled happily, forgetting Rick Grimes' surname. “Yeah,” (Rick Grimes has his arm cut off in the comics, they didn't do this in the show due to budgeting concerns)

A short while later, the three joined Dennis in boarding up the windows and doors to keep NULL out. However, due to Damon's injury, he instead helped carry around tools and other equipment with his healthy right arm.

The house was now the most secure it had ever been, with no direct contact to the outside world. Gabriel had organized shifts for the house ghosts to surround the house and guard it. Dennis and Lan moved the farms into spare rooms, and Aaron distributed weaponry to the whole family. Note to self: Gabriel and Lan are still alive and you should put them in at the beginning.

[the-archetype-of-civilization]

Regret (Drabble)

How long had it been?  How long had it been since that day he was shot out into space in this ship?  How long since he decided to abandon his universe and travel to others?  How long since he had tried to forget his past?

Not long enough.

Ender tried fixing up the console of his ship as he tried to fix some of the wires that snapped.  But...he wasn’t feeling well.  His loneliness was starting to hit him full force.  His inner mind was starting to speak to him.

You ever wondered why you never saw your friends often?

No...I didn’t think about that.

Probably because they hated you.

...but...why?

Look at you.  You barely passed the NASA tests and you still managed to somehow get in.  That’s quite pathetic.  Do you really think people would like someone that barely got by doing the bare minimum?

...I suppose...

Don’t you ever doubt that people love you?  Why would they ever love someone like you?  You’re not special, you’re not significant, you’ve done nothing.  You’re an average person that somehow managed to survive an apocalypse.  A nobody survived a nuclear holocaust.  It’s pitiful, really.  Someone less qualified to survive, survived.

I didn’t ask to live.  I’d rather be dead.

I know you do.  And you should.  You’d be better off.  You’re dead weight.  Why even continue with this fruitless mission?  You’re a dumb person from a dumb universe born from a dumb planet.  You think you’re special “observing” other universes?

I...I thought-

You’re not.  You’re just as much of a speck of dust on the glass of the universe as anybody else.  Even smaller than that.  No one would notice if you disappeared.  No one cares.  People move on and forget about you.  That’s all you’ll ever be: forgotten.

I know...

No one will ever love you.  Why do you think you’ve been around this long without ever finding someone?  You’ve tried going out to clubs, talking to people.  All you’re good for is entertainment and “friendship,” even though that’s stretching it by a mile.  They’re trying to be polite and be nice to you so they won’t hurt your feelings.  They despise being around you.  And you think you’re worthy of LOVE?

I know.

Those people you call “friends” don’t even care about you as much as you do with them.  They’re such sweet people and all you do is hold them back.  Again, dead weight.  Why did you ever decide to make friends to begin with?  Because you thought you deserved it?  Because you wanted to belong?  Or was it because of something much more selfish?  Because you want to be wanted.  You’re selfish for wanting something like that.  An attention whore.  That’s exactly what you are.

I know!

And you try to play yourself off as the victim when “things don’t go your way.”  You’re a child.  You’re a fucking man and you think that being depressed and moody will bring people over to you?  You do it for the attention.  You cry alone to make yourself look like you’re such a broken person, but really you do it suit your own narrative.  You’re disgusting.  An absolutely horrible person.

I KNOW!

Open the airlock and freeze to death.  Shoot yourself in the head.  Do anything.  If you don’t want to feel this pain anymore, free yourself from it.  You being here is doing more damage to others than you can imagine.  You’re not helping anyone by being here.  You wanted to achieve nothingness?  This is the answer.  You’ll feel nothing and become the true nothing that you already are.  That way, you won’t have to see how truly inconsequential you really are.

Stop it.

You know it’s true.  You’re pathetic.  I pity you.

Stop!

YOU’RE AN ABOMINATION.  YOU SHOULD’VE DIED WITH YOUR FAMILY, BUT YOU ABANDONED THEM.

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

KILL YOURSELF.

“SHUT UUUUUUUUUUUP!” he yelled as he slams his fists down into the floor.  He cries out loudly into the helm of the ship, the emptiness of space being the only audience to hear it.  He grips his hair as he leans down into his knees.  “I know I am...I know I am...I know I am...” he whimpered to himself as tears started to flow down his cheek and onto the floor.

Why?  Why was he here?  Why was he put here?  What was his point in living and being in this place?  Why go to all of these universes?  Why did he do this stupid mission?  Why was he the way he is?  Why was he so insignificant and made to live?  Why?  WHY?

“God...please...help me...��� he whimpered through sniffled tears.

“Someone...anyone...”

“Please...”

“Please...save me...”

“Save me from myself...”

“I don’t want to be here...”

“I don’t want to be with myself anymore...”

“I want to be free...”

“I want to die...”

“I can’t stand me...”

“Please...”

“Stop me before I hurt more people...”

“Please...”

“Please......”

“Please.........”

“............”

[mrandyzavala]

It's The Little Things (That Freak Us Out)

You guys.  I had a dream last night that inspired this blog.  In that dream, I got this idea, which resulted in the remainder of the dream being spent trying to operate my phone in order to open the Notes app to write down a blurb to remind me of the idea.  But like all of my dreams that have to do with my phone, I CAN NEVER USE IT.  Like WHAT IS THAT.  I can’t run from monsters/bad guys in my nightmares, 911 is always busy, and I suddenly have completely worthless hands that cannot operate a touch screen on a cell phone.

 STAY AWAY

So all of this hype basically means that I will now continue on to totally disappoint you with a relatively mundane (but, I’d argue, very important) topic that was important enough in my subconscious to bring forward.  But then again, I have also dreamed about half-mice-half-women and also, frogs.  

This blog, as well as countless other zookeeper-related social media posts, have addressed some of the major downsides to our job, including the really scary ones.  Most of us have worked with animals who can kill us, via brute force, precise lethal blows/bites, venom or toxin.  Most of us have major anxiety about locks and gates, or leaving potentially dangerous items in habitats that can be ingested.  We worry endlessly about sick animals, pregnant animals, animals who look slightly off but probably are just a little constipated.  These are the Real Fears of zookeeping.

But what about the OTHER things we freak out about on a daily basis? Are those tiny, insignificant worries not worth their own blog?  According to my brain, it’s time we addressed them.  The world should know what animal caretakers deal with emotionally.  And frankly, all of you need to know that you’re not alone and/or effing insane.

Let’s take a look at the Top Ten Really Stupid Fears I had in my tenure as a marine mammal specialist.

1. THE FEAR OF  My Favorite Hose Nozzle Breaking

Ain't no exhibit gettin clean with those kinks!

Oh. Oh.  ANY zookeeper who uses a hose for any amount of cleaning is probably standing up and placing their hands over their hearts.  There is nothing like walking into a sea lion-poopy (or, oh god, otter poo-slime) habitat and knowing that you have a baller hose that is basically 1 psi away from a fire hose.  You KNOW that sh*t is getting clean.  You feel like some kind of Doolittle AquaMan as you wield and manipulate jets of water like they are extensions of your own hands.  You control where each water molecule goes, you dilute and rinse every soap bubble, every speck of disinfectant.  You time yourself and know you can bang out a spotless exhibit in record time.

But then, your beloved nozzle breaks.  Or, worse, another coworker gets “the good hose” before you get there.  And then you’re left with the shriveled little hose, that is just left installed for posterity, that does not so much spray as it oozes water.  This is the nozzle that would do a worse job than if you carried in a water fountain to clean up massive piles of sea lion crap. You’re going to be there for hours.  Hours.  And the entire time, the sea lions judge you.  YOU judge you.  You only need one experience with this pathetic, worthless nozzle to instill intense fear that THIS WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IF YOU ARE NOT ON YOUR GAME NEXT TIME.

Let’s not even talk about winter, when water lines freeze and you not only can’t clean the exhibit, but you slip and fall directly into a pile of whatever that brown goo is on pinniped teeth that they shoot everywhere like giant streams of snot. 

2. THE FEAR OF YELLOW FLIES

Behold, for I bring you demons from hell

Florida peeps,  hear me.  I moved to Maryland where the worst bug we get is a mosquito. Yeah, they carry some illnesses.  But really, this is the safest place I have ever lived insect-wise (of course, I live right next to Baltimore City so it all evens out, safety-wise).  But you guys have yellow flies. 

Despite being utterly miserable working outside in freezing temperatures in Florida, despite wanting to be warm and enjoy not feeling like I was going to die, I still dreaded summertime when I worked as a dolphin trainer in the sunshine state.  Why? Because the Yellow Flies liked summertime too.  That is where our common ground ended. 

You see, *I* like summer time because it meant sun tans, sunset fishing on the beach, wearing nothing but a bathing suit all day, gardening, etc.  Yellow Flies like summer because blood.  

Now imagine your entire back covered in those

I have never experienced pain from an animal like I have yellow flies.  As a zoological expert, I can tell you that the mouth parts of yellow flies are composed of circle saws dipped in hydrofluoric acid. Unlike mosquitoes, which you may or may not feel biting you, yellow flies land quietly on the most inaccessible part of your body and perform major surgery in order to extract what seems like 89 liters of blood and at least one major organ.

I literally flipped out in complete, paralyzing fear anytime I saw these stupid mofos.  You know how people react when a spider is on them? Or a bee or something?  That is all of us in Yellow Fly country, except as zookeepers we are outside 90% of our day and usually have our attention and hands focused on something more important, like our own safety or the safety of our animals.  The Yellow Flies know this and make their vicious attacks, leaving gigantic welts and PTSD in their wake. 

3. THE FEAR OF Forgetting Deodorant

The internet understands

As a zookeeper, this is one of the worst mistakes you can make that does not result in anyone’s death.  Although, I think I have come close to killing someone with my uh, Natural Scent after being in the sun for 10 hours with no deodorant.  I AM SO SORRY.

4. THE FEAR OF Being In A Wetsuit and Have To Pee.  No, I lied.  Number Two.

Too bad

Yeah, they don’t tell you about this in the shamelessly-monetizing BE A DOLPHIN TRAINER books.  But you will get hermetically sealed in a wetsuit.  And then, just like when you played Ultimate Hide and Seek when you were a kid, you will have to take an enormous dump 5 minutes afterwards.  This is especially true in the winter months, when you are wearing two or three layers of neoprene and require the Jaws of Life to get you out.  Good luck if you had Chinese food the night before….

5. THE FEAR OF Girl Problems

Except you have to drive a front loader today

Not to be gross, but we are all scientists here.  We are biological experts.  And we know what happens to human and naked mole rat females on a monthly basis.  I distinctly remember standing next to one of the dolphin habitats in my bathing suit and rash guard, listening to a supervisor go over our plan for the next round of sessions when all of a sudden….I knew something bad was going down.  I knew I had at most, 30 seconds to address it.  So when my (male) supervisor looked at me and said, “Okay Cat, here is your role, go do it right now” I looked at him, my heart racing and anxiety through the roof, and said something like, “NO I CAN’T RIGHT NOW” and just ran away.  I was so terrified of what was happening to me that I didn't even care if I got in trouble.  Because you know what, I was sparing my supervisor some Night Of The Living Dead stuff. 

Girl, I feel you

Woe betide those of us who have had khaki uniforms…..

6. THE FEAR OF Reading Your Work Schedule Wrong

WE HAVE ALL BEEN THERE

Shift work is hard to keep track of, even if your manager is amazing at scheduling consistency.  You know that your week is not always going to look the same.  Who else has dealt with Excel-based work schedules?  Who else has worked on a team with more than ten people on it?  Who else has looked at the wrong column and showed up at the wrong shift time because they did not have Golden Eagle Vision? 

The fear I experienced about misreading the schedule was instilled deeply in me after an experience I had as a mid-level trainer.  I was sitting in bed, hanging out with my cockatiel Lennon, reading a book.  I was enjoying my morning before a later shift (11-7:30), which was especially needed because I had horrendous tonsillitis.  Around 8:45, I got a call from my supervisor asking why I didn't show up for my 8:30 shift.  Furthermore, I was scheduled on the 9:15 dolphin swim.  

THIS

I flew out the door and made it to work in time, panicking that I had made a Terrible Mistake That Would Totally Get Me Fired.  Luckily, that fear took my mind off of the feeling like I was swallowing shards of glass.  But I sure did develop an OCD habit of checking and rechecking and rechecking and rechecking and rechecking the schedule

7. THE FEAR OF  Speaking To Guests In A Language I Took in Middle School 17 Years Ago

You're welcome.

“Hey Cat! We have guests from France who only speak French! You speak French, right?” *Heart lurches into my throat, butterflies flap wildly in stomach, intestines stop working* “Uh, yes, in high school 35 decades ago”

“GREAT! Here they are!”

And then a horribly embarrassing exchange would ensue, in which my foreign guests would attempt to speak English to me after hearing my pathetic attempt and probably ruined their entire vacation, where they would return to Paris or whatever and tell their friends, “Oh, we had this well-intentioned girl with the intelligence of foot fungus guide our dolphin swim.”

8. THE FEAR OF Forgetting My Lunch

 #forgotlunch

This is simple.  We burn 90926892368236 calories a day.  If you forget your lunch at most aquariums, your choice is to eat french fries the snack bar bought from Walmart 9 years ago, or eat ice cubes from the fish kitchen’s ice machine until your shift ends when you can eat Chinese food in large quantities.

9. THE FEAR OF Weather n’ Wildfires

UNLESS YOU ARE A DOLPHIN TRAINER. THEN YOU HAVE TO STAY OUTSIDE

I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms until I was required to work outside in them.  Also, wildfires that blew ash all over everything.  Red Tides. 

10. THE FEAR OF Gastric Samples

It's all fun and games until the dolphin volunteers the Sacred Fluid

This is more specific to dolphin trainers who take their own gastric samples.  I know some of you suck on the end of the tube (you guys are, and I say this with love, seriously insane and do you realize you do NOT need to do that????), and you guys probably experience this specific fear more often than the rest of us.  But…there is really no fear as compares to inserting a tube into the mouth of a dolphin who is just ready to blow out every ounce of gastric fluid they have directly into your face, onto your shoulder, or (for you crazies) into your mouth.  Directly. 

THIS IS IT EXACTLY

I have seen dead animals.  I have fallen in blood, poop, pee.  I have gotten pus in my face.  I have had weeks worth of otter poop poured over my head.  I have used limb loppers to cute sea lion ribs.  There is not a lot that grosses me out.  But gastric fluid shooting onto my shirt? AHHHHHHHHHH

So, friends, those are just a handful of the fears and unpleasantries I experienced as a dolphin trainer.  But now let’s hear some of yours!

from The Middle Flipper http://ift.tt/2ufD6N6

[otterofblockley-blog]

On personal growth

I have been spending a lot of my free time focusing inward and trying to expand my state of conscious thought. I've learned a few things about self actualization and that I have moved to the phase where I try to positively impact others. I have accepted who I am, and I am comfortable in my own skin. I have accepted my purpose in this world and the significance (or insignificance) of it in the design.

What I have learned is that the pattern is immeasurable and innumerable, that our grasp of structures like language and mathematics are so small compared to what it must be like to operate on the next tier up, that we can't even imagine the scope of the tiers above. Our word for a higher power, God, is so imperfect. To make an analogy, we don't have enough paint to give even a terrible rendition of what it might look like and comprehend and empathize with or desire. It would be as if you had to cover a canvas the size of a football field with only a single drop of water.

Recently I've spent a lot of time thinking about how God, being everything, is entropy and creation. Two sides of the same coin that cause all things to begin and to end. But not just the words because everyone knows the words, actually trying to wrap my mind around the concept of what it must be like to exist outside of time and be able to sit back and look at the entire picture of time all at once and every insignificant speck. To know where each one goes, and can go, and will go and to just watch the chaos unfold, and to at any moment have the agency to change the colors, or hues, or contrasts or positions, or even existence of any and all of those insignificant dots.

Infinite is such a profound idea, to think that between every moment, every tiny millisecond that we can measure that there is an infinite. Even the concept of absolute zero and achieving a temperature that is so cold that electrons would stop seems so profound for me. Questioning the nature of the make up of the universe is very common, I've come to accept that the answers don't matter.

But the growth in me recently has allowed me to accept that it is not sad nor is it happy that I will never have these answers. My place isn't to be the keeper of these details or to be the curiosity that helps us all to delve deeper. My actual purpose is simple, I once wrote in my youth that maintaining happiness and passion must be the most important things and that I didn't ever want to lose focus on the passion of youth that I felt. As I have aged, and felt the weight of responsibility and aches of age I realize why it was that I could not recognize the passion in the adults around me. We all carry around the weight of our memories and hopes and dreams and losses and regrets. Self actualization is to carry those heavy things, and accepting that weight as a part of yourself. And then after realizing how much harder life is walking the "high road" path, how much harder it is to uphold certain ideals, you accept it and you carry on day after day, step after step on that path. Judgement is a trap, we can't know all the circumstances, Justice is a lie, the universe, God, it doesn't have empathy the same way we care about our loved ones. It probably does "feel" something, but its beyond our understanding and grasp to even wonder WHAT or HOW it feels. Because the nature of our questions are wrong we will never have an answer that satisfies our hunger. Aristotle's natural law only follows if you look at the light side of the coin. Light creates shadow, Man eats beasts and/or plants and we never stop to ask why were consuming things to exist, its just instinctual. Viruses infect and kill us and they don't ask why there consuming there hosts it's just instinct. I've never felt justice, I've felt spite, I've felt luck, I've felt chaos, but justice doesn't exist, its a fallacy, a construct to help us overcome fear.

I was once offered a chance at peace, at surrender, to just disappear into the abyss, the nothing, the darkness. But it wasn't fear or regret that made me hold onto whatever it was inside my metaphysical form, it was purpose. It's sappy to say that love is a magical force that can solve all the worlds problems, sappy and juvenile. But the greater understanding behind that old adage is finding the meaning of the word, like trying to understand the 5th dimension when we are trapped here in our 3 dimensional existence. Purpose and the word love combined is something closer to what I felt when I accepted the pain over the peace. I had to embrace the pain, not suck it up and get tougher or reach deep down or any bullshit that made me more because I was powerful. I had to truly embrace that that darkness was a part of me as well as the light and be okay with the fact that I am not my successes or failures, I am not my material possessions or my social standing. I am nothing in this meaningless void except for my will. And my will, my soul, my ichigai, my purpose was to make someone else’s life better than my own. Because if justice is not real than why should I accept losing to something else’s unfair rules. If it's a test I AM prepared to cheat to help others, because the test shouldn't be about me, it is about the people I care for, I never felt more at peace then in the tiny moment when I was ready to sacrifice everything for someone else, never felt more secure in my decision.

I am not talented at my purpose yet, no excuses here I just know that there is a lot left to be desired and I believe that if I had truly actualized and overcame my physical barriers I would have a better handle on my shortcomings and be able to completely turn off pain and anxiety, mind over matter, I can't. But at least now that I have reached this phase of my consciousness I have started the work in earnest to leave behind my bread crumbs, my good deeds that will help me find my way through the pain every morning and back to my purpose so that for a few waking hours every day I am able to work towards a small goal. Small steps are better, easier to digest in small steps, especially when you haven't eaten in so long. Spend so many years trying to be the best for yourself, you lose the ability to hold wholesome selflessness down in big portions.

Feeling helpless is a natural part of everything's existence, and as much as we strive to control our surroundings the only thing we can ever hope to achieve is an illusion of safety. Its mathematically more probable that I will stop existing before I fix any problems that truly matter, even any of my own. But at least I can feel assured in this one thought, I exist for now and because I do I can try my best to leave behind memories for the one person who matters the most with every second that I can rally my inner strength.

If I have learned anything at all, If I know any truth, it is this; To be or not to be isn't the question, How do I become (x) before I start to not be, that is the question and x is the destination and the journey, it is entropy and creation. We aspire to be god's ourselves and to create and to destroy because we are stuck with so little paint. But there is a minuscule amount in each of us, so if you change enough lives, and mix the colors together, you can maybe leave something behind. A ripple on the waters surface only, but a ripple none the less. I don't need to be the hero of an epic or an epoch, I just need to be good enough for one tiny person, and teach them to love themselves better than I had the chance to. Wish, Pray, Dream, Strive, or Give up but be the will and write your own story, don't ever give that pen away, not for a single page.