#written works

[krtart]

I raise my face to meet the warmth of the sun, and it feels like home deeper than home.

Thank you, I think.

Thank you.

If we twist ourselves into a shape that burns, it won’t be your fault.

-

3-28-24

[stagbells]

Written Work

From: @voidsiblings

To: @grollow

Note: MERRY CHRISTMAS ASHE I hope you enjoy your babies, and I also hope you don't mind me kidnapping the Firefly muse for a week or two. ^▽^ (He was well-behaved. Mostly.)

Written work under readmore

The meadow is lush, honey-green with sunlight and the smell of nectar. Humming with wings, flowers bobbing low and heavy, the soft expanse of it stretching far into the distance, unbroken by hill or tree. This kingdom is spread wide and sparse on a river plain—a river whose floods grow more violent by the year, smashing watercraft and demolishing bridges, pushing the tideline higher and higher on the legs of the stilt-houses.

This year will be its last, Grimm thinks.

It is beautiful while it still exists, though. When it falls, it will be beautiful still: a more desolate beauty, and one few will be here to appreciate. Perhaps ironically, immortality has taught him to enjoy what is fleeting, to find comfort in the sensation of letting go, in allowing the course of things to proceed as it will.

He cups a flower in his fingers as he passes, waxy petals dragging over his palm. It is not often that he reflects on the sum of his experiences; it is easier to take each life as its own cycle, starting afresh each time the wheel of rebirth turns.

He’s been thinking of it more, lately.

It’s no secret as to why.

The sun is at his back as he walks, warming his wing sails, casting his shadow over the grasses. There is no hurry, he knows. Hours have passed since they left the market, hours in which this trail has gone cold. He’s still not sure what he’ll find at the end of it, or how far it might lead him, but this is a pattern: as clear as the impressions in the soil that he follows, footprints leading toward the riverbank.

It has been months since this last happened, and he had hoped—

But no. He made plain that there were no expectations. It would have been uncommonly cruel—not to mention the height of hypocrisy—to impose any.

As before, it was agony to wait, to allow them what they asked for, to busy himself as long as he could stand. He held his breath when he finally set out, half-convinced that this would be the time they disappeared and left no trace, despite the promise they’d made him.

The relief he felt upon finding their trail was palpable—a brief flicker in his fire, a skip of his absent heart. They passed unnoticed when they wished to, and he knew the destruction they could leave when they chose. This was neither: a deliberate path through the meadow, crushed grasses and bent stems, leaving him no doubt that they wanted him to find them.

That it is extraordinary for them to show even this much trust does not escape him. Nor does the desire inherent in it—the desire to be pursued, to be caught and, eventually, held.

As much as he wishes to comment on it, to tease, he has not yet.

Maybe soon. Maybe one day.

The terrain slopes gradually, so subtly that one might miss it, down toward the river, the flat aspect of the plains slowly giving way to their source. Will the flowers still grow after the kingdom falls? Will the layers of rich mud spread over their roots and eventually choke them, or will they flourish all the more in the excess?

The river itself is nearly as wide and flat as what surrounds it. No more than a shimmer on the horizon at first, it broadens into a serene silver ribbon flanked with low, twisted shrubs and whispering rushes. The water is peaceful, languid and slow, giving no hint of the torrent that arrives every spring.

A tangle of mud, stones, and shells lines the shore. The footprints continue, patchy and sparse, along the waterline, rounding a bend in the current and disappearing into a stand of reeds.

What he sees when he pushes through them is exactly what he expects.

Hollow sits near the river’s edge, one foot propped up on the stone beneath them, the other dangling in the water. They share his fascination, he’d been delighted to discover—ponds and lakes and rivers all receiving that same quiet attention, unwavering, every sign of distraction or impatience draining away for as long as they could stand to stare out at that shifting horizon.

Relief is hot in his throat, a burning coal unswallowed. He trusts them, of course. Explicitly. And part of that trust is keeping them in an open hand, allowing them the freedom they never had. Letting go of them and waiting, arm outstretched, for their return.

They never fly far.

Still, he cannot pretend that the placement of the Troupe’s tents so close to the river was anything but intentional.

They don’t turn to look at him as he approaches. As he settles, cloak pooling around him in bloody scarlet, atop a nearby stone. Not too close, but within reach. He knows what they want by now.

Silence, at first. Merely his presence is enough to agitate them a little, to make the line of their shoulders rise and their face tilt farther away from him. Being observed carries a weight for them that reminds him of his early days as a performer, when the crowds’ collective gaze had seemed to tighten around him like a length of invisible silk.

So he doesn’t look. So he stares out toward the opposite shore, not quite seeing it for the glare of sunlight on the water, and waits.

In the corner of his vision, their shoulders drop again. Slowly, inch by inch. It will be some time before they speak to him, time he measures in careful breaths, in the lap of waves at his feet, in the idle shift of waterweed beneath the surface.

Their voice does not come, though. When they move, it is only to unwrap their arm from around their knee, to open their fist above the rock where he sits. A few porcelain shards drop from their grip with a clatter.

Ah.

He selects one, picks it up between his claws. Holds it to the light. It’s delicate, nearly translucent, with a scalloped rim and golden flowers painted in the bowl. This piece once held the handle, now snapped in half near the stem.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, turning it over, watching the metallic paint shimmer. “A fine choice.”

They don’t answer, but he can feel them eyeing him.

Without hesitation, he leans down and dips the remnant of teacup into the river, holding it gingerly by the remaining nub of handle, and takes a sip.

They’re actively staring at him when he looks up. He allows his eyes to narrow behind the mask, a swell of amusement more felt than seen.

Hollow snorts, a silent huff of air, all the more expressive given that they don’t truly need to breathe. That is all for him, their emotions given form for his benefit, and it warms him like the sweetest of flames.

He sets the no-longer-a-teacup down among its other pieces, none of them whole enough to hold more than a few drops. One or two are edged in black, a fact he chooses to ignore.

“You have fine taste in views as well, my dear,” he sighs, leaning back on his hands, tilting his face up toward the lowering sun.

Are you including yourself in that judgement?

He hides his jolt of surprise rather skillfully, he thinks. “If you like,” is his only answer, accompanied by a squinted scarlet eye.

They don’t comment on that, instead turning back toward the river, lightly kicking the foot that’s dangling off the stone. Little shadows dart away from their claws under the surface, small fish or, perhaps, nymphs of some sort; he’s never managed to find out.

“I should ask if there is anything worthwhile to catch in this river,” he muses. Not without purpose—they’ll recognize what he’s attempting to do, though he can only guess how they’ll respond. “And what one might use to catch it. If it’s likely to involve an excessive amount of digging for bait, I would rather not.”

It will be an excuse to spend more time at the water, at least. Though he does not enjoy fish, some of the more carnivorous members of his Troupe might.

Hollow doesn’t move except to stir the water again, watching the ripples flow outward and then fade. Grimm continues to talk about fishing rods, local cuisine, the beaches he’s visited—anything he can think of—while watching for any hint of change in their mood.

It’s often like this, after one of their spells. They retreat, drawing back behind a distant wall. Sometimes it is days before he feels like he truly sees them again.

This was… not a particularly bad one. Not since they were able to escape quickly, to get away from the situation before their instincts took hold. There were only a few ruffled tempers to soothe, only a few broken things to pay for.

He had suspected what happened as soon as he got close enough to hear the shouting. To see the vendor’s table upset, her wares scattered in the mud, the crooked knife clutched in her hand as she stared around at nothing—at everything.

“A wight,” the young lacewing hissed, when he asked her what she saw. “A-a thing of shadow, it was. Its eyes—”

“Before that,” he said, patiently.

She shook her head a little too hard. “I thought—a bug. A tall one. It was looking at my things.”

Grimm glanced back over his shoulder, ignoring the choked noise she made as his neck turned a little farther than it strictly should. Broken pieces of porcelain littered the ground. At his feet lay a white saucer, snapped in two, its halves pressed into the mud by the pad of a clawed footprint.

He knelt to pick them up, careful of the sharp edges. “And what did you say to this bug?”

The vendor gulped again. “I-I said to be careful. To watch those—those claws.”

That was likely not enough to set them off, but surely there was more. “And?”

The bug lifted a shoulder. “And… nothing. No answer.”

He could guess where it had gone from there. Voices raised, attention drawn, panic and anger silently rising. Until they felt pinned, trapped, void boiling beneath their shell. Until they felt they had no choice but to disappear.

“My apologies,” he murmured, taking her shaking hand and tucking the saucer pieces into it. “Tally your costs. My Troupe will cover the damages.”

“Your what?” She turned to stare after him as he walked away. “Who are you?”

He hadn’t bothered to explain. She would find out soon enough. It wasn’t as if there were any other nightmare circuses nearby.

Now, he realizes, he’s been silent too long. Hollow’s gaze has drifted back to the shattered cup, the darkness behind their mask whirling with unreadable thoughts.

“There are more teacups at the market,” he said gently.

But it is not only the teacup. It is the way their temper rises so fast, the way it takes hold of them, driving them to extremes that they regret near-instantly.

It is the way that, to them, the mortals that surround them are every bit as fragile as porcelain.

He sighs, drawn out in the silence. “If it helps, I have promised to compensate her.”

They nod, once shallowly. Acknowledgement, not agreement.

Perhaps it was too much to hope that he could resolve this so easily.

Grimm reaches down, stirs his claws through the broken pieces. “Was this for me?”

He knows the answer. And yet something in him still melts a little when they nod. Even shallower, this time, and he can read their misery in it.

“Have I told you why I collect them?”

At their blank stare, he hums, tipping his head backward and squinting against the spill of light across his face. “They remind me of someone. Someone that I would rather not remember.”

They tilt their head. A minute question, nearly invisible. If he wants more, he will have to work for it.

“But, more than that, they remind me of what I have overcome. Of the fact that I am more than my worst memories. That I can look at them, now, and gain joy and satisfaction, instead of only pain. That is why I keep them.”

It took him far too long to get there, he wants to say—but if he allows himself the same kindness he extends to them, as they would tell him he ought, perhaps it took exactly as long as it should.

They are both immortal, after all.

Their hand has crept upward where it wraps around their chest, toward the mass of scars at their shoulder. Feeling through the outline of their faded cloak at the peaks and craters there, at the ways their imprisonment reformed them.

He has scars of his own. Scars he would give up if he could, in a heartbeat. Is that why he truly keeps them—the cups, the teapots? Is he giving himself an out, knowing he can rid himself of this one reminder, if he chooses?

But he doesn’t. He hasn’t. And it’s tangible proof that, given time, given the chance, he can heal. Not just in body, but in mind.

They did not know him then. They don’t know how much of himself he sees in them now, how much faith he has that they can achieve the same.

They can learn.

He has an eternity to show them.

They still do not answer. They shift their gaze away from the broken cup, though, to stare across the river, where the sky is catching brighter hues as the sun sinks through, orange bleeding into gold.

He’s perfectly ready to sit there with them all night, if they like. It will not be the first.

Finally, their hand falls open in their lap. A conscious effort to let go, perhaps?

I’m sorry.

Their voice in his head is a near-whisper, no louder than the hush of the water or the rustle of grasses.

The apology comes as no surprise. They have very little to apologize for, in his estimation, but they still feel that it is necessary—for more than the broken pieces in the dirt. They are thinking of every inconvenience, every disturbance of his routine, every time he stays behind to help them put themself back together. They have told him as much.

How can he convey that he would gladly give up far more? That it does not matter what they do—only that they are here with him?

The only thing he can think to do is to reach out. Slowly, waiting for their response. Waiting for any hint that they are not ready.

His palm meets theirs. Warmth against cold. Their fingers curl, lacing with his, and he breathes out, accepting their nearness, their trust, like a gift—for it is one.

The sun sinks. The meadow falls silent as shadows creep across the shore, as a mist begins to rise from the water. The air cools, heavy on his shell, carrying the sweet, damp scent of the riverbed.

What if it’s worse next time?

Grimm shifts. Looks over at them. They haven’t moved at all in the past half hour, stone-still in the river shallows. Thinking, always, always, in ways he cannot hear, wheels forever turning, as distant and steady as the rotation of the stars.

It’s no use promising things he can’t fulfill. God of Nightmare he may be, Fear incarnate—but in the mortal realm and in the Dream, he has his limits. Limits that he has grown comfortable with. Accustomed to. He keeps to his role, his place on the stage and behind it.

They have their own, he’s convinced of that. Their own element, their own realm of power, a rightful place among the gods of this world, no matter how long it’s been denied them. No matter how little they trust themself to take it.

He counts himself lucky that they trust him. That he is in a place to offer what they need. That there is enough left of them to be fully here with him.

What if.

What is he here for, after all, but to answer that question?

“When this river floods again, it will take this place with it,” he begins. “It has been many decades coming, yet much will still be lost. To negligence, to neglect. To misfortune and despair.” He pauses, strokes the side of their palm with his thumb. “This is… not the first time you have seen a kingdom fall. But it is your first chance to watch one fall gracefully.”

Their head dips downward, their gaze fixing on the water once more.

“And even knowing what is to come, I find it beautiful.” His voice lowers to a raspy hum. “Even knowing what I have come to do, I enjoy it here.”

Do you not tire of it?

“No.” Grimm shakes his head. “No, I do not. Do I tire of immortality? Of my lives in their endless cycle? Maybe. Sometimes.” A light squeeze to their hand, almost too light to feel. “Less so when those I love are near, to bear it with me.”

Hollow looks at their hand and his, at the spaces where they intersect. When they do not speak, he continues.

“No, I do not tire of my duty, my dear. The work that I do? I offer it willingly. I consider it a privilege. Who else gets to see what I do? Who else carries memories like mine?”

They sigh. He takes it as a concession, the way their shoulders slump, the tension draining out of them at last. With its release, he draws their hand up, lifting it to his mask, feeling their eyes follow its path in the gathering dusk.

“Even knowing that it will die, I choose to be its witness.” He tucks their fingers against his face, pressing a phantom kiss to their knuckles. “Every struggle. Every cry. Every fading moment, until it wakes anew.”

They huff again. It’s almost more of a sigh—acceptance of his words, a willingness to be convinced. Trusting him once more.

They lean forward, resting their horns against his, lightly. You’re very good at that.

Grimm hums again, roughly, pleased. With them. With himself, a little. The compliment does not go amiss.

They lean back, but do not draw away. It’s dark enough now that he can barely see their face. At the tents, there will be a fire starting, food cooking, laughter echoing across the meadow—he can almost hear it now, and he knows they are thinking of it too, when they glance back the way they came.

Will you take me home?

And they say he is good at it? When the simplest words take his breath away?

“Always, my dear.”

[corvid-feathers]

You should talk about your wof ocs :3

oh boy I got so excited to share my characters that I wrote a short story that takes place at the very beginning of my oc's lore. I'll put the character references at the end

Queen Treefrog was a young rainwing Queen, she had been in power for two weeks when she started acting odd. Leopard, a half nightwing dragonet was the first to notice the change. Treefrog had started doing things that just, didn’t make sense. She assigned battle training to the rainwing school lessons…claiming it was for the good of the tribe. Despite the fact that the rainwings have been at peace with all other tribes for longer than Leopard could remember. 

She looked a bit off too, as if a different shade of blue than normal…but everyone told him that she was the same colors and that Leopard must just not remember it right. She had a new scar even though she’d never got into any fights. Leopard could swear her patterns were different!

No matter how many differences Leopard pointed out, nobody believed him. The rainwings assumed the young hybrid was just paranoid. Leopard felt like he was going crazy, something was wrong and nobody else noticed! He decided to follow the Queen that night. She often left to patrol the rainforest at sundown. It proved difficult since he was unable to change his scale color, luckily the sunset helped him stick to the shadows. 

His little spy mission led him to a rather hard to find clearing. There was the Queen, standing in front of a corpse. Whoever it was had clearly decomposed a bit, Leopard had to fight his urge to gag. He couldn’t tell who it was. After a few moments Treefrog started to leave the clearing. As his Queen left curiosity flooded Leopard’s mind, he wanted to know who the dead rainwing was. Was it a criminal? Competition for the throne? Someone Treefrog just didn’t like?  Upon closer inspection, he froze. 

Lying dead in front of Leopard’s own eyes, was Queen Treefrog.

Queen Treefrog's reference

The faker's reference

Leopard's reference

[ikainocanon]

Shortly after the defeat of Overlorder and their escape from the Deepsea Metro, Acht takes on the Spire of Order themselves to try and recover the missing memories that haven't come back to them yet. Pearl and Marina then discover that they don't have a place to stay; obviously, the logical conclusion for what they need to do next is move Acht into their home and get them slowly accustomed to life on the surface.

Acht has no idea how they're going to manage. But, they'll try.

the first chapter of an ongoing story depicting acht as they adjust to life on the surface after getting their mind and life back. chapter count is subject to change. no consistent update schedule as of yet; i write too much to be able to actually form one

[fjorrd]

works from march 2021 till september 2022

[TEXT: i looked up to the sky and said “god, if you’re fucking there, i could really use some help right damn now” and the sky said nothing back. we learn at very young age that inaction or silence is very much an answer itself /END ID]

[ophernelia]

+ PAIRING: Dallas & Cale Sumner, Imogen's Parents. + WARNINGS: None. Maybe bad writing. Mildly proofread. + WORD COUNT: 1.3K + SONG CHOICE: ♪ + AUTHOR'S NOTES: I had planned to do a special episode on this concept, but I couldn't execute it well soooo here it is in written form. The "Anchors" series is meant to give you a little more insight into certain Lykaia characters and their relationships. Anchors are meant to ground you. To hold you down and keep you steady so you don't get swept away. In essence, that's all this mini series is. Just a few glimpses of those moments between certain characters. I am a much better director than I am a writer, so you've been forewarned!

Northern Vegas was usually hot and dry. It didn’t rain very often. A sprinkle here or there, but never anything more than that. It wasn’t uncommon for weeks- or even a month to go by without a single drop of rain. That makes days like today all that more special. Heavy droplets seemed to fall endlessly from the dark clouds overhead. The air was thick with humidity. Due to the heat, even the raindrops didn’t offer a reprieve. They warmed as they fell through the atmosphere and peppered the busy city below. The slick pavement of the highway only increased the stagnation of hefty traffic. The sounds of honking cars, rainfall, and rubber tires on asphalt echoed throughout the air. It almost covered the sound of incessant sobs pouring out of a grey 2003 E-class Mercedes. Almost. “She has an appointment with a neurologist tomorrow-” Dallas’ sentence was cut short after another wail sprang from Imogen’s throat. She sat uncomfortably in her car seat in the back of the car. Her round face soaked with salty tears, while small hands clenched the fabric of her shirt. Today was an especially hard day. She woke up in a sour mood. Not even awarding her mother with a grunt of a response when she questioned her. She had been completely silent until the first meltdown that came after dropping her breakfast on the floor. The second came shortly after she was dressed and did not want to wear her rainbow striped shirt. Instead she wanted to remain in her pajamas- at least that’s what Dallas believes she wanted. Imogen would never outright tell her. She would never outright tell her anything, because even as she approaches the tender age of four, Imogen could not speak.

 “Baby, please stop crying.” Dallas pleaded shifting her eyes to the rearview mirror where she caught the sight of Imogen in complete disarray. Her hands clenched hard onto the steering wheel in front of her. “She has another appointment with her speech therapist the following Friday. I got it rescheduled since we’re flying out to see Hattie on Saturday.” Cale, sat comfortably in the passenger seat, shifts his body to face Imogen. “You excited to see grandma, Immy?” Imogen doesn’t respond and instead lets out another loud whine. Shifting his focus back to the road in front of them, Cale sighs. “Maybe the busyness of the week is stressing her out.” Dallas rolls her eyes in response, already finding herself slightly annoyed with Cale. “It’s only going to get busier. After this appointment she has to get blood drawn.” Absent-mindedly, Dallas taps her finger against the warm leather of the steering wheel. “When we get home, Rhiannon’s coming by to braid her up too. Hopefully we’ll be back by seven.” Cale hums in response, sinking further into his seat. He had to choose his words carefully today with Imogen and Dallas both being in sour moods. Dallas had already scolded him earlier for his lack of help in getting Imogen ready for the day. He didn’t want another repeat of this morning. His mind drifted over to the thought of dinner. A nice good meal usually puts Dallas at ease.

“We should order out for dinner. Maybe that Thai place again.” Dallas lets out a heavy sigh in response. Thai would be great. Anything would be right now. With the chaos of the morning, Dallas had forgotten to feed herself sufficiently too. The cup of coffee and few bites of an egg had all but disappeared from her stomach. That was around 9 AM this morning. And what time was it now? Nearing 2:30? That’s no good. “We’d have to find something else for Imogen to eat.” The corners of her mouth rotated downward into a scowl. “There’s no way she’d go for basil chicken today.” Cale’s green eyes flicked upward, focusing on a spot on the ceiling as he spoke. “We could find something plain for her. You know she’ll always eat mango sti-” He was promptly interrupted by Imogen letting out another loud wail. Frustrated with the incessant noise, Dallas shouted back. “IMOGEN! Please!” The sudden sound of her mother’s voice sent shockwaves through Imogen’s tiny frame. Resulting in her only crying harder and much more loudly. Dallas’ own brown eyes were chock full of tears. The whites of her knuckles showing with how hard she gripped the steering wheel. “God! Please just stop crying for ten minutes!” Traffic had all but slowed to a complete stop. Dallas’ head fell forward onto the wheel and with a rugged inhale she strained to say “God, I can’t do this!” The last few years had been especially taxing.

As an infant, Imogen never cried. She slept well through the night. She was perfect. Dallas she had been blessed with a miracle child. In comparison to her sister’s children, Imogen was a saint. It wasn’t until she reached the age of two and Dallas noticed she still had not muttered a single word. Not a single “mama” or “dada” ever slipped from her lips. Only an occasional grunt. On rare instances, maybe even a giggle. But.. there were never any words. Then came the tantrums shortly after. The only sounds Dallas has heard from Imogen in recent years have all been of sobs. Even with countless trips to specialists, frequent blood tests, and even a few MRI’s- no expert could decipher what’s wrong with Imogen. There were a few murmurs of autism, but each doctor told Dallas and Cale that it was too soon to tell. Even her older sister Valerie, who works as a physician at a children’s hospital, could not give her a sound answer. Only noting that autism often goes undiagnosed in black girls due to the lack of studies on them. Imogen could not be helped. Dallas could not help her. She couldn’t help but feel guilty. She always felt guilty. Even now, after raising her voice at her daughter. Is she not just as frustrated as Dallas? For there to be something wrong and be unable to communicate it- is that not its own hell? Thick salty globs of water littered Dallas’ face. The wetness of her tears soaked her jeans as they fell onto her lap. Thoughts of failure as a mother rang through her mind, making her want to cover her ears and scream in response in an attempt to drown it out. A large warm palm is the only thing that brought her back. Lifting her head off the wheel, her eyes met Cale’s. He smiled softly. 

“It’s gonna be okay.” 

They were simple words. Idyllic in a sense, but they were enough to ground Dallas. He continued to rub soothing circles along her back as he turned to face a still-crying-Imogen. “Imogen, would you like to sing a song with me?” With his free hand, Cale fumbled with a cassette he pulled from the glovebox. It was one Hattie had given him a few years ago. One that Dallas’ listened to constantly throughout her pregnancy with Imogen. Justifying her constant playing of it by stating “the baby likes it”. He popped into the dashboard and quickly turned to Imogen’s favorite song- Ella Fitzgerald’s cover of I’m Getting Sentimental Over You. As Cale hummed along to the melody, Imogen’s crying slowed and eventually stopped completely. Although she was still soaked from her tears, she sat calmly in her car seat watching her father closely. He smiled as he caught her eye. “You really like this song, huh?” Cale turned back around. His head lightly rested against the back of the seat. “So does your grandma.” Without turning his head, his eyes shifted over to Dallas. Much like Imogen, she was still watching him intently. “It’s gonna be alright. I promise.” He was smiling more widely now. “We can handle this. Me and you, remember?” As she opened her mouth to speak, Dallas was interrupted by a honk. Whipping her head to face the road in front of her, she noticed traffic had begun to move again. Quickly composing herself, she lightly tapped the gas pedal and the car rolled forward. Exhaling, her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror once more. “Immy, you okay baby?” Imogen’s eyes now heavy with sleep, she shifted in her car seat letting out a soft groan. 

That meant yes.

[marcuscochran]

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝘂𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝘂𝘀 𝗖𝗼𝗰𝗵𝗿𝗮𝗻 (𝗔𝗞𝗔 𝗠𝗿. 𝗧𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗮𝘁) 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗳𝗳 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗠𝗿. 𝗖𝗼𝗰𝗵𝗿𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺𝘀, 𝗷𝗼𝗸𝗲𝘀, 𝗽𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗼𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗵𝗲’𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲. 𝗛𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝟭𝟲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗺.

- 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗳𝗳 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿.

-𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗜𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻-

𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗜𝗘𝗦: 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻

𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗦: 𝗠𝗿. 𝗧𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗮𝘁

𝗢𝗖𝗖𝗨𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡: 𝗥𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿

𝗔𝗗𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗜𝗡𝗙𝗢: 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻

#𝗔𝘀𝗸 𝗠𝗿.𝗧𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗮𝘁

#𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗼𝗼𝗺

#𝗪𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀

#𝗥𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀

#𝗥𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆

#𝗡𝗼𝗻-𝗥𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆

#𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿

#𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀

(Credit to @cafekitsune for the banners)

𝗔𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱: 𝗻𝘀𝗳𝘄, 𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆, 𝗔𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁𝘆, 𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗲𝘁𝗰

𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱: 𝗨𝘀𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗱.

[artpunk-intl]

Reverend Stark’s First Sermon: on The Artist

sermon and digital collaged

written by Ambrose Stark and designed by DOSvirus for ArtpunkINTL

[alt text available below]

From the moment we humans become capable of indulging in creative concepts we are told; There are no limits, your mind is free to compose whatever the Art you envision.  

This is a lie, in our world.

You may design and invent without limit in the free time afforded by your pursuit of fiscal security, and you may sketch or sculpt the image in your mind; small, secretly.

Creatives must abandon their dreams and succumb to the ambiguity of their drab grey surroundings- blend to the city, to the public, chain their wrists to the company wealth.

Unless the Artist, with all their skill and their luck, break and bend to the men above who own their distributions.  The men who sell your movies, your television, your radio, the art in your books and magazines, the men who buy up and greenlight your advertisements, your news, the men who sell your entertainment- your Art. 

The free market demands what they who own the market allows.

We cannot create at will in a world where the Artist must appease a master for the sake of capital, for the sake of survival.  Our Art can not flourish in a world that states “No, it will not sell.” 

Will not sell!  Where is the heart, the soul?  Who among us would call ourselves The Artist if there is no Soul?

And yet, who among you does not have the demand of finance above your neck, ready to cut and send you away to a living hell.  We must create what gains us cold and iron cash, lest we be purged from society and made an example.

The Starving Artist.

Or we reject them!

Reject the cold grip of mega-monopolized media distributaries and their ceaseless adaptations and rebrands.  Their creating and recreating of pre-existing stories, their rejection of the thousands of new stories to be told in favor of further episodes of Spongebob.  

Reject and Refuse-

Refuse to write them a new telling of Gone with the Wind, Avatar, Pocahontas.  Do not succumb to the demands they make of you to alter, to change your vision, your story.  Do not censor your Art, do not be afraid; draw your mind, sing your heart.  

They will reject you in turn, and you will be cast off, refused and spurned from the mass, but you will be free. And you will have your fellows, your furor of dreck and your kin of mediocrities.  We survive together, passing the same five dollars back and forth between ourselves in need, because we care, because we support Art.

Art in all its glory, its dingy and unscrubbed resplendency.  The bodies you would never see adorning magazines, the songs you would never audition on radio, the sculptures in no eccentrics garden, are loved for the heart and hands that painstakingly developed outside the common grace and molded from the dark and weak corners.  

Starve, Artists, we are loved for it by all the other hated washout in this world.

[glacierruler]

Written works Masterpost

Animated AUs:

Life of the Dead (Is animated and may contain flashing images and colors, click at your own risk!)

Chaptered AUs:

Monster AU(written version NOT the comic version)(prinxiety, moceit, intrulogical)

AO3 cause tumblr links broke and I don't feel like fishing it out

Of Magic and Mortals (I AM REWORKING ON THIS ONE!!!)

AO3 cause tumblr links broke and I don't feel like fishing it out

Sanders Sides DND AU (Anaroceit, background intrulogical maybe)

Masterpost

Banding With You(eventual dukexiety, maybe some other ships idk yet):

Masterpost

Paranormal Investigations:

Masterpost

Through Hades and Back:

Masterpost

Infinite Respawns: Stories About Those Who Have Been Chosen

Masterpost

Oneshots:

Egg Sandwich (pairing moceit, hurt/comfort)

Crashed Down on the Sidewalk (pairing none, hurt no comfort)

Biting You (platonic anxceitmus)

If I Could Just Kiss You (dukexiety, prinxiety)

I, Remus Coriander (none, hurt no comfort)

Is Anything Even Real (none, hurt no comfort)

[persephoneflorencemuses]

[ GUIDE ] Caitria and MJ

"in the process of guiding the receiver through a crowded place, the sender’s hand protectively grazes against the small of their back" The BAU had cleared Caitria for service and she felt ready for work, though she wasn't so ready for the girls night that Emily suggested. But she went because she loved her friends, and some who felt more than just friends though she hadn't admitted it yet not fully so for now they were considered friends Caitria could handle her liquor, but opted not to get a drink getting instead a soda water. But the longer she stayed the less she felt safe. Perhaps it was the loud noises or the cramped space or the screaming people did as they looked for their friends half drunk. "I better head out, I'm tired and need to get some sleep today's been a long day." It felt like a lie like a fake out, but it was true it had been long. She woke up at four thirty from a nightmare and hadn't been able to fall back asleep before her regular alarm went off.

After Caitria's friends said their goodbyes to her she headed out but instantly felt overwhelmed by the crowd. But not a minute had passed before she heard a voice, the one of MJ's that she could recognize anywhere, before a hand on her back. "Hey, let me help you home tonight" The voice was sweet and kind. MJ's hand protectively guided her through the crowd. "I know, but I figured you could use.." MJ's voice hesitated for a fraction of a moment, the kind you would miss if you weren't paying attention. But caitria was and now instead of the crowd she focused herself on the feel of MJ's hand on her back, the gentle sound of her voice, and how stunning MJ was. "..someone to help you home at least."

It felt a little bit like a lie, but it would be far from the first time they stayed at the other's house, in fact MJ had been the one to stay with her after everything that happened. MJ felt like safety like a lighthouse in a dangerous storm, so she didn't argue like they did when she first met MJ. MJ didn't drop her hand when they were out of the crowd but when she did when they were near the car, her hand grazed the small of her back. Caitria definitely blushed a but but hoped the darkness could hide it. "Do you want to stay over at my place? I can borrow you a shirt." Caitria said regaining her stability as she unlocked the car.

want more? prompt list

[usernoneexistent]

Putting my Marauders, Hogwarts Mystery and Golden trio era characters' written works onto one post in chronological order.

Siblings (Jacob & Juniper Moss)

Flowers (Juniper Moss & Charlie Weasley)

Fancy Dress Up (Fred and George Weasley)

Regret (Juniper, Jacob & Julia Moss)

Með hækkandi sól (Juniper Moss & Marwa)

Fruits (Marwa ft. Simon Covaci)

Old and New Faces (Marwa ft. Ginny Weasley & Luna Lovegood)

[whatkindofnameisella]

can you believe that we have fanfiction. that we have websites dedicated to fanfiction. that there is a place that you can go and read tens, hundreds, thousands and thousands of pieces of writing that strangers have made. people who are not "writers". people who come home at the end of the day and have feelings and say, i am going to put that into words. i am going to share those words. short, long, sweet, sad, horny, funny, wonderful words. we are all just human and we all love to make and remake and share that with others. can you believe that.

[stagbells]

Written work

From: @astorichan

To: @ninten-draw

Note:  Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Written work under readmore!

It was odd to be separated from the darkness from whence they came.

When their mask had been broken, they’d expected that to be the end. A part returning to the whole, shadows enveloping them from all sides – they expected it to feel soothing, just like the call that had rung through their mind was.

Return to the whole. Lay your regrets to rest. Merge with it. 

Yet, when they accepted that call, bowing to the sibling that had freed them for one last time, no shade of oblivion washed over them. Instead, they watched themself fall apart, black and gold twisted tightly together unravelling. Motes of Void like thick tar floated up, converging above them before curling into themselves and dissipating into nothing.

They felt… lighter, since then.

It was as though weights snapped around their ankles for their entire life were suddenly gone. Gone was the dread that had tailed them for as long as they could remember; gone was the watchfulness, the acute focus that they never truly abandoned, not even while resting. They weighed nothing, their body now a cloud of fleeting essence – but they didn’t feel anything in particular on that topic either.

(How they’d despised themself for surrendering to the infection.

They should’ve been stronger than that. They should’ve done better, if not for themself then for the sibling that they’d heard cry out in agony-)

They barely remembered the time that came immediately after their death – second death, that was. It was a haze of careless delight mixed with childish curiosity unlike anything they’d ever felt.

(They hated how guarded they’d been in their life, when the light of dawn filled them to the brim and yanked on their body to make them fight. What use was any of that, if they were to end up corrupted and their shell invaded by the plague anyway?)

The world gaped before them, vast and unexplored. Nothing stopped them from flying through caverns and passages full of ancient history that they did not recall. Nothing stood in the way of the joy that they drew from simply existing. 

(Their existence had been, perhaps, their biggest regret.)

They rushed as a ribbon of half-faded light through Hallownest’s winding pathways, relishing the sudden freedom that they’d gained. They vaguely remembered having wings, in the life that they’d lost – given up – but that had been nothing like this newfound ability to glide together with wind currents, brushing over lifeless stone and rich growths alike. They were invincible in truth now.

(Too weak. Too weak. They’d always been too weak.)

But that state of being didn’t last forever – however much time they lost to the fog of elation, it was over in an instant, and they began to remember. 

They’d once been alive.

(What they’d had wasn’t life at all.)

They’d been a part to the conglomeration of shattered anguish, their wounds weeping blackened blood.

(But it was that same place of suffering that had offered them rest, and held true to its promises.)

It was then that they recognised the oddity of their current way of being. There shouldn’t have been any them left altogether – hadn’t they surrendered that to the abyss?

Those questions were left unanswered. There was no one able to respond: they were firmly severed from the whole, the writhing mass of consciousnesses beneath their own nowhere to be found. They could not reach out to anyone, and whenever they came across other bugs, they were unnoticed. Like a gentle breeze or a glint of light, eyes caught on them from time to time, but never lingered.

So they struggled to recall. Why were they there – be it after their death or before? Was there anywhere for them to go, or were they meant to spend the rest of eternity as a gust of wind, their memories and self just as momentary as their body?

(They hadn’t been able to help the sibling who’d wailed in immense pain. They hadn’t been enough.)

They found no success in that, but their efforts finally came to fruition in an unexpected way. Their aimless wandering was rewarded in the richest way possible: as they left the land of mossy greens and friendly faces, of sizzling acid and fuzzy critters coated in lichen, they stumbled upon a small village.

It wasn’t all that different at first – they were still unnoticed, though no longer was their flight carefree and delightful.

Until they found a familiar face.

(They’d been thankful to this sibling for putting them to rest, for freeing them of the dawn’s fiery grasp.)

A round mask adorned with two thin horns that split at their peaks was the first to cock in curiosity as they flew around. The round eyes two pits of swallowing darkness were locked onto them like grappling hooks, not letting go even as they pirouetted in the air, deliberately trying to throw their sibling off.

The swirls of shadows in those eyes betrayed confusion. Emptiness gaped where they should’ve felt that like the emotion was their own, the link connecting them to other voided kin absent. A step missing where there should’ve been one, and no longer were they floating, weightless; no, now they were plunging down, air whipping at the shell they no longer had and distress – a feeling half-forgotten – filling them to the brim.

Because if they couldn’t hear their sibling, the only tie to remembrance that they had, then the sibling couldn’t hear them as well.

The rest of that encounter was lost to waking terror. They’d found themself curled up into a ball in a small opening in bedrock. They did not recall how they got there. They did not know how much time had passed.

But their sibling was there with them, bottomless gaze a well of calm that spilled over into them. No words reached them-

(How they’d longed to thank their sibling in truth, but there wasn’t anything left of them to do so by that point.)

-but the dread eating them alive ebbed, letting them carefully inch towards the other vessel.

A stubby hand outstretched towards them in a silent beckoning gesture. They could not hold on – it hurt, a distant and faraway ache of something irreversibly lost – but they could follow, and follow they did.

They hadn’t recognised the other vessel, their mask taller than the entirety of the essence ghost that was left of them, at first. The three-pronged sweeping horns sparked no memories, nor did the chitin marred by scars and the crack that fractured their other kindred’s face in two.

(They hadn’t been enough to help. They’d longed to simply forget the agonized shriek oh so much, when their failure became apparent and the light sank its claws into their shattered head.)

They didn’t understand the obvious guilt and tension that locked the taller sibling in place for a very long time. It was not until that reaction released its steel-tight grip on the scarred vessel that they connected the dots.

They were dead.

(More alive than they’d ever been.)

They were separated from the darkness from whence they came, unlike the other two vessels. No Void was left in them, but they were not empty, either.

They were something else entirely. A fleeting whisper of a second chance, a phantom of a dream they’d once carried close to their heart.

They were also kin. Their rescuer, the small sibling in whose eyes raged the storm of all lost shadows, had dubbed them that.

Kin.

They belonged.

(They’d once longed for a place to belong to.)

They stayed in the small hut with the other two vessels. They cared little for the loss of their weightlessness, for it was replaced with something far better.

It was odd to be separated from the darkness from whence they came. But today, as they twirled around their siblings, both immersed in some kind of work, that knowledge did not reek of faraway anguish.

(They did not regret what had become of them.)

No matter the link’s absence, the taller sibling’s relaxation despite their closeness spoke volumes. No matter the nature they’d surrendered, the two pairs of fathomless eyes spoke of comfort and acceptance.

And they struggled to convey the same sentiment.

They thought that they were slowly getting better at it.

[corvid-feathers]

New oc story! This one only has one chapter, the AO3 link is here

I have it set that only registered users can see it, I'm doing this to prevent ai story theft

the story is about this guy I made on a Carnivorous Ruse base

[ikainocanon]

“I see,” Acht responds. “How long is this gonna take, exactly?”

“Shouldn't be that long. An hour, hour and a half tops,” Pearl answers. “Why? You in a rush?”

“Nah. Just wondering. An hour’s shorter than I expected. Thought it'd be, like, an hour per floor. And a half hour for the backyard.”

-

Acht severely underestimates the size of Pearl and Marina's house, and they get a nice little tour of the place before they officially move in.

second chapter of awakened is up! the wordcount isn’t as big as the previous chapter was, i hope that’s alright. this is mostly setup for the future, which i am very excited to write. hope you enjoy!

[bearyvv]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐞

𝐎𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

--

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧

𝐈 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧

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𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

𝐌𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞

𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬

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𝐌𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐟

𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐭