amongsnot

[amongsnot]

somebody punch this chapter out of me. you have my consent

[amongsnot]

#6 in trending for fop is INSANE were not even danny phantom what the hell

[amongsnot]

an average kid.

[amongsnot]

On a lighter note, did you hear that the ANW staff is open about doing another Power Hour with Jimmy if season 2 is greenlit? (Not sure how they'll get it to work, but the Fairly Oddparents being Jimmy's return to TV would be pretty wholesome)

omg huh?? is there a source for this because thats kinda insane.... would be so awesome would be so cool

[amongsnot]

I take this soooo seriously

No joshes here

[amongsnot]

Nicktoons Prompt Meme! Request a fanfic/leave a prompt and maybe someone will pick it up!

[amongsnot]

Alright we're doing a Peri fan art challenge!!!

Being one of the biggest appeals of the series, hopefully this can help keep the hype train going! See you all in December!! 💜💜💜 And don't forget #GreenlightFOPANWS2

[amongsnot]

i HATE this guy get him off my screen immediately!!!!

[amongsnot]

They're on a date.

[amongsnot]

ok last one to post for now until i draw more (edit: WAIT I LIED I HAVE ONE MORE THING FOR LATER)

i love being an artist so i can make shit like this LMAOO

[amongsnot]

Applications are now open for Unite! A Nicktoons Zine!

Sign up here!

Be sure to read through the FAQ and familiarize yourself with the schedule! We'd love to see as many creators come together for this project!!

Applications will be open until December 31st.

[amongsnot]

Check this out Captain

[amongsnot]

curly talks

[amongsnot]

there are baby shoes in your drawer.

you don’t know how long they’ve been in there—a month, a year, perhaps even two—just that they are gently tucked into the right corner, taking space on top of a toddler onesie.

you sit down on the edge of your bed, cradling the shoes between your hands; cupped like a dove. you tentatively pick one up (turning it around with squinted eyes) and read the size on the back. it reads a number that you do not understand.

but you once did, and there are baby shoes in your drawer, and you are not a baby.

you are eighteen. you are eighteen with a job (to a store you’ve never bought a toy from) and a family (that does not love you) and a life (that does not feel like yours).

and the baby shoes did not belong to you eighteen years ago. they are new and shine and your mother would never buy you something this nice.

the baby shoes are chaste in the front from where a little kid took their first steps. the shoes are tied (double knotted with care and worry). the shoes were put in your bedside table with a precarious sort of caution. the shoes belonged to a baby that was loved, and you did not know that feeling eighteen years ago.

there are baby shoes in your drawer, and they are purple.

you frown and put them on top of your bedside table, next to the tank without fish.

you pull out the onesie that belongs to a toddler next, unfolding it and holding it out in front of you. it has a pun on the front that makes you smile. (“my brother mayde dis shirt!” it reads. then, in a small font underneath. “he cant spel.”)

and you know that this onesie does not belong to you either, because you never had a brother. your parents would rather kill you and then each other before having another kid. your mom still glares at you in the bathroom mirror when she looks at her stretch marks. your dad still forgets to unlock the door when you come home from school.

you would never have a brother; but that’s fine. it’s what you’ve grown accustomed to, after all.

so you would never have a brother, and there is a onesie in your hands.

and there are baby shoes on your bedside table.

you examine the onesie further, checking it for stains or grease marks or rips. you check it for signs that it has been lived in, and you are surprised to see that there are none. this is not the ending you want, though; it is not the ending that the kid with the onesie and the purple shoes deserves.

you run a hand through the neck hole and pull at the cloth from the inside, desperately searching for a sign that this kid had been loved. you glance upwards, through the entryway to your bedroom and at the mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway (there is no physical door to your room. your parents had it removed as soon as they could). you check your own clothes, noting the wrinkled creases and year-old stains. you look at the onesie in your hands and search for everything that you don’t recognize: grass stains from playing outside and food stains from yummy meals. rips from growth spurts and baby drool.

there is nothing, and you come to the terrifying realization that this kid will grow up to be just like you.

the world does not need another one of you.

perhaps you should do something about that. stop it before it happens.

subconsciously, you run a hand through the hole for the neck and check the inside, and then you run a hand through the sleeves, pushing something hard and sharp out of the other end.

you pull your hand out and grab the card, and you pull your hand away from it just to leave a red stain, but you do not care because youve had babysitter who have done worse damage.

(“happy fifth birthday poof!” the card reads, accompanied by a small doodle of a balloon.)

there are three lines that have been scribbled out, before the writer finally decided on a meek “i love you.” and your hand shakes. you can feel a tear run down your cheek, landing on the card next to a similar water stain.

you throw the card across the room and bury your face into the piece of clothing. you don’t know why you’re crying now, when you’ve never cried once in your whole life. you don’t know why you recognize the hand writing on the card. you don’t know why you know what the three lines scribbled out say (“i’m going to miss you.” “it’s better this way!” “you’re going to do great things, i wish i could be there to watch.”).

you don’t know why you bought a purple onesie with a card addressed to a person you don’t know.

you don’t know why you don’t know.

all you know is that there is a card on the floor of your bedroom, and a purple onesie in your lap.

and a pair of baby shoes on your bedside table.

[amongsnot]

did you cry?

did you cry, little boy? (i do not remember.)

little boy, you are so young, do they understand that you love them so? (i do not remember.)

they call the ghost the ship of theseus, for he is a boy and not. (i hold your shoulders tight. bruising. was he? tell me what you know.) they do not understand that you hide in the corner little boy. for nobody knows what happens morrow. not even you. (your skin is bruised. why?)

you knew it was coming, didn't you little boy? (i do not remember) you knew your time was limited. it came like a hand; quick and painful. you know the feeling well, little boy. believe me. (do not ask how i know.) did you cry when the clock struck midnight, little boy? did you wake up, eyes-red, pillow-wet, with no idea as to why? oh, i pity the little boy. (do you remember?)