#I SAVED OVER MY COMPLETED POST

[clangenwritingexperiment]

Moon 100

(I had all this written out... then I didn't save... I am going to cry...)

Crookedbracken's grief has gotten so bad that they now have an actual physical stomach ache because of it. The medicine cats are concerned.

Frostfreckle has given birth to two tiny kits. Pumpkinkit and Runningkit. This will be their last litter or they will be boxing their mate over the head.

Primwave has recovered from their whitecough.

Primewave has also tried to confess to Swiftspark but they were rejected.

Shimmerfreckle's leg has healed with no scar in sight.

Cragshadow was out on a morning walk when they were suddenly jumped by a fox. In their mad scramble to get away and up a tree, the fox managed to chomp on their tail, leaving it mangled.

Whisperpeak's whitecough is gone.

Sunnybird and Dazzlenest have recovered from frostbite but were left with a scar.

Hemlockpelt is expecting kits!

Whiteice and Hailleaf have survived yellowcough.

Garlicclaw joins the elders! They happily settle down in the nest next to their new mate Wolverinepeak. They both look forward to living their sunset moon together.

Conchpaw has been named Conchblaze and honored for their composure.

Riverkit, Weaselkit, Hyacinthkit, and Heavykit stand trembling as they are all made apprentices. Riverpaw is given to Waterice, Weaselpaw is given to Riversand, Hyacinthpaw is given to Redocean, and Heavypaw is given to Hailleaf.

Jumblekit sits nervously at pools edge. Their littermates had just been apprenticed but they were left out of the ceremony this far. Were they going to be apprenticed at all?

(This is where I lost ALL of my progress so I will instead summarize what I can remember)

Jumblepaw becomes the new medicine cat apprentice under Fleckrustle.

(I had a whole thing where Fleckrustle had received visions and was even visited by Stormflicker to tell them that Jumblepaw was the one but it's all gone now)

Several cats become mates.

Shoreeagle has died due to an unexpected fox attack.

Pumapaw, Bearpaw, Pheasantpaw, and Gardeniapaw all become apprentices.

Sloepaw finally had their warrior ceremony and they are very proud of themselves. They are now Sloepelt.

Hilltalon found an abandoned kitten and adopted it. They named the kit Blizzardkit.

Quietpaw has also become a warrior named Quietmask.

Sprucefeather also died because of a snake bite.

Flaxpaw and Frecklepaw have also become warriors named Flaxstripe and Frecklecry.

Dolphinfade and Hemlockpelt have created Barnaclekit.

[atthebell]

*shakes can* long hair cellbit? Long hair cellbit to spare please? Please

order up

[silkjade]

i haven’t been here much recently, and i’m sorry i’ve only been negative on the off chance i’ve been online, but let me just say one last piece before the end of this month, so that maybe the next might be better….

[ahaha-ahahaha]

yeah new favourite little guy. no don't look in my reblogs.

[nejackdaw]

(reads my own fic) woah. I'm so good at my job

[skitskatdacat63]

The brainrot this literal 2 second clip had given me is insane

[cannibalovers]

jack coming back, showing pics of the crime scene to will AND molly, pressuring him to come back and molly telling him that she would be satisfied knowing he did the right thing and that he should go and Will actually going made me actually shed a tear.

[concernedbrownbread]

CW: suicidal idealization

You share a laugh with a stranger.

You are on a bridge and the waters below ripple. It's a quiet night, the sounds of the city distant and muted. The colours blur on the shoreline, reflecting on the water like the stars they outshine but do not out number. It is in the quiet you wonder why people build something so luminous in the face of eternal darkness. Perhaps it is just a distraction.

To you, it is. The longer you spend staring at the lights, shattered and fragmented in the water, the more you hesitate. Maybe you'll come back another night.

You don't want to come back another night. 

You do.

You don't know what you want. You know yourself better than anyone, because no one else has lived your life, been in your shoes, been you – but you still don't know what you want. It is a level of self-reflection that you have found impossible. Who are you, anyway?

You're stalling.

The water must be cold. The winter was warm but the spring is cold – there's talk on the news about that, and talk among your friends, and friends of your friends. Small talk about the weather has never been easier: how was your day, did you know the planet is dying? You don't want to live on a dying planet. You don't really want to live at all.

You wish you'd brought a jacket because it is cold. The night brings a chill, and the wind brings with it a promise of incoming rain. Perhaps a jacket would've been better suited, because this is your favourite sweater and you don't want to get it wet. The waters look cold. Perhaps you should wait for a warmer day, when the waters don't ripple in harsh, biting winds, when the lights don't fragment. When you're wearing that ugly jacket you want to get rid off, but you've had it forever and have grown a little bit attached to.

You won't do it.

You will.

You wager with yourself. The chips are down – the chips have been down for weeks, months, years now. You've been on a losing streak but maybe you're addicted to gambling. You're addicted to the bargain: one more day, one more day, one more day. You can't stop no matter how much you want to. You know you shouldn't want to stop. You know it shouldn't be a gamble at all. Most people don't see it as a gamble.

What are you doing here, anyway?

This must be for attention, a part of you sneers. That is what you hope to gain out of it, a news story and a grieving family. You want your friends to talk about you in hushed, rueful tones, as if you are something greater than just another person on a bridge. Perhaps you want someone you know to find that letter you left, have sirens wail in and stop you, have people look at you with pitying eyes. They would coddle you, show you leniency. Maybe they'd blame themselves, ask your forgiveness that you, oh wonderful you, would grant so graciously. You want the attention, don't you?

Don't you?

You don't know what you want. 

The water below you ripples, and if you go under it will continue to. The wind will not stop for you – it will bring the cold, as it always has. The lights are inconsequential to the stars, and you are no different. You want to cry at that. You want to cry at a lot of things. Crying is the only thing that you know you want to do. No amount of self-reflecting changes that.

You don't cry.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Or rather, the bridge, quite literally. It casts the world in harsh yellow for a moment. It feels like a moment out of mind, because none of this feels quite real anymore. You expect the light to pass you by like all the others have, the whizz of tires on asphalt going by. Instead, it grinds to a halt.

Out steps a person. They are nondescript. They are simply a stranger.

For a moment you wonder if your mind is making this up. The late hour certainly makes it more into a murder-y kind of horror rather than the cosmic kind, but you wouldn't be surprised if your sleep deprived mind has conjured a phantom off your existential dread. Is the stranger here to urge you closer to the edge or to pull you away?

“Do you know the way to Front Street?” the stranger inquires.

It was then that you fully notice that there is a car parked nearby, door wide open and emergency lights flickering to a beat that seems to echo in your ribcage. Things come into sharper focus – the colour of the car, the face of the person, the coat they’re wearing. It takes a moment to process the question itself, as if you are already underwater.

“Sorry?” you ask to give yourself time.

“Front Street,” they repeat, smiling as if you were in on the joke, “I've been driving around in circles.”

“It's – you take the exit on Habour. Go left on Main,” you tell them, mouth forming words without your input. You know the way because you know the way – there is little thought. If only other things were so easy.

“Thanks,” they say, “God, it's like they were high when they made this city.’

It's not particularily funny. It's a haha, the government, am I right? type of joke. You've heard it a hundred times. You've said it a dozen more. It's not that funny.

You laugh.

“Wouldn't put it past them,” you joke, “Either that or they just handed it to a toddler.”

“I have a two year old and her scribbles look better than these roads,” they say, a fond roll of their eyes and an easy grin.

You laugh again. You share a commiserating glance with them. It's quiet for a moment, verging on awkward. That's how it goes with strangers.

It was then that they seemed to realise that you're on a bridge all alone.

“Hey, you okay? Need help getting anywhere or …” they are hesitant. But they are kind.

“No, I live near here. Just out for a walk,” you lie.

They leave, waving goodbye and thanking you profusely. It's nice. 

You turn away from the waters and start walking towards the city lights. Now you really regret wearing such a flimsy sweater, with the wind picking up as it was. You are warmed, though, by remembering the stranger. That was nice of them to offer. You hope they think you were nice too, for providing the direction.

It's nice. Sometimes, you think, that's all it takes. 

You'll come back another night. You know you will. No amount of good in your life has been able to stop you so far, and tonight it not different. But that's just it – tonight is another night, and you'll have many more. That's your wager: one more night, one more night, one more night. It's not perfect. It's not good. It's borderline something. If you could brave a therapist, surely they'd say so. It keeps you alive, though. Every night, there is something different, but all the same, it keeps you here. Tonight, this is what keeps you here: you share a laugh with a stranger.

[e77y]

Glad I’m starting therapy so soon after moving out ☝️ I am already feeling the helplessness and loneliness

[helloiamacashier]

It's a travesty that I can't reblog gifsets of books.

[ragnars-tooth]

One of my big compulsions is taking a fuck ton of screenshots Just In Case a piece of information is important in like 4 years and I can't remember it (sometimes the information is an instagram post that I might not remember later and of course needs to be recorded everywhere (I will Not be looking at that again)) so today is my transfer 16000 images off my phone admin day (woo)

Like yeah I never looked at any of them and they were completely irrelevant to my daily life, But what if I need them ✨️ later ✨️ (you'll see that the idea of Later is doing a lot of heavy lifting here) OR what if there's a vital piece of information in the mix somewhere that I'll lose forever if I delete them? So: onto the external hard drive they go

This is one of those cases where. Yeah. Ideally I wouldn't take 16000 screenshots in half a year. And YEAH ideally I'd just delete them and not transfer them somewhere else to never look at again. BUT at least I get a clean slate and I can maybe not mindlessly save everything for 2 seconds. It's like. Small wins? Progress. Yknow.

[lr31o]

can i say something really brave and controversial that i'm 100% going to get hate on

metal gear solid 1 has not aged well gameplay-wise

[john--ward]

working on something

[kenobihater]

tumblr girlies when the tragic media has tragedy in it

[bananasofthorns]

if/when I get around to cutting off most of my hair, what color should I redye it? (though keep in mind that I'm not planning to rebleach and my hair is brown so it'll be more of a tint than truly dyed)

(also if u have recs for dye that works on dark/unbleached hair please lmk, I have one brand I'm considering but would like options)

[sumeragi-hokuto]

Set 4 of chapter 3, volume 4 of the Tokyo Babylon manga. 9th chapter overall.

Cleaning/typesetting done by me, official Dark Horse translation used.

Select/open the images to view in higher quality.

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