#dead light

[bloggerspam]

Lost in Grave Dirt

You've forgotten your name.

You've forgotten a lot of things, actually.

But you keep getting stuck on the fact that you do not know your name.

Maybe John? No, that doesn't seem right. Jane? You've forgotten if you're a woman or man, which feels like it should be important, but doesn't seem to be right in this moment.

Tom? Richard? Harry?

None of these feel right.

"Hello?" You blink. Right, forget the name—someone else is here and has been calling you for a while. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you." You call back, looking down at yourself. You're sitting in a ditch, legs half-buried in the ground. You're disheveled and covered in dirt, but you seem to be okay overall besides that. "Sorry, I was a little distracted. What were you asking me?"

"I asked if you were alright." The person standing at the top of the ditch you're in replies, cautiously, as if they are not sure if you are crazy or not. Which is fair play, really, considering where you have woken up.

"Right." You say, wondering if you should pick yourself up and dust yourself off. "I'm not sure. Would you happen to know who I am?"

The color drains from the person's face, eyes straying to the side, voice trembling a bit as they seem to read off of something. "Uh, does the name Daniel J. Fenton ring any bells?"

"Hm." You think on that for a moment, surveying the ditch and shaking your legs a little to free them. You don't feel like a Daniel, but then again, you don't not feel like a Daniel either. You tell them so, before looking back up in confusion. "Maybe I went by a nickname?"

"Like, Danny?" The person tilts their head, biting their lip. "Probably?"

You consider this, feeling out the possibly-not-new name. "Danny does feel more…right."

"So you don't remember who you are?" The person crouches, leaning more closer. "Or why you're sitting in…uh. There?"

"I have no earthly idea." You admit, to which the person snorts.

"Earthly. good one." They chuckle, reaching a hand down. "Do you, uh, maybe need help getting out?"

"That'd be nice." You take their hand, climbing out of the ditch with surprisingly little effort. You think you've been down there a while, but again, you can't quite remember. Still, you have a lot less aches and pains than you thought you would.

When you are successfully out, you start dusting yourself off, pausing when you see your new companion fidget uncomfortably. You're about to ask what's wrong when you catch sight of the small slab of stone at the head of the ditch you were in.

It's a tombstone, crudely made, with a name and years written on it as they usually do.

Daniel J. Fenton. April 3, 2004 to December 24th, 2023.

"Huh." You say, words slipping out as you carefully make your way over. "That's…interesting."

"I'll say. If I had a nickle for every guy I've seen rise out of his grave," your companion laughs, disbelieving and almost depressively, "I'd have two nickles."

You hum, something not quite sitting right. Your clothes are covered in dirt beyond belief, but beyond the normal wear and tear you're relatively clean. No out of place rips or tears, not even a speck of blood, on your once white teeshirt and blue jeans.

"Which isn't a lot," your companion continues, oblivious to your conundrum. "But it's weird that it's happened twice, right?"

You turn to look at the ditch, inspecting it for a moment, leaning over before your companion grabs you to yank you back.

"Whoa, what—" your companion turns you around, hands clamped around your biceps as if to keep you there, "we just got you out, why are you trying to get back in?"

"I'm not trying to get back in," you try and wriggle your way out, but your companion is not budging. You crane your neck as best you can, before giving up and staring into your captor's blazing eyes. "I just thought it was strange is all."

"Strange?" They finally let you go, moving over to look over the ditch themselves, as if to block your path. "What is?"

"Well," You make a face down at your beat up sneakers. "The grave looks very…machine dug. It's not really what you'd expect from someone crawling out of their own grave, right?"

Your companion freezes, turning slowly too look you up and down in a new light. Their entire countenance changes, as if a switch has been flipped.

"Come to think of it, you don't have a suit," They stalk back to you, taking your hands carefully into theirs. "And your fingernails are too clean to have dug yourself out."

"In the first place," You venture, as they let your hands drop,"Where's my coffin?"

That seems to puzzle them as well, both of you leaning over to peek at the empty grave. It truly looks too clean to have been done by human hands, the walls of it oddly straight. It's about 6 feet deep, with only the side you used to climb out looking slightly lopsided.

"…Huh." Your companion says. And really, what else were you expecting? "Should have noticed that first."

"Can't really blame you." You shrug, looking around and realizing you're also not sure where the missing dirt is, "I'd be more concerned about the amnesiac too."

"I think," Your companion finally decides, having also looked around and found nothing, "that maybe I should take you to my friends so we can sort this out."

"Sure." You agree, amiably. You have this vague notion like you should be more cautious, second locations and all that, but you also have this weird certainty that there's nothing that you can't really handle.

Do all amnesiacs have this kind of cockiness? Or is it just you? You eye your companion up and down as they take out their phone to contact their people, suddenly realizing that maybe you should have taken note of this before.

He's of African descent, skin a smooth and oddly comforting umber color. His eyes are cocoa brown, bright and rounded almond, reminding you of a chocolate Labrador. His hair is in beaded braids, some golden rings decorated here or there.

He's a handsome man, buffer than you are, though only slightly shorter than you. You think, in normal circumstances, that perhaps you would be in trouble. Your own arms are toned but slim, and though you seem to have some abs, you are more of a lean variety.

Still, you somehow know you could take him.

Strange.

"Alright," he says into the phone, "I'll see you at Leslie's."

When he hangs up and gestures for you to follow him with a smile, you realize that maybe you have forgotten something else important.

"So," You say as you trail behind him, "my name might be a mystery, but will yours stay one too?"

The man jolts, twisting around suddenly to a stop. "Right! Sorry," he holds out a hand, sheepishly smiling, "I'm Duke. Duke Thomas."

"Nice to meet you Duke." You smile as you shake his hand, feeling oddly warm. "I guess for now, you can call me Danny until proven otherwise."

"Nice to meet you too, Danny." Duke laughs, tugging you along, both of you walking side by side towards a motorcycle parked just outside the graveyard. "Let's get you sorted, yeah?"

You hop onto the bike behind Duke, feeling a little guilty about dirtying up the spare helmet you were given. The drive from there is smooth, refreshing on your skin—the sights slide by in technicolor and you lean back to flow with it, hands tight around Duke's waist.

You've forgotten your name, though you seem to have a lead on it.

You've forgotten a lot of things, truly.

But somehow, you remember this: this feeling of flying through a city, wind whipping around you, a kind of lightness to your body that feels like gravity is only an occasional visitor.

You find solace in that, this strangely familiar feeling and the warmth that seeps from Duke in front of you.

Somehow, you know:

All is as it should be.

[janacademia]

a melt into each other type of love

[poemwav]

– Jackie Wang | from "The Crypt Seed"

[whimsifae]

[unleashed-imagination]

I notice that Autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

[fictionalaffection]

old souls

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Quotes by Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath

[luciferslilith7]

..as autumn bleeds into winter...

...Goodbye November...

@luciferslilith7

[ther0sesared3ad]

The urge to learn every language and play every instrument and travel the world and live through every historical time period and be a writer and a poet and an actor and

[machveil]

BestFriend!Simon Riley and his big, beautiful brown eyes. he doesn’t think they’re anything special, but he knows you like them. is it playing dirty when Simon looks at you through his eyelashes when he wants something? maybe, but can’t you just let him stay over for the night? he’ll be quiet - he always is. your couch is a little too small for him, you don’t mind him squeezing into bed with you, right?

BestFriend!Simon Riley that has such dark irises they could be mistaken for black. sometimes you can’t tell where his iris stops and his pupil starts. eyes half-lidded, pale eyelashes droopy - Simon’s resting face usually has his eyes looking tired, almost heavy with sleep even when he’s wide awake. if you ignore the way his eyebrows seem to furrow, knitting together for positive and negative emotions alike, his drowsy gaze is almost dreamy - especially when he’s looking at you

BestFriend!Simon Riley who stares at you until you notice. lounging on your couch as you talk to him, your gaze focused on the tv while his is on you. two episodes of your favorite show, that’s how long Simon was able to stare at you before you noticed - you spared him a few glances, but it never really struck you. he cracks a smile when you ask, “Do I have something on my face?”, a deep hum rumbling in his chest as he shifts his gaze to the tv, pale eyelashes catching the light, “Nah, just lookin’.”

BestFriend!Simon Riley that stares at his ceiling at night, legs crossed and arms behind his head. one of the now rare times he isn’t at your place, a rare instance he isn’t cozied up and surrounding you. deep, pitch black eyes in the dark room looking up, eyelids heavily with sleep as he dozes off waiting to march back to your place tomorrow, those big, beautiful brown eyes waiting to look at you as he asks to stay over again

[mahoganyamore]

in cold blood

[canisalbus]

[peacefulandcozy]

ig credit: fieldnotesbyfi

[poemwav]

by Rachel Zucker, from her collection Thunderbird

[lumhos]

dp x dc au

danny phantom au where amity park comes to the conclusion that HUMAN danny fenton and GHOST HERO phantom are somehow in a relationship.

danny is extremely embarrassed by this theory because he has to hear his peers whispering about the “sweetest love story ever”, all while sam and tucker laugh their asses off.

its extra embarrassing for danny because hes currently dating a stunning vigilante/hero that most certainly IS NOT HIMSELF that he cannot tell anyone about, let alone be seen around.

after weeks of (poorly) dealing with rumors and pointed looks, danny decides that the best course of action is to stage a break up with himself. its tragically public and extremely cheesy.

it ends with danny in “tears” and phantom running away, as sad as danny. sam and tucker have to hide their faces to hide their laughter. danny is convinced this is the dumbest thing hes ever done. jazz cannot fathom anybody falling for this.

so naturally the entire town believes it. and of course they become dedicated to reuniting the couple, showing them that despite their species difference, love overpowers all.

and of course all hell breaks loose when everyobe finds our about this random civilian in illinois whos involved in the strangest love corner, being chased after a bat and a ghost.

[fictionalaffection]