[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled "immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]
a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”
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*tadpole connection online*
and i couldn't decide whether or not to keep the makeup so here she is with it
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It's the blood curdling scream that wakes him up.
Simon's eardrums rattle like a war drum, and he sits with fists clenched, teeth grinding, and eyes darting in the shadows of your shared bedroom. Your home has become a war zone of sadistic memories and blood that neither of you can ever quite wash clean. Old scars, chewed nails. It lurks. Insidious and ridiculing; how dare either of you ever become creatures that can bleed? He needs to kill it. Smother it until he feels its pulse cease. Crush it until its bones are mush.
Then he smells the remains of dinner wafting through the house and the dessert you had demanded go with it. And he remembers your grin and laughter. He remembers you. Silky sheets glide over his skin as he recalls himself; where he is. Home. Home, with you, and with your pules that leave him with a rancid cordolium he can't shake.
An old lamp crackles to life as he yanks on the chain, and you're smothered in Simon's arms within an instant. Inky tattoos envelop you, and they're the only indicator that you're safe besides the gentle whispers into the crown of your head. I've got you. Just you 'n me. It doesn't quite mask the tempest within his chest; that death rattle that caught in his throat all those years ago and still echoes to this day, but it's enough to bring you back into your body.
Neither of you speak. There are not enough words within the English language either of you can use to articulate this special type of misery. It's a torture that stays marked into the marrow of your bones and hidden within the grey matter of your brain, and there it'll stay. It'll stay until it manifests into delirious night terrors you can't ever seem to wake up from.
But you have Simon, and he'll hold you until you both turn to dust if that's what it takes.
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could only express this in green text format, bear with me
> be me
> in english class
> some guy delivers a meandering nihilistic monologue about how we're all just apes and our only purpose is reproducing, eating, dying and rotting (direct quote) that only vaguely pertains to the question he's being asked
> turn around to look at him
> see his laptop
> it's covered in southpark stickers
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