#era: story of light

[atlantis-area]

SHINee - 데리러 가 (Good Evening) (2018) 6th anniversary

[reneechoices]

The GOATs of Choices imo:

[thepersonperson]

Since Sukuna still has that final finger. Maybe that’s where we’ll get an afterlife scene or even a backstory? Yuji basically confirmed Sukuna is only like this because of circumstances. So…I would like to be shown those circumstances.

I’m ok with Sukuna dying and all the students surviving. But the execution of that has been so poorly paced and unsatisfying. Can I please get a proper grieving scene? Megumi and Nobara being all smiles at the Gojo letters is...weird.

I think there’s something to say about a manga where overwork/exploitation kills people having its mangaka rush the ending because of overwork/exploitation.

[helenablogsworld]

Shadows Over Maple Lane

The streetlights flickered as dusk settled over Maple Lane, casting long, eerie shadows across the suburban cul-de-sac. It had always been a quiet street, one where the sound of children’s laughter filled the air and neighbors exchanged pleasantries over white picket fences. But lately, there was a lingering sense of unease, a chill that clung to the air even in the warmth of summer.

Clara moved into the neighborhood only a few months ago, lured by the promise of peace. Her new house, with its ivy-clad brick walls and large bay windows, seemed charming enough, but something about it always felt...off. The air inside was stale, as if it had been holding its breath for too long, waiting for something to happen.

It wasn’t long before Clara noticed the oddities. The way the shadows in her home seemed to stretch unnaturally long at twilight, or how whispers, faint and unintelligible, drifted through the halls when she was alone. At first, she dismissed them as nothing more than creaks of an old house settling. But the strange occurrences escalated after she found an old letter tucked inside a loose floorboard under her bed.

The letter, written in elegant handwriting, told the story of a love affair between a young woman named Elise and a professor at a nearby college. Their love, though passionate, was forbidden. Elise’s father, a man of wealth and power, discovered their affair and forced the professor into hiding. The lovers planned to meet in secret one last time under the old oak tree in the backyard—an oak tree that still stood behind Clara’s house. But the letter ended abruptly, leaving Clara to wonder what happened to them.

Curiosity gnawed at her, and one night, she found herself standing beneath that ancient oak, the shadows of its gnarled branches stretching across the lawn. That’s when she saw it—a figure, faint but unmistakable, standing at the edge of the yard. The man’s silhouette was sharp against the dying light, and though she couldn’t make out his face, she felt his eyes on her.

Each night after, the figure appeared again, always standing just beyond her reach. It wasn’t long before Clara began hearing Elise’s name whispered in the wind, and the scent of roses—Elise’s favorite—filled the air.

Determined to uncover the truth, Clara sought out the history of the house and learned the grim reality. Elise never left that meeting under the oak tree. Her lover had waited, but she had been found first—by her father. Her life was cut short beneath those very branches, and her story buried along with her.

The shadows on Maple Lane grew darker after that revelation. Clara could feel the presence of something—someone—watching her, waiting for her to act. She realized then what the whispers were asking of her: Elise’s story needed an ending.

On a stormy autumn night, Clara returned to the oak tree, a bouquet of roses in hand. As the rain fell in torrents and lightning illuminated the sky, she laid the flowers at the base of the tree, whispering Elise’s name one final time. A gust of wind swept through the yard, and for a brief moment, Clara saw them—Elise and her professor, standing together beneath the oak, their faces no longer filled with sorrow but with peace.

As the storm passed, so did the shadows over Maple Lane. But in the quiet, Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that something—perhaps someone—still lingered in the house, forever grateful that their love, at last, had found its conclusion.

[thebramblewood]

Learning to party spellcaster style (when you're a reclusive and perpetually gloomy vampire), part one.

Previous / Next

Emilia: Morgyn, you came!

Morgyn: I really shouldn't be fraternizing with students.

Grace: You say that every time and yet you keep showing up anyway.

Emilia: Face it. We’re way more fun to hang out with than Sadsack Silversweater and Frigid Faba.

Morgyn: [laughs guiltily] God, that’s terrible. I hope you don't call them that to their faces. They’re really not so bad.

Emilia: Oh, please. We’re here for your classes, not the tedious snoozefests those dusty old bags call lectures.

Grace: Oh, you brought a date! How charming!

Morgyn: This is Caleb. Promise you’ll go easy on him. I’m afraid he doesn't get out much.

Tomax: [sniffs suspiciously] You really invited a vampire on campus, Ember?

Morgyn: Don't worry. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, darling?

Caleb: Fangs off, I promise.

Emilia: Not even a little nibble? How disappointing. I’ve always wondered what that felt like.

Grace: Emilia! You’re engaged!

Emilia: Yeah, and?

Tomax: [narrows eyes] I can’t say I’ve ever met a vampire who doesn’t bite.

Emilia: Get real, Tomax! You’ve never met a vampire, period.

Grace: Don't mind them. I’m Grace, and we're happy to have you. The more the merrier!

-

Emilia: Caleb, you must try Grace’s spiked potion. It’ll make you float, I swear!

Tomax: If you want to hang with us, bloodsucker, you'd better be ready to party.

Caleb: Is this stuff even vampire-safe?

Morgyn: I… don’t actually know.

Caleb: [mock gasps] The Sage of Untamed Magic doesn’t have an answer?

Morgyn: I’m sure it won’t kill you. Well, pretty sure.

Caleb: Bottoms up, I guess.

Tomax: You’re a real fucking wizard, Grace. This was your best batch yet.

Emilia: [giggles] I’m on cloud nine!

Grace: Am I the only one feeling claustrophobic in here?

Tomax: No, we need fresh air.

Emilia: I know! Let’s fly to the Gardens!

[boygirlctommy]

i couldnt upload the audio like a normal person so heres this. gonna try to animate to it tomorrow :P

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

🦋💋Butterfly kisses for his favorite MTV-VJ💋🦋

[glassgasoline]

perhaps this is an unpopular opinion but i will never regret it - this is kibum’s best ever hair look.

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights, pt. 3.15 - The End

This is the last installment in this story--we have made it to the end. Thank you for coming this far with me. Previously on Terrarium Lights: Gail works through some of her own grief (Alternate Epilogue >>here)

Of course, Gail did not forget her promise. Once Michael settled in—and heard the story of the past few weeks several times over, and read her journal and the notes she and the lad had made, and walked the length of the coast with Gail—they headed to the lighthouse.

After some polite chin-wagging, Mrs. Seward put up a sign saying she'd be back to the café after a break, and ushered them towards the lighthouse. She saw what Gail was carrying and smiled approvingly. As they went, she explained that he was in a room in the stairwell there. It was brighter and airier than the rooms in the house, she said, and he had often stayed there before, so they felt it was more appropriate. Besides, easier access for the doctor to not have to go through either the café or the rest of their house.

The doctor was not in at the moment, but Mrs. Seward was pleased to report that, according to him, Jonathon was recovering splendidly—which Gail was pleased to hear.

"But… I'm afraid the worst we feared was true," Mrs. Seward said, whispering almost as they approached the steps. "He doesn't quite remember things. He seems to have kept impressions—he knows that he knew us, but he doesn't… quite… well, remember us. And he doesn't see very well anymore."

"Ah," Gail said. So it was as Jonathon had thought.

"We're sorry to hear that," Michael said softly.

"Still," Mrs. Seward said, drawing herself up with her hand on the doorhandle. "Our boy came back. And we are ever so grateful for that."

If either Gail or Michael saw a hint of tears in her eyes, they did not comment.

The room was, indeed, quite nice. It was small and cool, but large enough that it felt cozy instead of claustrophobic; the long, wide window on the wall let in a stream of sunlight, and looked out trees and, through them, the sea. When the window was open, Gail imagined that it smelled and felt quite fresh.

Jonathon was sitting on the bed, placed just under the window and piled with the surplus of blankets and pillows Gail had noticed upon entering. He looked different. "Solid" was the first word that came to mind. It amused Gail somewhat that she half-expected his eyes to be blank and colorless as he stared with a different kind of vacancy toward the window. Overall, he seemed to have more color in him. His cheeks had more warmth to them, his lips looked less dry, and his eyes were a rich brown. Perhaps he looked different because he was in a cleaner shirt and waistcoat, and there was no blood or injury to be seen.

When the door opened, he turned his head towards them.

"Hello, Jonathon," Mrs. Seward said. "You have some visitors. They’re friends of ours from church. You don't know them, but Mrs. Goffrey has been praying for you while you were sick."

"Oh," he said, his hands fiddling with the blankets. "That's very kind."

"My pleasure," Gail said with a chuckle. She shifted the weight of her gift in her arms. Honestly, she should have asked Michael to carry it.

He tilted his head at her voice.

"I'm afraid I was traveling just now, through the weeks that all the goings' on took place," Michael said, "so I’ve only started on my prayers recently. But I have heard a lot about you."

"Ah." His face squinted in an embarrassed smile. "Thank you, I think."

"I'll be back at the café if you need anything," Mrs. Seward said, looking back through the lighthouse door towards the rickety and ungeared wagon pulling up around the bend. "And you two are familiar with the area. Just pop in and say good-bye before heading out."

Gail nodded.

"So." Gail started, suddenly unsure of how to start a conversation with so familiar a stranger. “How… how have you been?”

"Truthfully, I'm not sure." Jonathon went back to rubbing his fingers along the hem of the blanket. "I don't have much to compare things to. But… I think the weather has been nice. I know Mrs. Seward has been dealing with a personal loss, but they haven't told me much. Apparently I was asleep for several weeks, but… I assume you must know that already."

"I had an inkling," Gail said with a chuckle.

She glanced around the room, looking for a suitable spot. The best place was perhaps the dresser beside his bed. The only thing on it was a framed picture of Jonathon, standing posed with… someone. He looked vaguely familiar.

"We have a present for you," Michael said. "Something my wife made for you."

"Oh." He blinked. "I… you didn't have to."

"No worries," Gail said brightly. "It’s something of a hobby of mine. Is it alright if I set it on the dresser by your bed?"

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a terrarium," she said, coming closer.

"I… I'm not sure what that is," he admitted.

"Well, usually, they're made in glass jars and the like, and a little scene is made with rocks and moss and various other things. Like a little mini garden, but of moss. But I made this one a little different." Gail set it down on the bed beside him, the weight of it making the mattress bounce a bit, and gave him a chance to explore it. "We made this one wider and more open, and in what was supposed to be a clay garden pot. It broke a few years back—though don't worry, no edges anymore, we made sure to sand them all down—so it's solid and won't fall over easy if you bump it."

“Technically, it’s not really a terrarium anymore,” Michael inserted helpfully. “But we made it using similar principles, and neither of us could remember what the other type is called. Mossarium didn’t sound quite right.”

Gail chuckled. “We tried to make it more for feel and texture than looks, so that’s another reason why we made it bigger. Easier to put your hand in, if you want.”

He felt it gingerly, brushing his fingers along the edge of the clay, stopping at a sudden protuberance.

"That's a little lamp we attached to it," she said. "It gives off more warmth than light, and it should be easy enough to find and turn on if you need it. Michael helped me rig it. A friend of mine gave me the idea," she added more softly.

"Oh." Jonathon's forehead was creased as he fingered his way down to the moss. "That feels nice," he said, smiling slightly and gently pressing his hand down on it. He picked up one of the smooth stones lying in the moss and fingered it, rubbing his thumb along the irregular notches and blunt edges.

"There are some stones for extra feeling and texture," Gail said. "And the moss will flower in summer. It has a lovely smell."

"I… I don't know how well I can take care of it," he said, slowly setting the stone down as if he were afraid to break it. "Will that be a problem?"

Gail lifted it and slid it onto the dresser beside his table, bending down to plug the little lamp into the cogstow beside his bed. "Don't worry about that," she said, her head still done by the dresser.

"It doesn't need much water," Michael explained. He put a spray bottle in Samuel's hands and gave it a light tug, the gears clicking slightly as the water built up pressure and shot out. "A few sprays every few weeks should be quite enough. We're not sure how it will work with the lamp, but I suppose we'll see. We can repair and reconfigure things as needed, but I think it should be decently waterproofed."

"That's… it's all very thoughtful of you both," he said, in a tone of gratitude that bordered on distress. "Thank you."

"Our pleasure," Gail said, straightening up and dusting her hands off. "We like to help when we can."

"You seem like kind people," he said, still holding the spray bottle, "and we don't even know each other." He held the bottle in both hands, frowning down at it. "Do we…? I… I can't quite tell… but… somehow I feel like I've heard your voice before." He tilted his head towards Gail, not quite turning all the way.

"After a fashion," Gail replied with a chuckle. "We have met before, though it makes sense you wouldn't remember me."

"Ah. I'm sorry. It’s… it’s something I’m hoping to work through."

"No worries," Gail said. "But recovering is a difficult process, I'm sure you could use some time to get back on your feet. Speaking of which, we didn't want to stay too long today, but we plan on visiting again—just so long as you wouldn't mind. We can help tell you things about the area, or read to you, or do whatever you might like. Try and help you adjust or else just keep you company."

He smiled brightly. "I think I'd like that. It's… it's good to hear more voices."

"We'll come by soon, then," Michael said, patting the lad on his shoulder.

As they made their good-byes and prepared to leave, Gail turned again to the framed photo that was now beside the terrarium.

It was of two lads, one of them Jonathon, in front of a building that Gail recognized as belonging to the academy. They each had an arm around the others' shoulder, and were smiling. The lad on the left wore a big smile, as natural as if that's what his face was born to do, while Jonathon’s half-smile was bashful and unsure.

It clicked. It was odd, seeing Samuel in a much more normal setting, and in a more normal color palette—or at least as far as Gail could tell, considering the obvious limitations of photography. She wondered if it had been able to capture color, how he would look. What color his hair and eyes would be, when he was alive. She smiled at the picture and set it down gently.

She was glad that, in a way, he would still be around to look out for his friend.

---The End---

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[smtown-tourist]

Wouldn’t it be awesome…

If SHINee won Artist of the Year this year, on the ten year anniversary of when they won their first (and sadly only) Artist of the Year award?

[musical-chick-13]

Once again: the so-called "General Fandom History," in terms of which things get held up as Iconic™ or Well-Done™ or Worth Analyzing™ has disproportionately focused on (cis, abled) white men. Some of us would like to not have everything be focused on this one demographic and would, in fact, love to not constantly hear--implicitly or explicitly--how stories about people like us are inherently less interesting or less worthy of telling.

"Remember your history," WE KNOW THE HISTORY. AND WE WANT TO MOVE ON.

[bellshazes]

I did figure out the necessary inevitable narrative tone of distant station's conclusion and I'm sad about it. not because it's a sad ending but because it's sort of just flatly true on a meta-level. see you in two years when I write it tho

[cerealmonster15]

i finally made a folder of my google docs re: twst fics/plannings and looking at the names are so fun bc a lot of them i didnt use the final fic name [if it got published] so sometimes it's just a placeholder [especially if it's just notes/ideas and not a fic] and some dont have a title at all and just auto used the first few words of the doc so i have like

i think only like 5ish of these have their ao3 titles on them / on two separate occasions i named an apple juice fic prompt doc the same thing except for literally just one has an extra ! and they were like 2 months apart......... i even checked bc i thought for some reason the doc duplicated themselves but no, those are just two completely different fics, they just both happened to be Apple Juice Kiss Prompts jvdjfdsljg i didnt do that w/any of the other kiss prompt docs but. whatever i guess!!

it's a fun guessing game on looking at the titles and trying to remember which ones they are. they date back to like 2021 when i moved from word docs to google so i could more easily share them with my friend since i wasnt really publishing anything at first lol.

[reputayswift]

I want to know who on The Bear team became a Swiftie between seasons 1 and 2

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

THE STYLISTIC VISUALS OF THE ULTIMATE IN TECHNOLOGICAL TERROR.

PIC INFO: Spotlight on an unreleased film still of Darth Vader (reportedly Spencer Wilding) monitoring a planet (presumably Scarif) in a deleted scene set on the first Death Star, from the original version of "Rogue One." Courtesy of Hal Hickel/Lucasfilm/ILM.

Source: https://starwarsaficionado.blogspot.com/2023/11/rogue-one-unlocking-myteries-of.html.

[dazais-guardian-angel]

delighted that i'm so much more fond of chuuya at this point than i was just a couple years ago. it took the stormbringer play, the cannibalism play, and the fifteen manga (still haven't gotten to those two novels in their entirety, I Will Soon I Promise), it took 6ish+ years, but i can confidently say I Get It Now. Now i just need asagiri to break him (affectionate) in the manga and actually give him a character arc already <333