#forest bus

[catladychronicles]

[vw-bus-life]

[saltygilmores]

A Trip Down Memory Lane Ft. Dean Forrester and Rory Gilmore

Poor little Deany Beany is sad because his escalating levels of stalking and harassment have been ineffective on Rory. Why can’t things be like they used to be? So many precious memories. Let's take a stroll. *twinkly flashback music plays*

I think we're up to speed now.

[rivalmoonlight]

Short and Long Sleeved Studio Ghibli Themed Onesies for Infants

Super cute Ghibli themed onesies for your infants in Sims! I can't decide if the one that looks like Howl's coat or the one with Totoro's face is my favorite...

and i just realized i didnt do one for Kiki's Delivery Service......

DOWNLOAD

CurseForge

[emmafallsinlove]

the fact that dean built rory a car so she could drive to school and not take the bus is hilarious to me because she still took the bus when she had the car. the only time we saw someone drives that car is jess before the car accident lmao 💀

[girlscoutbrownies]

Fandom: School Bus Graveyard

Word Count: 1241

Summary:

What do people say again? Time flies when you’re having fun? They’d be right, except he’s not really having fun right now.

He’s not really having much of anything. He’s just… there.

Additional Notes + Content Warnings: Descriptions of disassociation, mild forest horror. Aiden is very much an unreliable narrator here.

This is not posted on ao3.

—

Aiden Clark does this thing where time flies sometimes.

That’s not really the right word for it, though, because saying that time is flying implies that he knows that it’s moving. He really doesn’t.

He blinks and he’s lost hours. He loses time. Yes, yeah, yeah - losing time. That’s the term.

( Actually, he’s been told that it’s disassociation. He doesn’t really care for those big words, though. )

Something’s off, he thinks, the first time.

His room is dark. It’s always dark in his room. Very, very dark. Dark, so that he doesn’t have to see the empty cans on his table and the stacks of cup ramen.

It gives off, automatically, the sense of someone is sleeping here, but they’re not living.

And maybe that’s corny, but is he alive?

He doesn’t feel alive right now. Alive people feel the mattress under their feet and the blanket over their legs.

God, his inner monologue is always kind of depressing. Seasonal depression, maybe? It is winter.

It’s always winter, though.

Maybe the seasons are changing, and he doesn’t know, because the sky outside of his window is dreary and sad and depressing and he’s not quite sure when the cold stops and the warm begins, because he doesn’t know what warm is like.

The monitor is dark, too. He thinks that sometimes, all he does is watch himself lay in bed, from inside some inner world where nothing can hurt him, the childhood monsters-in-his-closet latching onto him like some fucked up koala. No, koalas aren’t the ones that latch. Those are sloths.

He’s alive, actually. That’s kind of sad. Wait, no, it’s not. No, no, no, Aiden. Being alive is good.

( Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to die. It’s not in a suicidal way, though. Not really. )

He wonders if dead people still need to eat and live and breathe and order things at restaurants, except he’s seen enough movies and read enough books to know that the only dead people that do that are the zombies.

He wonders if zombies have to make eye contact and ask for consent before they bite people. But only alive people do that, because alive people know what it’s like to feel bad. Corpses don’t make eye contact.

Corpses don’t feel anything at all.

( If he thinks ahead, outside of this memory, he wonders if all of his intentional eye contact is just a weird way of him scrounging up whatever sense of identity he has left, a way of saying I am here and alive and you will have to look at me, or if it’s just another byproduct of never interacting with other people his age, not until Ben. Maybe it’s both, actually. )

He is alive. He feels his heart beating sometimes, a steady familiar song that he knows the exact tune to. You’re not supposed to hear your heartbeat, though, are you? Not unless you’re in a hospital, strapped to wires and stripped to the bone like a weird fucking mannequin on display.

That’s funny.

Well, it’d be funny, except he’s not laughing. That’s typically the baseline for something considered humorous.

He’s not doing much of anything. Right, what was he doing again? The blanket. It’s there. He feels the blanket, bunching it up in his hands. It feels fake, but he knows it’s real. The world isn’t advanced enough for something like that, not yet at least. It feels like something sheared too quickly and never processed and rough and it’s a disgusting horrible shade of gray and—

Right, what was he doing again?

Five senses. He can feel his veins twisting underneath his skin and blood flowing in an unending path to his heart to keep him alive. That’s not quite how you phrase it, he thinks.

He turns his hand. It’s pale and the blue lines stand out prominently, not faintly like a normal person’s would be. They snake under his bones like vines in a forest, grabbing hold of his bones and muscle because he can’t have anything, he’s surrendered it to rot in this room and he’s suddenly sharply thrusted out of this shitty memory—

( He doesn’t really like the forest. Maybe he did, once before, but a long, long time ago, he’d been told that bad parents send their children to the woods to die and that really, he should be grateful he has a house and a place to stay in.

The forest swallows up everything. It’s a wonder humanity hasn’t burned it all to the ground, honestly. Setting ablaze to his nightmares, the ones he has when it’s getting particularly bad and he sits in a dark clearing and watches nature reclaim its score. This was never their place to live.

It gets worse after the phantom dimension. Pillars of rock soaring into the sky, something that shouldn’t be possible because of the “laws of nature,” but nature follows its own set of rules, doesn’t it? It doesn’t care about us. He’d envisioned, the night after, when he’d finally managed to drift off, the forest grabbing onto Tyler and never letting go. Sinking into mud and dirt and decaying to the bone.

He doesn’t really like the forest. )

Right, he was doing… something…

Oh, he’s in bed. He’s in bed and the shutters have been pulled wide open, bright sunlight filtering through the glass. Wasn’t it just dark out?

“Aiden?”

His eyes snap towards the voice blocking the doorway. No, that’s not right. The voice near the doorway. His therapist told him to stop treating everyone like video game obstacles. Oh, well. Who was she kidding? It’s not like he told her anything, anyways.

Ashlyn is standing there, looking worried enough that he almost feels warmed by the concern. Almost.

They make eye contact, too prolonged and too vivid. He thinks he’s making her uncomfortable. That’s a shame.

Five senses. He can’t feel the blanket. It’s soft, isn’t it? He combs through his memories, knowing what it’s supposed to feel like. It’s silk or something, or maybe it’s fleece. He doesn’t know which one this is; they’re all the same colour, and he can’t feel. The texture is wrong.

It doesn’t feel like anything. He’s supposed to feel things. That’s his whole—pardon his redundancy—but that’s his whole thing. He’s the bouncy one, up and alive and too many feelings, to compensate for when the others are down.

Off topic. He’s getting off topic again. This isn’t a lecture, though; he’s not following a lesson plan. He’s just here.

“Um… are you… okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says with little hesitation. He thinks to himself that he really doesn’t care for speaking right now, but the familiar words roll off his tongue like…

He’s not that great with analogies. Similes. Whatever.

“You’re still in bed. It’s nearly two in the afternoon.”

Is it? He hadn’t realized time passed so quickly. Or, flew. Disappeared.

“Ben said that you were probably sleeping in, but, well…” She looks over, rather confusedly, at his unmoving form. He’s been sitting here for a while, hasn’t he?

“I’m hungry,” Aiden announces, pushing himself off the mattress. He feels it under his hands, which is good. It’s not the same softness as it should be, but it’s still there. It’s there, and this is real. He’s real.

“Do we have anything to eat?” The wood paneling is hard and cold under his feet. He wishes he’d gotten carpet.

It’s still cold in here.

[earthworms-worm]

I'm posting this here and now because I'm going to be in the Netherlands visiting my brother for a week, so have a comic I made in two and a half days because I had an idea and couldn't stop lol

The creatures on the bridge have a mother that is considered an Old God in their universe, (her design may change in the future, but this is what I've got so far). The words for the comic were borrowed from a song I listened to a few weeks ago and I went "huh, I could use that", anyway, enjoy!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

kinda wanna walk into the woods at night to do research for the halloween fic ….. sadly i am a helpless scaredy cat

[norsesuggestions]

It is like. In 1930s sweden. Other children who was 12 and travelled by themselves to places using public traffic

Every. Single. Working. Class. Kid

Also actually lol. (Almost) Every single swedish 12 year old today

But for why i said that Jan Myrdal sounds spoilt. Your average swedish working class kid in the swedish 1930s

Quit school when they were 13. And then started to work. Like not to be all "back in the day" but my born in the 1930s maternal grandpa worked in a factory when he was 13. And! It is not even a story of some sort extreme poverty that he did so!

He was a normal working class kid, who had quickly found a job at the printing press when he was done with his mandatory 6 years of folkskola. He, and all his classmates who parents could not afford/or did not have good enough grades for further studies after folkskola

Well they... erm graduated for lack of better term, at 13/14 years old. Soooo

Meanwhile Jan Myrdal be like:

"The worst day of my childhood was when i needed to use the bus in new york that one time. Awful!"

Like lol...

[peachycrossingx]

woodland bus stop 🚏🌳🍂

[whitewhitedog]

Waiting by Martynas Pavilonis.

instagram.com/martynaspavilonis

[episims]

Felix "Dude. Why are you hiding in a bush?"

Darius "I'm not—I didn't sleep, so I—I felt like walking, or something."

Felix "Yeah, cool, whatever that meant. You're blushing."

Darius "Ugh... shut up. I just happened to walk by-"

Felix "Aw. On my birthday, too. You didn't come to see me?"

Darius "You fucking hope."

Felix "Yeah... true. I haven't thought much about anything but kissing you, lately."

Darius "Y-you haven't...?"

Felix "It's almost annoying, man. Think we could work it out of my system...?"

Darius "Er... I guess we could try?"

Hugo "Hi, Darius! Um, Felix? The bus is here..."

Darius *grumble* "Great."

Felix "Uh-huh." I'd rather keep kissing him than go to school. "But we didn't miss the bus, so-"

Darius "That's your concern? We're going to be the hottest gossip!"

Felix "Eh, chill. It's not that serious. Could you tell the driver I'll only need a minute to change?"

[oflights]

making arrangements for IRL ghiblifest in a few weeks (it's howl month!!!) and had this frozen, drarry fandom-pilled moment of thinking

drarry ghiblifest

[dreveel]

Van Reclaimed Tattoo; {Credit}

[raytm]

when ur listening to the true crime and it hits a little too close to home

[rat-at-heart]

They all have the same bus stop