#part1

Deka BlackDekaBlack
2025-05-25

Hi again, Prof. Cawston! You're a good man. But your research ambition could be your downfall. On the other hand, the Coronel is a bastard.

The important thing here is Tyso. He's the victim.

P.S.: One of the best forst episodes of any serial of the show.

Dust: An Elysian Tail Stream 17.05.2025 Part 1

pt.thishorsie.rocks/w/tEDYBpAu

Deka BlackDekaBlack
2025-05-18

Ah, one of my favourite serials of the whole show. This episode in particular is full of good moments. Fron the poor traffic warden. Until the cliffhanger at the end. And, of course, the "i spy by chance a very telling conversation between the leader of the evil group and one of his officers"

Johnny Game Over aka JGOjohnnygameover
2025-05-09
TinJar (Author: "A New Faith")TinJar
2025-05-05
2025-04-30

They said Abigail had always loved poetry. But it was more than love - when she delved into the words, it was like a kind of possession. Be it the old classics like Poe or Lord Byron, or the works of her peers they inspired, she fell into their thrall all the same. But it wasn't until she finally picked up the pen to write her own, when she finally understood her obsessions.

It happened in an evening, and in a week, and in many ways, at the very end of her life. Though she had loved poetry, though it felt like it captured her very soul, she had always feared it more than anything. The vulnerability it demanded, the perfect and delicate prose, the secret rhythms and structures lying underneath - she was not good enough for any of it, and she knew it.

And if it hadn't been for the dreams, she would have gone to her grave believing it.

They started in the week leading up to her senior Language Arts project. She'd been stressed about it for the entire year, but it was only then that it'd become apparent just how critical it would be for her final grade. Her teacher, Mr. Ward, had taken the time to sit her down and make it clear: If hers wasn't perfect, she would be failing his class - and by extension, failing to graduate.

If only the project hadn't been poetry.

And not poetry as Abigail loved it, free to flow and express ideas and bare the soul to the world. The project demanded restrictions be placed on her work - the same restrictions Mr. Ward placed on all his torturous poetry assignments over the past year. The same ones Abigail had chosen to fail her assignments for, rather than deal with. But the thought of failing the class - of being held back a year to go through it all again - filled her with dread. At her core, she knew that to fail here would mean her death.

It was then that the dreams began. Visions of her poem, half-written, her hand moving like fluid across paper as she sat there, her only focus on the words that spilled forth from her pen. Night after night, the sound of pen nubs scratching against paper and the multitude mumblings of half-remembered stanzas filled her mind as she watched the world unravel in a sea of ink and ideas.

The last night of her project was upon her before she knew it. Her heart in her stomach, she sat in front of a blank piece of paper, almost willing it to be filled. In her hand was a pen, but her fingers were frozen around it. She couldn't bring herself to begin. A quiet despair welled up from within, torn between the utter travesty she knew her writing would be and the months and years of hell she would receive if she did nothing. A burning panic threatened to overwhelm her very mind.

But before it could truly conquer her, she felt something. A presence, a hand resting atop her hand, warm and gentle.

Voices, calm and reassuring, whispered to her from the back of her mind. Though her memories of the dreams had faded like smoke upon waking, she recognized them - the voices of her poem. They spoke reassurances to her, spreading up her arm and through her mind. Where it touched, the cool calm relaxed her tension and banished her fear. Half-delerious, listening to the whispers, she let her pen find the page.

And she began to write.

Even as a vessel for what felt like a higher power, her first work was terrible, just as she'd known it would be. But though the prose was purple and the structure was wrong, she felt no pain or shame for having made it. It was her, vulnerable, bleeding her heart and soul onto the page, and it was terrible. And she felt nothing, save for a small spark of pride, as she set it aside.

The next was better, but only somewhat, as was the next after that. Even as her hand cramped and her belly ached, she kept going, egged on by the growing voices in her mind. Writing with ever-increasing desperation and haste, losing herself in a manic spiral downwards, time began to lose all its meaning. Everything began to lose its meaning. There was only the work.

As she worked her way down the pages, her own writing became alien and incomprehensible to her. The lines collapsed into shapes and diagrams on the page, as the room and the world around her dissolved into a slurry of words and meaning. She watched through eyes that burned like fire as structure formed from the chaos, even as the paper and pen and her own hand, too, disintegrated into the lettered mass. And in that structure, for a brief moment, she found true understanding.

She failed her project, in the end. The jumbled, unintelligible work more closely resembled a spiral pattern than a genuine poem. Its content was unsettling, it was covered in scratches and spots of ink, and its structure and pacing were all over the place - to say nothing of the fact that it didn't even rhyme. In short, it broke every single restriction Mr. Ward had laid out.

And yet it found its way onto the wall, regardless.

For Abigail had learned why she had always loved poetry so. All the world was a poem, and she was its humble author.


#writing #my-writing #the-story-of-Abigail-Mercy #part-1 #a-Mage:-the-Ascension-tale #i-don't-know-why-i-thought-this-would-be-short-and-now-i-am-very-very-tired
Japan Pop Videosvideos@wakoka.com
2025-04-28
【ふたりのデートは?】四葉(#阿座上洋平)×空良( #鈴木崚汰)編「男子高校生、はじめての」5th after Disc ~Going on~ Lovers Q&A part.1
Mark Zuck🧘🏻‍♀️💎mayodsl
2025-04-27

Purée j’ai pas fais mon mars photo dumppp🐾🍇🪽

Mes deux cats dans ma cuisine au soleil Une olive sur un Olivier 🧐🧐🧐Le bonhomme d’hiver en feu Ettore qui dirige un orchestre en vr

Client Info

Server: https://mastodon.social
Version: 2025.04
Repository: https://github.com/cyevgeniy/lmst