Posts Like This Are The Only Reason I’m Still On This Site

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

My face is having uncontrollable spasms. Great. It hurts really, really, really bad.

I think part of why I have trouble explaining pain to the doctor is when they ask about the pain scale I always think “Well, if someone threw me down a flight of stairs right now or punched me a few times, it would definitely hurt a lot more” so I end up saying a low number. I was reading an article that said that “10” is the most commonly reported number and that is baffling to me. When I woke up from surgery with an 8" incision in my body and I could hardly even speak, I was in the most horrific pain of my life but I said “6” because I thought “Well, if you hit me in the stomach, it would be worse.”

Crabs amaze me. They’re the perfect life form, a tank made of legs and living hate-armor. It’s not just about their physicality, though; it’s the soul of the crab. See, no crab in the bottomless history of the sea has ever questioned itself, doubted itself, worried, or been afraid. A crab is pure motion. A crab is pure id and unrelenting forward force. Crabs invented the word violence and they will scuttle on the surface of the world while the red giant of Sol creeps closer to devour everywhere we’ve ever known. They will look into the sky and clack their claws and there will be no fear. 

ik this isn't my place but it's uncomfortable how people who aren't asian are justifying their support for the asian community right now because they like... east asian entertainment 🤨 why can't y'all...... just protect asians without the ultimatum

all I want is to have a room that looks like I'm old biology professor whose been away from human civilization for half a century in the forest who spends my evenings reading old books researching about cryptids with my cat surrounded by my many treasures and trinkets I've collected over the years and my many, many growing plants that nearly take over all of my house.

foggy morning // Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse

I love these neat little mushrooms...

I swear I saw a tumblr post on here that said ‘horses have over 4,000 bones’ and i don’t know where it came from because its totally wrong, they have 205, but what kind of fucked up horse has this person seen out there because I’m absolutely terrified of it 

Three years ago, you found an injured werewolf on the edge of your wards. You took them in, helped them regain their strength, and allowed them to stay for a while in return for some work around the place. They had been incredibly grateful, and mentioned how much of a relief it was to find a safe place for a “monster” such as themselves, when so many would deny them care or outright kill them. The comment stuck with you, and even after they left, you couldn’t make it leave your mind. 

Over time, you changed and strengthened your wards turning them into something meant to guide, protect, and offer safety. It didn’t take long for the welcoming magic to draw in a few others as they strayed through your forest, your house now a beacon for those in need, rather than a shielded little bubble of solitude, as it had been for years.

Now, your home is always alive with warmth peace and laughter, the wards and rather blunt rule board above the door and fireplace, ensuring that those who take refuge, know not to start trouble. The few that have tried, are either violently ejected from the premises, thanks to your ever strengthening wards, or removed by other patrons themselves. 

Not only is your home a safe space, but it is now also a functioning bar, with food and drink, and even rooms available for those who need to hide and nurse their wounds a while. Supernatural or human, all are welcome to seek refuge. Its strange watching so many walks of life shed their worries at the door and bond with others within the once lonely walls. 

Whilst your slowly growing little sanctuary is not very well known yet, the rumours of a safe space are now spreading to others in need. Now, one of the biggest and baddest names in the supernatural world has caught wind of your sanctuary, and decides to see if this is nothing more than another trap, made to prey on those who dwell in the dark, or truly a sanctuary, however unlikely that may be.