Fuck you. This is the coward's way out. This train will not bring you back in time.
It will not take her arm, or his eye. It will not gift your cheeks their stubble. It will heave its way through English fields and English woods and English towns and English rain, and our mother will sit in that compartment with you.
Have you considered that? Mother, who looks at you as a chicken beholds the fox beneath the fence, as a farmer beholds the wolf by the gate, mother, who has long since washed all colour from her face.
Mother, who is grey and damp as the rain.
Hours in a locked tomb. Hours with her. What will she say? How will she sit? What things will she drag from your mouth?
Will she pin you, with those tired eyes, with those faded hands, to the fabric of your seat, to take from you the answers we have been keeping from her for years?
And how could you ever tell her? How could you dare?
Mother, your little boy has died. Mother, your little girl has seen battle. Mother, your children have commanded armies. They've sat thrones and mourned children. They've lost their people.
Twice.
Mother, you are tired. You are weary. You would not understand.
By the lion, you'd despair.
Mother, a witch has spelled your son when his ears still stuck out and he missed your husband with all the violence of a schoolboy. She took him, pointed nails and pearl-teeth, god, she carved flesh and bone and sinew until that paper-thin skin held nothing at all.
Mother, the son you sent to the countryside with the world digging into his shoulders has died. In tiny pieces, at first, and then all at once, as a trickle turns first into a stream and then into a raging river.
Until finally, it spreads into the sea.
Your child lies buried in every decree, every law, and- Christ, who are we kidding, the Narnian soil. The golden boy you wanted so desperately to protect lies in pieces next to the witch, rotting into the earth.
We cannot return him to you.
Will you tell her, I wonder, about the razor blades underneath your floorboards? Will you bare your neck and show her all the mess you've made of the soft skin there when the nights were long and the tremors were terrible?
What of the knives under our little ones' pillows?
Fuck you.
When I was born, I had you. When I was little, I had you. Those terrible, wonderful years - I had you. How am I meant to go on without you? Brother, I don't know how.
Already my lungs are refusing their work. Already my stomach turns. My teeth are aching, my bones have chilled. My cheeks are stained - big red streaks of salt.
Of blood.
I have carved a way for myself through the chalk and the limestone and the mud. With my hands and my teeth, on the last bit of hope I could still heave up in between the cigarettes and the whiskey, I dug my way to sunlight. For days, for months, for years.
With my bare fucking hands, brother.
And you? You've never put the sword down. You've never looked at the dirt. You can't, you say. You're not made for it. Your mouth is the wrong shape and your eyes want nothing to do with the ground.
Instead, you've spent your time picking out the perfect mortician, the right funeral shroud. The coffin. Instead, you've drawn maps and routes into a home that has long been plundered.
Brother, where has your hunger gone?
A bird explaining to a hedgehog crossing so it doesn’t die.
Now, I’m not saying romantic relationships are inferior, or that they’re useless, or that you being in one or that you shipping some characters romantically is Bad or something off the walls like that. What I’m saying is that two people (or characters, since we’re talking shipping here) can be just as devoted to each other, love each other just as deeply, mean just as much to each other while being in a platonic relationship. The end point of caring about someone doesn’t have to be romance.
Friendship isn’t a stepping stone between strangers and romantic partners, it’s a different path. And you can follow that path as deep into the wood as a romantic one if you want, and neither is inferior to the other, they just have different views.
You know what? Fuck it. Don't get married. Don't ever have sex. Don't even think about kissing.
Practice writing. Mold some clay. Pet a dog. Grow some garlic. Go stargazing. Wrestle a bear. Adopt a cat. Knit a sweater. Adopt two cats. Landscape your yard. Adopt seven cats. Go to bed. Play The Sims. Don't go to bed. Chug hot soup. Rob your neighbors. Learn the splits. Roast some marshmallows. Commit arson. Sniff some flowers. Climb a tree.
Get wild without getting cooties.
pumpkin spice candles soon
pumpkin lattes soon
pumpkin everything
You see a post like this? Where OP might hurt/kill themselves? You hit that button that I circled
Hit that.
Click Suicide or Self-harm Concern
Yes.
Fill in the rest of it, and hit submit. The "content you reported" will fill itself in
Tumblr will follow up and help them.
This could SAVE SOMEONE'S LIFE.
sometimes i think about narnia and i vibrate out of my skin like...
you walk into a world you cannot understand, frozen and dying, and it is you who thaws it. you who kills the witch, you who breaks the stone table, you who slays the wolf. it is you who is crowned and it is you who wails for two worlds when the wardrobe doors shut behind you.
your skin never sits quite right and your teeth are too dull. there are wars in your bones and decades in your eyes before you can reach the telephone on the wall.
you are king. you are queen. they won't let you read the newspapers at breakfast.
it calls you back from beyond a train and from within paint. begs with bloody palms and salt-crusted cheeks. takes from you all that you can give - and sends you back.
you watch your sister fade.
you are a child twice and an adult once. and when you stand in your home again, with crushed bones and the smell of coal still in your nose, you watch them sneer at your sister.
your sister is the sun above you. she is, beautiful and stone-cast, alive in a world you could never stomach. she smiles, still, and stretches her skin over human bones.
she is no longer a friend of narnia. do you tell them it is her who has to bury you all and the stars that are falling from the skies in shards?
game tip: make your scavenged treasures into Cool Ass Accessories
I love these neat little mushrooms...
Dogor has been miraculously preserved within the permafrost, with its fur, teeth and even whiskers incredibly intact. Radiocarbon dating has placed the animal at 18,000 years old and researchers have suggested that the animal passed away at just 2 months old. The name Dogor means “Friend” in Yakut, a language spoken within Eastern Siberia.
Generally, genetic analysis can quite easily discern whether a discovered canine is a wolf or dog, but in this instance, the genetics suggest that it could be an ancestral link to both. Interestingly, Dogor lived at a time in canine evolutionary history when dogs and wolves began to branch off from each other.The general scientific consensus is that dogs and wolves split from a common ancestor, however, the process of how “dogs became dogs” is certainly contested, and Dogor could be a crucial piece in that puzzle.
If Dogor is determined to be a dog, it will be the oldest ever discovered. The next oldest, the Bonn-Oberkassel puppy, was discovered in Germany and was clearly determined to be a dog of around 14,000 years old, buried with a man and a woman.
The progression of climate change is melting the permafrost more rapidly, and discoveries like these are becoming more and more commonplace.
Images via Sergey Fedorov/The Siberian Times
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
She/her, aroace ♠️, lover of all things animals, nature, wild, fantasy, cryptid and adventure, or books.
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