bereft of life

Alm’s Route: Field of green grass and a blue sky paint a picture of the hopeful future that this hero strives to deliver. Though the battles may be hard and harsh, Alm, along with his friends both old and new, makes his way forward, bravery guiding his blows, and love giving them strength! With the power of friendship, no shortage of smiles can be found here, even in the grim battlefield, as these boys, girls, men, and women learn to accept their differences, understanding that the place of one’s birth has no bearing on your lot in life!

Celica’s Route: Yet another skirmish. A Cantor has spawned. The enemies triple your numbers, provisions run low, but not lower than morale. Behind a rock on a god forsaken, blasted wilderness bereft of life and mercy, Celica hides, biting on a piece of wood as she casts Fire on her left arm to cauterize a poison claw wound. Her red eyes are bloodshot, she hasn’t eaten in 4 days, Kamui missed yet another attack, Boey hasn’t had a double attack in the entire game, a Witch evaporated Valdar as soon as the enemy’s first turn came, Saber gets only a single point in HP for the fourth time in a row upon leveling up, Mae missed Thunder in the essential moment, dooming your entire 14 turn odyssey of calculated risks and frowns. It’s Celica’s turn. She moves out of her hiding spot, Seraphim spell in hand, running for dear life as thirty Aracanist and ten Cantors shoot at her with massive machine guns. Blake is right behind Celica, waving his 30 Attack stat and his Shadow Sword with wild abandon, lusting for her throat, Wolff is shooting rocket propelled grenades at her from a nearby attack helicopter, another Cantor spawned and makes his way towards Celica. A necrodragon ate Boey. Celica dodges the bullets and the rockets, but while dodging, another Cantor spawned. There was only one dream, and it’s been ripped at the seam, you will lose all you love, despite how much you yearn with greed, as your heart bleeds, despite how much shrapnel frays your tired back, despite how much you try to hold with those splintered, wounded hands, everything spilling out of them. The end is near. Another Cantor spawned.

Things That Mattered

Originally posted by lilpieceofmyworld

Pairing: Clay Jensen x Reader

Request: “Clay Jensen x reader where the reader was in the car with Jeff and survived and is coming back from the hospital to stay with Clay and loads of fluff?”

Word count: 986

Posted: 22nd of April 2017

A/N: Another request is up! I loved this imagine and Jeff is ALIVE, okay? Because, repeat after me, JEFF ATKINS DESERVED BETTER!
Hope you like it thought. Anyways, I am accepting 13 reasons why requests, please send some in! Thank you.

- G. x

Warning: Mentions hospital, accident and wounds.

The idea of coming back home made you feel alive again and you felt relieved, since you couldn’t stand the hospital scent anymore. You felt alone and bereft of life in those hospital walls, even though you were really alive and only scarred.

In those hospital walls, you spent your days worrying about your big brother, Jeff. You were thankful that he survived, although his damage was worse than yours since he was the driver when the car accident happened. You got some scars on your forehead and other parts of your body, while he broke some of his bones and he almost died. Sad, right? It is and every pain you were bearing was caused by someone who knocked a stop sign over.

“Honey?” Your thoughts vanished as you heard your mother’s acute voice. She was standing in front of your study table and you quickly flashed a wide smile once you saw the boy beside him, one familiar boy. “I’m leaving you two, okay?”

“Thanks, mum!” You sweetly thanked her and she responded you with a pleasant smile.

“Are you feeling better, beautiful?” He asked you as he sat on the empty part of the bed, admiring you from head to toe.

“Jensen!” You laughed while you shook your head in disbelief. “Always a pleaser.”

“Of course not, babe!” He protested and you melted for how he called you. You didn’t see him for a week because the hospital had strict rules and they accepted visitors only for certain hours. Clay has always insisted to visit you, no matter it cost him skipping some hours at school, but you disagreed for what he wanted to do and you forced him to go to school.

“Am I beautiful even with these bandages and band-aids on?” You raised your right eyebrow as you pointed the bandages that covered some of your wounds and bruises.

“You are always beautiful, (Y/N).” He sweetly smiled at you for your insecurities and you didn’t know, but he loved it whenever you would go against him. He loved it, because he knew that he would win the discussion.

“I missed you, babe.” You honestly confessed as you motioned for him to come beside you.

“I missed you too, a lot and no lies.” He said once he was beside you. “I was so scared when I saw you and Jeff hurt. I was so scared to lose you, I didn’t want my girlfriend to leave me, I didn’t want to be alone and I was so scared of the idea that I had to deal with loneliness and forlornness alone.” He confessed, still being emotional whenever the scene flashed in his mind.

“Babe,” You caressed his chin with your thumb. “you know that you can’t get rid of me easily, right?” You wiped his tears and kissed his right cheek after.

“And I am lucky for that.” He smiled at you, shaking off the thought of the horrid happening of that night. “Please, don’t ever go.”

“I will never go, Clay.” You assured him as you weakly patted his right shoulder.

“Promise?” He stuck his pinky finger out and you laughed because of it.

“I promise, love.” You locked your pinky finger with his and you both laughed as you remember the memories of the two of you doing pinky promises. You’ve always respected it and it was forbidden to violate it. It shouldn’t happen, never in a million years.

“Geez!” Clay blurted out after he admired your face once again. “Only God knows how much I love you and how much I will love you in the future.”

“Clay, watch out for the ants!” You both giggled. “You are too sweet and cute.”

“Am I or am I not your favourite cinnamon roll?” He winked at you and you laughed harder than he expected, maybe it was for the way he asked you about it, maybe it was because he called himself a cinnamon roll.

“Of course, you are. No doubts.” He giggled and he slowly caressed your face with his free hand, he avoided your scars as he carefully leant in to give you a quick kiss on your lips. “I love you too, Clay.” You said as you went back to your topic before.

“I love you more, gorgeous.” He smirked and you just rolled your eyes. You knew that you couldn’t compete with Clay Jensen, he would always win and he loved that.

“Alright, you win!” You showed him your pouty lips and he took it as an opportunity to kiss you.

“Stop pouting or I’ll eat those lips.” Clay naughtily said and you bit your lower lip as you couldn’t believe for what your shy and reserved boyfriend has just said. You knew that he was playing a game, but you knew that you would win this time.

He leant in once again to leave another quick kiss, but you pulled him closer when he broke the kiss. You closed the gap between the two of you and you deepened the kiss as he played with your hair and you rested your hand on his jaw.

You knew how to drive Clay crazy and, in fact, you knew that you already won when you heard a moan escaping from his red, almost swollen, lips.

“Who’s the loser now?” You proudly asked him, sitting up on the bed, and he fussed when you broke the kiss out of nowhere.

“Dork!” He jokingly blurted out as he stood in front of you to let your lips meet once again and, this time, you shared a slow and passionate kiss, not minding who won or not, not minding how much you drove Clay crazy.

This time, the love and the emotions that you shared were the only things that mattered. Because that’s what really mattered and you couldn’t thank him enough for letting you feel that you were loved.  

  • Canon: this character's dead!
  • Me: oh no they're not, uh, they're just resting
  • Canon: they're stone dead!
  • Me: n-no - they're just stunned, that's it!
  • Canon: STUNNED?!
  • Me: they're - they're probably just pinin' for the fjords
  • Canon: PINING for the FJORDS? Now see here! They're bleeding demised! Look, they're lying on their back!
  • Me: that character prefers sleeping on their back, you know
  • Canon: this character has ceased to be! They've expired and gone to meet their maker! They're stiff! Bereft of life, they rest in peace! They're pushin' up daisies! Their metabolic processes are history! They're off the twig! They've kicked the bucket! They've shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding CHOIR INVISIBLE!
  • Me: remarkable character, that one
  • Me: lovely backstory
This is what happened, right?
  • Kaiba: He's hiding!
  • Yuugi: He's not hiding! He's passed on! The Pharaoh is no more! He has ceased to be! He's expired and gone to meet his maker! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! If you hadn't dug up his grave, he'd be pushing up the daisies! He's run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible! *Brandishes Puzzle* THIS IS AN EX-PHARAOH!

If you’re so bereft of a life that you feel the urgent and pressing need to snitch on homeless people, panhandlers, and people stealing from businesses that make your year’s salary in a second, you really should get your priorities straight. You’re not helping anyone and nobody likes you.

Seeing Double

He’s being ridiculous, he tells himself.

It’s sentiment, nothing more, and it’s playing with his senses. Knocking him off balance- Which is a thing not to be borne.

After all, the likeness isn’t particularly striking, once the body’s turned over.

And if the hands are the same size, the nails cut to the same degree of shortness, then what of it? If the hair is of a similar colour and style as that she favours, that’s still no excuse for this ridiculous, insipid… mawkishness which is scratching at his rib-cage. His chest. His heart.

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in the dead of night

I look up at the moon

Serene beauty, seamed and scarred

and life doesn’t seem so hard

She is the picture of my dream

Beautiful and beyond reproach

radiating my love, a glamour

Look closer and you’ll see

a landscape bereft of life

She gleams, oh yes

so does a knife

They’ll both cut you

to the heart

She shines in the endless dark

cold and dead

just looking for a spark

She blinks, steadily fixated on the plume of crystalline air that wafts from her lips. A forest once gushing with verdant exoticism settles into a blanket of rust, preparing for months bereft of life. Lush grasses wither in the wind and green leaves shed their color, decaying in rapid succession. It’s sublime how nature works so efficiently —– like a clock. Tick, tick, tick. 

Even the little critters scuttle back to their dens, heeding the silence that ensues. A full, hefty silence, one that bellows with indignation; one that befalls everyone and everything, and one that burrows uncomfortably into ears that refuse to listen. It’s not an obligation of hers to LISTEN anymore. 

Seeking solace in the shelter of a fir, Willow disregards her current task of hunting dinner and sinks to her knees. There she crafts a tiara of pine needles and twigs, deftly embellished with the piercing crimson of a rose. It sits regally atop of a neglected head of hair. 

     ‘ Heh. ‘ 

Nostalgia brews where it shouldn’t. No, not nostalgia —– yearning. Empty eyes stare at dirt-caked palms, abstracted in their reverie. What an icky feeling. Memories unearth themselves regardless of her volition; they spill into her head and congest her train of thought. Girl-scouts. Sleepless nights in the woods, nifty crafts and patches. There survival skills were cultivated, and now they are being put to use. Would her troop leader be proud? 

She can’t quite remember if she had friends. Pursing her lips, she decides that yes, she did; a fragmented recollection of laughs and quips and tears supplants the former, and her heart is filled with warmth. She has friends here —– Wilson. Oh, Wilson. He doesn’t quite fit the role of ‘friend’, not with the way he looks at her. Wendy. Her tortured, pale-haired little girl. They play together sometimes, although her childlike affections unsurprisingly lie with others. Willow was never motherly. 

She kneads at her crown of leaves, just as much a fixture of the forest floor as the trees. They quiver mawkishly as evening sets in. 

Vacancies fill the place of her mother and father, and her shoulders become taut with resolve. A grown woman did not garner the need of —– of parents, not now. She’s gotten along simply fine without them, and them without her. The thought taints her tongue with bitterness and her thoughts with causticity. 

She had a home with her troop. With her J.C.C., despite her lack of spirituality. Willow cricks her head to the side and smiles in remembrance, feeling the warmth on her cheeks as images of tall candles replace the emptiness. They always let her light the candles. 

Unconsciously she fidgets with the lighter by her side, her thumb veering dangerously close to its flame. It’s only a matter of seconds before she burns herself. 

     ‘ Shoot —– ugh. ‘ 

Realization finally grasps her. No dinner tonight. 

Not Sure Of A Title Either

Some days I look at my roommate’s dog, and I think, it must be nice to be an old dog. He basically spends his day wandering from room to room, finding different places to sleep. Sometimes in the sun, sometimes on the couch, sometimes back in bed. Between naps, he eats, and sometimes asks to go outside and poop. It is a simple life, bereft of art and culture and goals and poetry. He doesn’t watch movies or TV. He doesn’t answer emails. He doesn’t blog. He doesn’t stare out the window and wonder what the fuck he’s doing with his life as he gets older and older, fearing the oncoming breakdown of his physical functions when his body will be still alive, but as incapable of caring for itself as when he was first born.

Still, I like writing. And watching TV. And talking to people. Sometimes.

I look at the birds flying around. They don’t have to brush their hair and go into work. They don’t resent that their hunt for food prevents them from writing great little madcap stories about silly things. They just swoop around, stealing snacks, and pooping on the unwary. That seems like a good life.

I’m so bored of being me. I want to be you for a day. Would you like that? Would you like to swap out for just an hour or two? You could finish this posting for me because I’m not sure how to end it

crazyloststar  asked:

mikanoa, 78

congrats for sending in the first prompt! <3 here’s me being super pretentious as a reward.

mikanoa ;『 7 8 』I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. 

He meets her for the first time when he is only eight. Tender and fragile, yet intimate with the rancor and ineffable horrors the world favors upon those undeserving. He sees it in her eyes; the universe held in golden amber, a wellspring sheltering the harrowing macabre of all the unknowns, and he is bonded. He understands.

He wants to reach out and pull her into the sanctuary he has carefully nurtured against the winds of atrophy seeking passage into his miniature, sequestered kingdom. It is his personal mission, one right in a world of a million wrongs, to gather together those who have witnessed the roil of immorality, of despotic powers playing temptress to god’s wrath. There are things he was never meant to understand, but he does.

Before the looming crescendo of fate’s claws dig terminally deep, before the thread —finespun in silky gossamer— keeping modern civilization aloft unfurls to give into the end of life’s legacy, he lets himself drift towards her warmth, her cool gaze freckled with dappled mischief and something oddly profound. In all his wonderful, naïve exuberance, he attempts to save her without a wisp of thought, from the man he finds, years later, to be entangled in gilded mysteries and forsaken tragedy as deep as the principles that govern all matter of living things.

In that infinitesimal moment in time, he is weightless and infinite. He lingers in her lush memory, the aftertaste of calming lilac diffusing into every pore of his mind, soul, and body until he is utterly consumed. He thinks he is invincible, that it is forever. He quickly learns that regardless of strength or will, time’s sovereignty is absolute. Time is a magnate who waits for none and leaves little mercy in its wake; grasping, esurient fingers reaching blindly for a reminder of what once was and finding nothing but a phantom of halcyon days, a throbbing ache in the shape of soothing lavender, fading away from the vestiges of his mind, drowning, at long last, in the fiery emerald gaze of a boy who becomes his everything.   

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Piece of Mind
Nobuo Uematsu
Piece of Mind

These eyes will not be fooled– something weighs heavily on your mind. If I were to hazard a guess, the prospect of entreating the succor of the selfsame beings you once slew seems less than attractive? Heh. I’ll not deny it’s ironic. As you well know, aether is the source of all life. Bereft of its blessing, Eorzea would be naught but a dried-up husk of a realm. By whatever name they are called, gods drink of the land’s aether for their sustenance. The Twelve are no different. Summoning them would be tantamount to bleeding the life out of the land. Yet without their aid, Eorzea is most assuredly doomed. Dalamud will fall, and the land will die. Even should aether still flow, life may never again blossom here. We cannot allow that to come to pass. Even as we move to stay Dalamud’s descent, ever must we be mindful of the toll our actions take upon Eorzea’s longevity. We spare the present at a cost to the future. It will be no easy thing, this balancing act.

Yet we must see it through to the bitter end, no matter the hardship. Take heart, my friend, for all will be well. Victory will surely smile upon us. Whence comes my confidence, you ask?

It comes from you, ______. Yours is the fire of hope that will light our darkest hour.


John and Sarah Makin were commonly known in Australia as ‘baby farmers’; In the 1890′s, after having 10 children themselves, they turned to caring for illegitimate children for payment. Taking care of Horace Murray in 1892, his Mother who was unable to care for him sent child support payments to them. But when she requested to see the child, many different excuses were made; The address she was given for a home in Sydney was abandoned and the family was nowhere to be found. 

They were brought to the attention of the police when a young man was unclogging a pipe from the backyard of the house they were living in. Blocking the pipe were the remains of two infant children. 

When this was brought to trial, two of their daughters testified against them, recalling the clothing and the fact that one day they came home without Horace, leaving them with no explanation so as to where he had gone. 

Before the sentencing the judge spoke to the pair:

“You took money from the mother of this child. You beguiled her with promises which you never meant to perform and which you never did perform having determined on the death of the child. You deceived her as to your address and you endeavored to make it utterly fruitless that any search should be made and finally, in order to make detection impossible, as you thought, having bereft it of life, you buried this child in your yard as you would the carcass of a dog… No one who has heard the case but must believe that you were engaged in baby farming in its worst aspect. Three yards of houses in which you lived testify, with that ghastly evidence of these bodies, that you were carrying on this nefarious, this hellish business, of destroying the lives of these infants for the sake of gain.”

They were both sentenced to hang by the gallows in 1893. After 2 appeals and a plea for clemency, John Makin was hanged just 5 months after the initial trial. Sarah’s sentence was commuted to life imprisonment and hard labor. After a hard campaign, her daughters managed to get her released on parole in 1911, she served 19 years in prison. She died in her home in 1918. 

The acts of these two people led to the 1892 Children’s Protection Act.

Monty Python Memes
  • "Bereft of life, it rests in peace."
  • "Always look on the bright side of life."
  • “My philosophy, like color television, is all there in black and white.”
  • “Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.”
  • “It's funny, isn't it? How your best friend can just blow up like that?”
  • “Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Know what I mean?”
  • “I don't think there's a punch-line scheduled, is there?”
  • "Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help, help! I'm being repressed!”
  • “Tonight, instead of discussing the existence or non- existence of God, they have decided to fight for it.”
  • "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!"
  • “And now for something completely different.”
  • “No it can't! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.”
  • “The Castle Aaahhhgggg - our quest is at an end.”
  • “Of course, it’s a bit of a jump, isn’t it? I mean, er… chartered accountancy to lion taming in one go… You don’t think it might be better if you worked your way towards lion taming, say via banking?”
  • "He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!"
  • "I'm Brian, and so's my wife!"
  • "Oh, it’s ‘blessed are the meek’. I’m glad they’re getting something, they have a hell of a time."
  • "I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I’m afraid my walk has become rather sillier recently."
  • "Well you can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you."

hella-dandy  asked:

i had a though about felix using the magnetic boots to stop his fall. no doubt with the momentum hed get a good smack but he could survive theoretically.

This Felix is no more. He has ceased to be. He’s expired and gone to burn in hell. This is a late Felix. It’s a stiff. Bereft of life, He rests in peace. If you hadn’t nailed him to the wall with Mag boots, he would be pushing up the daisies. He’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. 



I Abhor - Bereft of Life

  • you: this parrot is dead
  • me, an intellectual: This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! This is a late parrot! It's a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed it to the perch it would be pushing up the daisies! It's run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible! This is an ex-parrot!