kid ash

Jessie: Do us a favor and become be the very best, you hear? It’s more impressive to say a Pokémon master made us blast off countless times rather than some random kid. 

Ash: Sure. Only if you stay out of trouble.

Jessie: No promises *wink*

James and Meowth: *sobbing*


me: *legit cries every time I think about Ash saying goodbye to Jessie, James and Meowth*

Mood Music: 

When I was kid, my father said
Hell was a great feast.
He said the people at the table
had these long arms with no elbows,
and they were trying to feed themselves
and they were starving.
He said Heaven was a great feast, too.
He said the people at the table
had these long arms with no elbows,
and they were feeding each other
and they were full.
I think this was supposed to be
a story about selfishness or about
how Hell is self-inflicted, but I think
it’s a story of short-sightedness. I think
it’s about how circumstances do not define us,
but we’ve got to look past our elbowless arms,
or we’re going to keep starving
our way through this.
—  A SHOT IN THE DARK, by Ashe Vernon
Take Me Home

Originally posted by streetrapshit

It was late when you got to Donghun’s apartment. You had just gotten out of work and wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend. After a long day, you wanted him to cuddle you. The way he played with your hair while you laid on his lap always helped you sleep. 

“Donghun~” you called out as you let yourself in. 

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I grew up in god’s back pocket.
 
To me, he was less Almighty and more
like the grown up friend who didn’t know
how to talk to children. Our conversations were always—
stilted.
 
Barely ten, I watched the church chisel my father
into a pillar of brimstone. Or salt.
Watched him swallow scripture and
spit up salvation.
Standing on the sidelines, or the pews,
I saw sickness butcher him into buckle
and cracked leather. Each diagnosis
pulled the east Texas outta him somethin’ fierce.
 
He got worse: pill bottles and albuterol
piled up like unanswered prayers
on the kitchen counter, returned to sender,
until I ask my mother if maybe god just—
moved away.
— 

excerpt from PREACHER’S KID, by Ashe Vernon

(from the book Wrong Side of a Fistfight)