1. the process or period of putting forth leaves, as a tree, plant, or the like.
2. leafage; foliage.
Origin: Frondescence derives from the New Latin noun frondescentia, a derivative of frondescent-, the present participle stem of frondescēns “becoming leafy,” from the inchoative verb frondescere “to become leafy, put forth leaves,” a derivative of frondēre “to have leaves.”
“… they continued their journey under the frondescence of the mountain forests.” - Cecilia Dart-Thornton, The Ill-Made Mute, 2001
I want to start drawing but I'm scared. I feel like I'll never get to a level where I'm not embarrassing myself.
It’s okay to feel scared. I still do too, before I upload anything, afraid it’s not good enough.
But I have to sorta quote Chika here - “It’s not about whether you can do it or not, but about you want to or not”. The most important thing is to try first, and it’s not the result that matters but rather if you enjoy drawing or not. Then, once you’ve taken that first step, you can keep practicing until you’re satisfied with your progress. Ganbaruby!
Someone has informed me that they saw a tumblr post where one of my short fanfiction’s ‘He’ll die trying’ was plagiarised. This is the first time (I know of) that this has happened to me and naturally I’m annoyed/upset. If anyone sees the post (I’ll post the work below so you know what it looks like) please would you tell me as soon as possible so I can deal with it. Thank you.
He’ll die trying
A hard slap across the cheek. More freezing water thrown across his bare back. His hair pulled viciously to reveal the wide expanse of his neck, pale and smooth. His adam’s apple strains as he gasps for air and pulls desperately against his chains, his skin twisting and burning as he moves. The sharp metal cutting into his wrists.
“Ты, пиздюк паршивый.”
Sherlock translates the words quickly. Eyes darting.
You worthless cunt.
“Жалкий тупой англичашка.”
The tall Russian’s words strike his eardrums. So boisterous they seem to vibrate in the valves of his heart. He punches Sherlock again and this time the detective can’t help but whimper as the man’s knuckles connect with his jaw. Breaking the skin on his lip.
Stupid pathetic Englishman.
Sherlock sags forward and takes small shallow breaths. Gasps desperately for air. He tries to utter the few Russian words he knows how to pronounce.
The man laughs, a thunderous cackle that bounces off the walls, fills the small concrete cell like gas. His eyes gleam black in the half-light. His matted brown hair seeming to merge into the mess of his beard. His infernal black boots thud against the floor when he moves.
“Ты думаешь, мольбы тебе помогут?”
The other man circles behind him lazily. Sniggering at the seeping wounds that line Sherlock’s bare back. He readies the whip.
A trail of blood drips from Sherlock’s chin. He shuts his eyes as he struggles to translate. The pain overriding his thinking, making his brain whir with distractions.
You think begging will help you?
The man with the beard lurches forward and knees Sherlock in the chest, forcing the detective to whip his head backwards out of the way. His long matted black hair falls from his face.
Sherlock splutters as blood from his face starts to dribble across his lips. He can almost feel his right eye swelling.
“Нет” He whispers after a moment. “но ты-”
No. But you-
His words are cut off as the man pulls a small object from his pocket. Sherlock just manages to see that it’s a knife, small with a curved handle, the silver blade gleaming as it’s brought into the light, towards his face. The other man brings the whip down hard on his back.
The bearded man is moving closer, grinning. Slowly, carefully, he drops to his knees and positions the knife underneath Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head upwards. They’re face to face.
“Я хочу кое-что знать,” He whispers softly.
I want to know something.
Sherlock remains silent, purses his lips, and after a moment the man starts to press harder, moving the knife down to Sherlock’s throat, drawing a slim slit of blood to the surface.
“Зачем ты это делаешь? А? Шныряешь вокруг моей квартиры?”
Sherlock blinks and winces away from the man’s breath. It stinks of rotting flesh, makes him take a moment to figure out what he’s saying.
Why are you doing this? Hm? Sneaking around my quarters? What is it all for?
Sherlock takes a small breath and bites down on his lip. He’s here to dismantle Moriarty’s network, to find the Russian leak. But he can’t admit that, and it’s not really the answer to the question.
What is it all for?
He wants to stop Moriarty, of course, but deep down he’d be lying if he said that’s actually the reason.
“Не смей игнорировать меня!”
Really, this is all for John.
John Watson, with his soft smile and caring eyes. The army doctor who found him all those years ago and saved him. Taught him how to feel, how to love.
He’s the man who got him off the drugs, who helped him eat, laugh, smile. He blogged about him, about their cases and crazy adventures. He’s the man who can make him see sense, giggle hysterically at a crime scene.
Most of all, he’s the only person who could make him cry real tears when he said goodbye on the rooftop. He’s someone Sherlock will do anything for, and if that means spending years dismantling Moriarty’s network so they can live in peace, so be it.
If the suffering guarantees John’s safety, he’ll carry on like this; chained up and beaten to his knees, until his heart stops beating.
The man starts pushing the knife further, shouting, his horrible hot breath steaming over Sherlock’s face, demanding that he speaks.
“Почему ты не говоришь!”
Why don’t you speak!
Sherlock braces for impact as the man pulls back and strikes his fist across his face, the knife catching his cheek as he goes. Blood splatters on the floor.
He tries to picture John’s face. The dimples in his cheeks when he laughs, the gentle touch of his hand on his shoulder. He imagines the gleam in his eyes when he finally returns. How bright his smile will be when he explains that it was all for him. And that they can be together now, properly, openly because-
The man brings down the whip on his back, causing a sharp cry to escape from Sherlock’s lips. He focuses harder. Imagines John’s soft lips touching his, his hands sliding down around his lean waist, through the light waves of his hair…
But it’s not working, the pain is still there. The man is only getting angrier, harsher, more severe with his blows. The whip strikes the back of his neck.
"Ah,” Sherlock gags, instinctively crying out in English this time. “Please stop!”
Perhaps he’ll never escape this. The chains are locked securely around his wrists. All the exits are blocked. This time he has no plan, no backup, and no one is coming to save him. Maybe this really is the end.
“Отвечай мне!” The man calls again.
But then, something flickers alight deep inside him. Something dark and dangerous. He pictures John touching his cheek, tracing his fingertips across his skin. He imagines what it will be like when they first interlock fingers, the first time they say they love each other. The images burn within him like a fire, like gunpowder, and suddenly he finds himself smiling darkly. Without thinking he flicks his head up and spits deliberately in the man’s face, his saliva landing in a string across the his cheek.
The man flinches, startled, and this time Sherlock looks up to catch his reaction. He stares him directly in the eye, his own blue eyes shining in the light.
It’s true he may never get back, may never get to do all those things with John. But by god, he’ll die trying.
Hey guys, earlier today I rushed my dog, Jake, to the vet. He was coughing and hacking up like there was something in his throat and I got worried. Good thing I took him because it could have been a lot worse. his throat was swollen and he was stressed beyond belief. The vet said he cut his throat swallowing something he wasn’t supposed to, so he was placed on anti inflammatory medicine and antibiotics. He’s tired and still a coughing mess, but now we have a vet bill I need to pay. Since I didn’t have the money to pay for it at the visit I used my credit card. Jake also has a follow up visit he will need to do next week to make sure the medicines helping him.
In short I need $200 to pay off my credit card bill by the end of the month for the vet bills. I will be opening up commissions next week to help gather funds for this.
If anyone can donate to help I’d really appreciate it and so would Jake.
LOOK AT THESE OMG LOOK AT THEM!! THE LOVELY ISAAC GOT ME! I’M SCREAMING. NOT ONLY A TAMAGOTCHI P, BUT THESE CUTE LITTLE FINGER PUPPETS. OMFG THIS PUT ME INTO SUCH A GOOD MOOD. DUDE I LOVE YOU! EVERYONE FOLLOW ISAAC, HE’S BEEN A FRIEND OF MINE FOR A LONG TIME, AND THIS DUDE SERIOUSLY ROCKS! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I’M LITERALLY IN TEARS, I LOVE PRESENTS SO MUCH I DON’T KNOW HOW TO REACT TO THEM. ALL I KNOW HOW TO DO IS SCREAM AND THANK A TON!
So today isn’t going so well, I got home from work to find my dad passed out on the ground, covered in sweat, and no matter how much I tried he wouldn’t wake up. For the first time in my life I called 911 for my dad… He woke up when they got there but fought them, he was so confused… He couldn’t talk and I was so scared…
Worst part being.. He didn’t recognize me, didn’t know where he was, didn’t know what town we lived in, he thought we still were in California…
I’m scared… I love my dad and this is scary, we don’t have insurance. My money problem just went from bad to fucked up, and now I have to worry about dad….
Not going to bother with a new comp for a whole because of this, dad’s more important…
If anyone wants to help me out money wise you have no idea how much I appreciate it. My paypal is email@example.com
I don’t know what we’re going to do money wise were still paying off the last time I rushed him here…
So today was interesting, I live in the desert right, keep in mind it was over 100 degrees today, and I found a bird in the smallest cage possible sitting by a stop sign. The cage he was in was just barely bigger than a shoe box, and this parakeet was plucking its own feathers out. I don’t know how long he was outside but he was clearly hurting, he is under weight, his nails need to be trimmed, his wings clipped, and he looks like he has something wrong with his nose. The poor thing was abandoned, and I know this because there was a small bag of food at the bottom of his cage. What the fuck, how cruel and heartless can someone be that they’d leave the parakeet they didn’t want anymore out in the Arizona heat to die? I have a long way to go with him, but I will keep you all posted.