Rules: Reflection but in a good way! Choose AT LEAST 3 of your favorite works of ANY TYPE (fics, art, poetry, edits, etc.) and link them to reflect on some of the best things you’ve brought to 2019. If you want to, you can tag other content creators as well so they can do it too!!! And so others can find some awesome works ;)
I’ll start! I’m putting mine under a Read More line because all of my content is triggering.
1) Spill It - Gravity Falls - 8,585 words
"Why? Why would you possibly do... that?"
Stanley scoffed at his older brother. After everything, he still has the nerve to act as if he cared about his useless sibling? "Don't act like it really matters to you, Sixer. You can drop the act."
2) Onyesha for ArtsyMeeShee - Gravity Falls - 8,057 words
"What are you holding on for? Let me go!" Ford made a noise of disbelief, looking as if he had been struck across the face. How could he say that to him of all people? Like hell, he would let his best friend fall to their death!
"Let you go? Are you insane? Look down and tell me you want me to let you go!"
3) Sui Generis - Gravity Falls - 4,542 words
"Promise me," Stanley said, voice breaking. He sucked in a sharp breath, tears springing to his eyes unbidden. "Promise me you won't hurt yourself anymore, Ford. Look at me in the eyes and promise me."
4) Incandescence for ArtsyMeeShee- Gravity Falls - 2,275 words
He fought for all he was worth when they began to drag him away from the fire. He knew he was hysterical, screaming, begging for them to let him go, his brother needed him, but he found that he didn't particularly care. For all the heaving sobs he was giving, he wasn't getting air. Everything was swimming and distorted.
Ford saw the beginnings of a fire truck pull onto the beach before his knees buckled and everything went black.
For @artsymeeshee !!! Happy birthday fren <3 <3
Summary: Ford was tired of that boat, looming over him every time he visited the beach since... well.
He was going to rid himself of it, once and for all.
You can't move forward when you're being dragged into the past.
AO3 Link
He had always found comfort in the smell of fire smoke, regardless of the fact that he had no positive memories associated with it. The lingering scent of burning wood could always lull him to sleep when he was having difficulty, but he found that the acrid smoke burned his nostrils when he was standing close to the source of it.
The box of matches hardly felt any different in his pocket physically. It was light and small enough that he didn't notice anything too out of the ordinary as opposed to the familiar feeling of having empty pockets. His mind was hyper-aware of the small object, however, and as he watched the flames build and devour the dry, old wood, it seemed to burn a hole through the denim.
There was a word for the bitter feeling in his chest right now, but he certainly didn't care to remember it. There were several words, actually, but he didn't want to place much thought into those either. Every second dragged by like cold molasses, yet seemed to rip past him and leave him dizzy.
The fire started out small, as he didn’t have any alcohol or gasoline at his disposal to speed up the conflagration. It didn't take long for it to build, regardless of the lack of flammable fluid. The night was fairly warm and dry for a beach town like Glass Shard, and the wood hadn't been touched by water in at least a month. The fire crawled across the planks easily and efficiently, destroying the many months' worth of construction that he and his brother partner had dedicated to it.
The golden light from the fire grew brighter and brighter, the temperature climbing higher and higher until he had to step back from the flames, squinting against the brightness. He watched his childhood project burn for only a few seconds longer before he couldn't stand it anymore. He did his best to leave any negative feelings he had about starting the blaze in the space he was putting between himself and the boat, letting everything he left unsaid to hang in the air.
He was approximately 100 yards away when he heard some sort of odd noise. It wasn't particularly high pitched and piercing, but some quality of it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It almost sounded like screaming, but that would make no logical sense. Nobody was around that he could see, and no sign of anyone's having been there before him. It was easy to dismiss the disconcerting sounds as nothing more than the wood creaking and groaning, beginning to become unable to bear its own weight anymore.
It was easy, until he rounded the corner of a 24/7 convenience store on his way back to the pawnshop and found himself staring at his brother's Stanley's car.
Ford had read all about fight-or-flight responses in several books pertaining to psychology, as well as anatomy and physiology. He understood the process step-by-step, knew exactly which chemicals and hormones went where, and that everything happened in the span of a few seconds. Logically, he could take this apart to easily understood pieces. He was familiar enough with the feeling of epinephrine flowing through him to recognize it and deal with it. What he couldn't explain was the gut-wrenching feeling that made every part of him freeze in place, only to dash back around the corner and stare at the flaming wreckage of the Stan O'War.
He didn't need to look into the store to know that Stanley wasn't in there. He knew where his twin was, and with a sickening tug in his stomach, he realized he had dismissed screams of torture as groaning wood. He stared at the inferno on the beach for a handful of seconds longer before he regained control of his legs and he was dashing toward the doors of the store, flinging them open and startling the half-asleep cashier. Ford was at the counter before they could say anything.
"Call 911," he breathed, "fire, beach, brother, burning-"
He didn't need to say anything else, as the cashier was already surging toward the phone, but he continued to babble, his mind racing. His hands trembled under the stress, and he snatched an empty bucket from the corner near the bathrooms and sprinted out of the store. He would have to apologize for property theft later.
His heart pounded in his ears as his feet slapped against the pavement, taking him closer and closer to the shore. He stumbled as the road gave way to sand, but he righted himself and kept at it. The flames were as bright and hot as they were when he had left, lighting up his left side and casting harsh shadows across his face as he made a beeline for the shore.
Normally, Ford was not one to enjoy getting wet unless he had planned on it. This included showers, swimming, rain, and fire alarms, amongst other things. Now, however, as he charged straight into the ocean, he couldn't care less about the water soaking his shoes and legs. He filled the bucket with water and didn't hesitate in splashing it on the remnants of the boat. Steam and smoke erupted from the places that the water touched, but ultimately it didn't make much of a dent in the fire. Desperately, he repeated his actions, hoping against hope that his brother was alright.
It was around the eighth time that Ford refilled his bucket when a crack rang out over the crackling of the wood and his own frantic breath. His heart dropped and chills ran across his spine as he whirled around to look at the boat. The weight of the mast had proved to be too much for the deck, and it collapsed with a sickening groan.
Faintly, he registered the sound of sirens in the distance, but all he could truly focus on was the wreckage in front of him. The teen sprinted into the fire, which was tamer than it initially was, immediately digging through the fallen lumber in search of the person he knew laid beneath. The wood scorched his hands and the flames bit at him, making him cry out, but he continued on, praying that he hadn't been too late.
The sirens were deafening now in comparison to earlier, and when various voices grew louder, closer, Ford almost wanted to cry with relief. For all the knowledge that he possessed, he didn't know how to properly help Stanley. Tears streamed down his face from both physical pain and desperation. Hands started grabbing at his shirt, seizing his limbs, and panic struck him like a spear to the chest. He fought for all he was worth when they began to drag him away from the fire. He knew he was hysterical, screaming, begging for them to let him go, his brother needed him, but he found that he didn't particularly care. For all the heaving sobs he was giving, he wasn't getting air. Everything was swimming and distorted.
Ford saw the beginnings of a fire truck pull onto the beach before his knees buckled and everything went black.
-=oOo=-
Stanford awoke in stages. Feelings began to trickle back to him, one by one, each new experience becoming slightly more overwhelming. The first thing that he noticed was deep-set exhaustion, weighing his body down and clouding his mind. The second thing was the chilliness of the room, making him want to shiver and burrow under the scratchy blankets that covered him up to his waist. Then he was aware of the incessant beeping of what had to be a heart monitor. The awareness of these separate things floated around in his mind for a good few seconds before everything clicked together.
He was in a hospital. He was in a hospital and he was trying to-
What was he trying to do?
Ford shifted a little bit and tried to ease his eyes open. It was a painfully slow process, having to adjust to the lights right above him, but eventually, he was able to look around with no issues.
The room he was in was bland, not like he was expecting anything else out of a hospital. The walls were cream in color, with a monitor on the left-side wall. The few accents of the room were done in white, and the door to the room was left open by whoever had been in there last. Medical personnel walked past the doorway, none of them paying him any attention. He went to pick at the blanket but paused when a dull ache shot through his hands. A glance revealed that crisp, white bandages completely covered his hands and half of his forearms.
Everything clicked. It was like someone unlocked an overflowing closet, memories and experiences coming back to him all at once, making his stomach drop and his chest to pang with anxiety. The gasoline, the matches, his muted anger as he walked away. The horror of finding the car, the mismatched memory of the convenience store, the bucket, digging through the embers for-
Stanley.
Was he okay? Did he get to him in time? Was he severely overreacting and assuming, and he wasn't even in the boat? Moses, that would be embarrassing. But what if he really was in the boat? What if he was-
The familiar sound of clicking heels temporarily brought him out of his thoughts. The only thing that Ford found more familiar than the sound itself was the quickness of the gait, that rushed I-have-somewhere-to-be quality to it. As the sound drew closer, his suspicions were confirmed when his mother entered the room, a paper coffee cup in her hand.
She was a mess, compared to how she normally looked. Her dark hair was frizzy and hastily put up, and her red-rimmed, puffy eyes were framed by slightly smeared makeup. The gold jewelry that she normally wore was absent. Her despondent face brightened slightly at seeing Ford awake, and she dragged a chair over to his bedside, perching gently on it. She reached as if she were going to take his hand, but thought better of it and retracted her arm, letting it sit in her lap.
"Good to see you awake, baby," she whispered, her voice soft and subdued. She wouldn't meet his gaze, instead fixing it on the manicured hands.
"How long was I out?" His voice was hoarse from screaming and then disuse. Caryn offered some of her coffee to him but he refused it gently.
"Hours, but the doctors said it was just regular sleep. I was worried anyway, you know your old ma." She chuckled, but there was no mirth in it.
"...Ma?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Is Stanley alright?"
A beat passed, and Ford realized that he just said his brother's name for the first time since he got kicked out. Caryn looked like she was ready to cry (again, if her face earlier was anything to go by) and he didn't know what to do about it. He hadn't seen his mother cry since he was a little kid.
"Stanley, he's... there was..."
Don't let it be true.
"Ma?" His voice shook.
"There was hardly anything left of him," she whispered, and the tears that had welled up in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. A broken sob left her before she spoke again. "Stanley- oh, my little free-spirit Stanley..."
Stanford sat there in shock, his mind reeling. It can't be true. It can't. He was just fine two weeks ago. He couldn't be gone. Looking at his crying mother, though, he knew that she wasn't lying. Not even she could fake this kind of grieving.
What had he done? This was his fault. If he had just taken his anger out any other way, this wouldn't have happened. If he had decided to go look for his brother before doing anything rash, this wouldn't have happened. If he had just stuck up for Stanley, or talked to him calmly and rationally about his experiment, then this wouldn't have happened. His brother wouldn't be dead. He would be alive somewhere, doing Moses-knows-what with himself, but at least he would be alive, and Ford wouldn't be a murderer.
Murderer. The word stuck with him like sand stuck to their wet feet when they played on the beach together. He was a murderer, even though it was accidental. He was the one causing his mother this much pain. He was the reason Stanley was dead.
His chest was heavy with the weight of his guilt, and his heart panged emptily as he shuddered with a sob. He didn't care how pathetic it made him, crying over something that was his fault, or really just crying in general. All Ford could focus on was the oppressive feeling of shame and self-hatred pinning him to the hospital bed.
He cried for himself, because of his guilt, remorse, and selfishness. He cried for his mother, who had to lose the same son twice in a month, only in different ways. He cried for his father, who didn't have the morality or compassion to realize the mistakes he was making. He cried for the future, however dimmer and duller it was now than before.
But most importantly, he cried for his twin, who had too rough of a life in Glass Shard Beach, who grew up being compared to himself instead of being allowed to be his own person, who didn't get the chance to live his life. For Stanley, who's life really was too short.
Notes: I am unapologetic. Happy birthday angst, friend! <3
Crimson streaked the snow before him, and Ford swore that it was the most disgusting sight he ever laid eyes on. He felt absolutely sick.
It had been a moment’s decision. A twitch, a reflex, really. His index finger pulled the trigger before he could process it, and now his brother laid on the powdery ground, a crossbow lodged in his chest.
He knew, subconsciously, that he was crying, pleading, doing everything he could to make this right again, but the damage had already been done. His twin coughed, a deep, wet sound and Ford saw tiny flecks of red pepper the snow. Stan’s eyes met his, and his brother, his little brother, grinned.
“S’okay,” he ground out, teeth stained with blood, “I think I prefer it this way.”
“Y-You can’t mean that,” the elder stuttered. Stan’s grin dropped, his face relaxing into a mask of despondency.
“‘ve been through a lot,” he muttered. “Preferred it was you.”
---------
I have some ficlets that are too short to post, so they go here. Hope you guys like them!
There had always been something bittersweet about the way Stan smiled, the elder twin thought. Some quality of it had always seemed to come across as wooden or fake, like there was something to hide or something to prove. He had smiled the exact same way for their entire lives- just a little too wide, a little too sudden, a little too cheery. It made him wonder what his brother was hiding.
He didn’t know he had missed Stan’s grins being directed at him until he was standing in a suit, looking at his little brother wearing his clothes, that damned smile curving his face.
This one was different though, less bittersweet and more heartbreakingly fractured and final. Both of them knew this was it, their last chance to reconcile before they lost each other forever. As heavy footsteps drew closer, they embraced, and Ford couldn’t help but yearn for better times when the air smelled of brine and the taste of salt-water taffy remained on their tongues.
So I actually had to go and reread the fic so I could properly quote myself, which is why I took so dang long answering…
I couldn’t pick just ONE LINE. Its small chunks of each that I love.Favorite Narration: Ford was never one to lose his temper, much less curse. He was always the one that hid himself away physically or emotionally. He was the one with tear stains on his pillow at midnight.
Favorite Dialogue:“Do you know what it’s like to live under the same roof as your twin who hates you, Stanford? Someone who you’re sure won’t miss you if you’re gone, and acts like everything you do is terrible? What did you expect me to do?”Thank you so much for the ask, fren!!
I don’t expect this to get super popular or whatever, but I made a list of starter sentences. Most of them are angsty but some can be used in different ways.
Send me a number and I’ll give my best attempt at a ficlet for that sentence!
1) "This is your fault."
2) “You're driving me insane."
3) "Can't you do anything right?"
4) "Blame me all you want."
5) "You can't be serious."
6) "Don't do this again."
7) "Just leave me alone."
8) "You can't keep doing this to yourself."
9) "Don't make this harder than it already is.”
10) “I can’t do this anymore.”
11) "I never should have trusted you."
12) "Forget it, I was stupid to think you'd understand."
In many many mental health posts, the topics always cover those helping others through their rough patches. Usually something along the lines if "and if anybody knows someone dealing with this, please just he patient with them and provide what support you can". Which is fine really, I have no issues with that, just a question.
What is one supposed to do when they themselves have nothing to give?
Okay so maybe that sounds really bad actually but please let me explain.
Say you have a friend struggling with mental health, yeah? Your only way to really support them is having them cry on your shoulder and comfort them. You can't solve their problems but you can be there. You can be patient. And you are, for years, and this person continues to struggle. You continue to be there for them.
The issue is, wouldn't you eventually run out of emotional stamina? Not everyone gets better in a "timely manner" (heavy quotes there) and not everybody could continue to be the support for such a long time. I'm by no means saying anyone should abandon someone bc they aren't getting better quick enough, but rather this:
Someone who is emotionally exhausted from supporting someone else, in any manner, honestly shouldn't be expected to burn themselves out by continuing to support this person.
I feel like mental health breaks, for those supporting those with mental health issues themselves, shouldn't be stigmatized.
