The Sandman Memes Masterpost

♡my friend's cat, Widow♡

I don't care who "wears the pants" which one of you is the "Look, why don't we leave tomorrow? We could head to the coast. Get away for a while."

#hurricane milton

Evacuate.

I'm breaking character to speak very seriously. If you're in Florida, do NOT ignore evacuation orders. If you have Floridian friends or family, tell THEM to get out too.

I'm begging you personally.

Back during Hurricane Sandy, which made landfall on the East Coast as a mere cyclone, my stupid ass did not evacuate. I watched it roll in, trapped on the upper floor by rising floodwaters. Vehicles became wrecking balls in the current. Pieces of houses were ripped clean off. The glass on the windows bent-- if the wind was any stronger, they might have shattered.

The storm outside painted the world pitch black. It was like nothing existed outside those bulging windows except rain and chaos. I could only hear the roar of the wind, interlaced by an irregular din of crunching, scraping, and crackling.

It was only when the surge subsided that I learned that those noises were the sounds of yachts and house boats that had been lifted out of the harbor. Unmanned on the current, they crashed into telephone poles, dug trenches in the roads, and ripped through the walls of houses as if they were cardboard. That could have been me.

It was one of the most terrifying ordeals of my life. I survived because I was lucky.

If you've been ordered to evacuate, get out NOW. If you're not scared of "a little rain," you will be terrified by the time it's too late. It will be because you're trapped by an inky black ocean of rising water, surrounded by broken glass and shrieking wind, your little island growing smaller and smaller until you're swallowed whole.

And, for the love of all that is good, IF you're trapped in that situation, DO NOT GO OUTSIDE. Stay where you are safe until you physically cannot. Treat the water with the same caution as if it is alive and wants to kill you.

Be well. Stay safe. Keep your loved ones assured of your wellbeing.

and a yellow moon glowed bright

Years later, when Ivypool herself is only a memory and before she’s completely lost to time, she’ll look over ThunderClan, wherever they might be, and still look for her daughter in every face.

The stories have it wrong already, and the truth will be dust before long. Bristlefrost isn’t alive in their memories. She’s twice-dead, drowned in black, choking water, a light snuffed out too soon. Bristlefrost was the prodigy — the daughter cats dreamed of, the first to find her voice and her paws, the leader of her siblings, the apprentice who did not graduate even earlier than she did because there was no prey in the forest to be found, not because of any failings on her part.

Cats starved, that long winter. Not Bristlefrost. Never her daughter, her clever, resourceful last-born. And she had once occupied this spot, designated for deputies, even though she’d never had an apprentice of her own. Would never have an apprentice of her own, now, even though she deserved it more than anything. Even though she’d deserved to stay deputy, but had given the role over with a smile, no hint of dark ambition in her gaze.

Ivypool steps into the deputy position under a brand-new leader with a whisper instead of a bang, the pounding of blood in her ears the only reminder that cats had been here before — that cats had died here before, and that Bramblestar’s first deputy becoming leader was a fluke, an odd quirk of fate. It hasn’t been done in living memory, nor long before that. Leaders do not usually step down, and when they do, they rarely stay with their Clan, or even within reach of their territory. First deputies do not often become leaders in turn. Usually this event is a bittersweet one, with a body or bodies laid out in the clearing, their eyes closed swiftly to avoid the rigor of after-death, but this is almost-peaceful, with only the murmurs of those who could not easily accept change as detractors.

Ivypool will die long before Squirrelstar. She’s—surprisingly okay with this, but she thinks she’s been at peace with her death since before Hollyleaf had stepped between her and a deathblow from one of the only friends she’d ever had.

(“You were my friend!” Ivypool screams in her worst nightmares, Hollyleaf’s blood dripping from her pelt.

“I was never anyone’s friend,” Hawkfrost murmurs in return, something aching-sad in his voice, Hollyleaf’s lifeless form pinned under his claws. “I was born to what I am. We’re the same, you and I.” He pushes the black cat away from his paws with disgust — not for the body, but for Ivypool herself. Blood bubbles from the horrible wound at the corpse’s throat. “She should have been the one,” he says sometimes, in the ones that shatter her already pieced-together heart. “She died in your place.”

“I know,” Ivypool says, and she does know — she knows it more than anyone else alive.)

“It should have been Hollyleaf,” she says to Squirrelstar, quietly, at the end of one of their dusk meetings.

Sorrow flashes in Squirrelstar’s gaze, but it’s buried as soon as it comes. “It’s you,” she says. “It has always been you.”

It is not a truth — not in the way Ivypool remembers them from her childhood — but it is not a lie, either. Hollyleaf chose her, in the way dying deputies might choose their successor. She is always an echo of another cat burned by starlight. It is a comfort, sometimes. In others, she begs the spirit who’d saved her life for mercy, for clemency, until she runs out of breath.

(“I’ll find her,” whispers a voice Ivypool had almost forgotten, in dreams she forgets as soon as she wakes. “I’ll walk the skies ceaselessly, I promise you.”

But there is no bringing Bristlefrost back, and a part of Ivypool has died with her.)

When Ivypool wakes, her Clanmates breathe around her, steadying her rabbit-quick heart. Fernsong’s tail wraps snugly around her flank, Thriftear curled only one nest behind, and she does not lose her breath at the way Flipclaw’s dark tabby stripes curl over his spine. She hasn’t in a long time, she knows, but the impulse is there, sharp as ice underneath her ribs.

(She’d once thought his brown tabby pelt a punishment from the stars. She loves her son, would give her life for him, but the feeling that StarClan may have meted some punishment down in the shade of his pelt remains long after he’s received his warrior name.

She’d begged Bramblestar to give him a suffix that was as unassumingly kind and silly as her son always was. Instead he’d given him -claw, as if to remind her of her failings. She is not sorry to see his form slip into the elders’ den, bereft of the nine lives he’d once so jealously hoarded.)

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

One of my daily poems, a task assigned by my creative writing professor

It’s still true

Came across some random pictures from this past summer's comic con- including me forgetting to take off my glasses

Been seeing so many aftg posts that my first thought seeing this at a vintage market was of Jeremey Knox