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#issue 25
barrenclan · 9 months
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"Issue #25: You Don't Speak to My Daughter That Way"
After all the intense lore and bloody excitement that's been dropped lately, I think we need a bit of a breather episode. Well, you can't exactly have a PATFW issue without some deep emotional turmoil, but regardless.
Meadowkit's sickness was mentioned briefly in Issue 22, if you don't remember. It's not fatal; but I think it's a little too icky to bring up in the comic itself (plus, the cats wouldn't know what it was). If you're interested, though, Meadowkit has a parasite, which leads to excessive tiredness and not being able to digest nutrients as well as he should. Since Meadowkit is so young, his body can't compensate as well as an adult animal.
But hey! A hug with the whole Slug family! Let's focus on that.
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Another classic out of context panel.
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dailydccomics · 4 months
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perpetual mood
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johannepetereric · 29 days
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WHY IS THE REVERSE WIND STRIKE NOT UPSIDE-DOWN!?!?!?! IT'S IN *THE FUCKING NAME!!!!*
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50shadesofpattinson · 2 years
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💔
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adurot · 2 years
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Wow, Morph’s shivering at the latest nightmare 😮
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get-in-the-carl · 5 months
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This is peak Walking Dead for me, a throuple as a trauma response. This is is the start of a new volume in the hardcover editions and since a new story arc is beginning there isn't much else going on this issue.
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amalgamezz · 7 months
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calyroco · 1 year
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ribbedpleasure · 1 year
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put me in the little tikes electric chair for little tikes serial murder
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barrenclan · 9 months
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New issue tomorrow! 🐝
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thegoldenreport · 2 years
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DAILY RITUAL
My family and I are creatures of habit. Having a routine, a ritual, something to follow, can make the day go by a little easier. You know what to do. You don’t have time to be afraid.
Every week through the summer months, we’d gather for a picnic in Minus Woods. And when I say ���we”, I mean everyone. Kids, cousins, parents, grandparents, sometimes friends. A whole affair of games and good food. We loved the natural shade, the smell of pine and of course, being in community with another.
We carried this tradition throughout the infamous chemical waste spill. What else were we going to do? A nearby milk plant had a leak and then an explosion and then a much bigger leak. Turns out the milk stuff was just a front. Who’d suspect they’d be producing drugs that could alter your DNA? I certainly didn’t.
The forest was flooded for weeks, steeped in whatever putrid yellow liquid they were creating. It sunk into the soil, evaporated into the air we breathed. It infected us. Changed us. But we never stopped going down to the forest. It was our only source of comfort. 
The contents of our ritual shifted overtime. Instead of playing games, it was a time to check in and watch eachother. To display what the chemicals were twisting inside.
My brother discovered he had gained the ability to shapeshift. Not just that he could, but that he had an insatiable need to. Anything he could touch, dead or alive. He would just…become it. That was difficult enough for my parents to navigate. How does one discipline a earthworm anyway?
As for me, I became consistently hungry. Never knew what for, but that hunger moved me to do…odd things. One picnic, my cousin found me hanging upside down with my feet tied to a tree branch. My eyes were closed and I was humming no discernible tune. She nudge me and I awoke, seemingly from a deep sleep. 
I had no recollection of how long I’d been strung like that, but I innately knew I’d somehow done it to myself. I undid the rope and gracefully slid to the ground. My cousin stood there wide eyed and frozen. I cracked a grin and went back to our tables. I felt some kind of satisfaction, like an excited bubbling in my chest. But it was brief and my hunger returned.
My parents…well, I think they got the worst of the deal. The chemical spill granted them both extremely heightened senses and an evergrowing paranoia that permeated our picnics with general unease. 
We weren’t the only ones changing. The trees had eyes now. The ground crawled. The day was entirely too golden. And light burned our skin. Years went by like this. Yet we never stopped going to the forest.
About three weeks ago, we ventured out for our picnic. My mom packed her usual set of knives. My dad was worried about having enough sun protection. My brother followed us down the gravel path behind our house, inhabiting the form of a copperhead snake. When we reached the woods, he would have to change back, according to mom. We had rules for that now.
We sat down at the picnic table for lunch, dressed head to toe in black cloaks and sunglasses. Sullen. Monotonous. Our cousins had declined to come this time. And the grandparents unfortunately…were no longer alive. 
Dad unpacked the ham sandwiches from the cooler we brought and Mom stood guard with a knife gripped tightly in her hand. I was hungry, but not for the sandwhich in front of me. I only tied my cloak a little closer inward, wishing to not be seen by the trees.
My brother was just about done with his sandwich when it happened. I hadn’t touched mine and Mom was too busy guarding our table. Just a few yards out, there was a rustle in the leaves.
We couldn’t see it’s body, but only how the leaves shifted in it’s wake. The rustling crept closer with each short burst of movement. I stood up. Dad motioned for me to stay down, don’t startle it. And then… 
The ground began to scream. I don’t mean that metaphorically. It was an earpiercing screech, only increasing in volume. Mom took the lead and told us to run to the bath house just up the hill. An old building entirely made of stone and cement. We would bunker inside. We would be safe.
As I ran, each footstep seemed to sink slightly. Like the ground was soft and squishy. A living organism with a mind of it’s own. Even in all my days spent out here after the chemical spill, I had never seen anything like this.
Mom was first into the bath house, then my brother (who’d surprisingly resisted his need to shapeshift), then me, and finally my dad who closed the door and locked it. We huddled among the sinks, wide eyed and staring at eachother. Not talking. The rustling outside and this horrible…knocking noise had our full attention.
After sometime, my brother spotted a beetle scorpion climbing up the far tiled wall and thought it best to point it out to us. It was, no doubt, a product of the spill. Bright orange and square, with six tiny legs and a long, stinger’s tail.
He left his seat on the floor and reached out to touch it. I knew what he was thinking. Dad begged him to sit back down, now was not the time, etc. Mom tried to reason with him, asking him if he really wanted to be a hybrid insect right now. And that urgent knocking continued to rumble outside, yearning to penetrate these walls.
The spill had changed so much about this place. How else would it try to hurt us?
He hesitated, but I could see the will in his eyes as his fingers inched closer toward the bug. It was huge. Roughly five by three inches, I’d say. Well, I was staring at it. My stomach gurgled. And my hand shot forward to grab the creature, wriggling, squirming…
I shoved it in my mouth and swallowed it whole. My brother was too stunned to speak. My parents leapt up in surprise, about to start a ramble about safety and how could I be so rash and we have no idea what that could do to you.
But they stopped. Because they realized that the knocking, the rustling…had also stopped.
Mom creaked open the door and was greeted by the cool glow of moonlight. Like someone flipped a switch…
We filed out slowly, grinning at the moon, friendly and unoppressive. Grateful that whatever had been antagonizing us was gone at least for now. My dad patted my back with a chuckle. My brother gave me a high five. In the dim light, I barely could make out our abandoned lunch by the picnic table and my untouched ham sandwich.
I was the fullest I’d ever felt. And that made me laugh.
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dailydccomics · 2 years
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Clark’s ponytail is taking me DOWN
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cosmiado · 6 months
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listened to Mummy Issues at work today. i do not reccomend it
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adurot · 2 years
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