[elf_of_the_hollow]

Kalons-- a species with soft manes and even softer hearts.

Monitored in forests across the globe for years, these animals
have recently been declared naturally tame as well as sapient.
Scientists are asking the general population to consider adopting
Kalons for further study in their capabilities of intelligence.

Their shining tails are used for identification and showing off,
which is helpful when spotting another Kalon from afar. This
association with other Kalons is why they are head-over-heels
for any shiny or colorful item that they come across!

-----
edits || standard hair : standard shine
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heyo! it's elf~ if you don't know me it's probably for the best
I'd just like to say hey! I'm a ga now, so here's my first adopt! I had
a few.. issues with oekaki so the timer is incredibly inaccurate and
I'm uncertain what the session count is but it's probably wrong...

either way, here's a sea turtle kal for everyone <3 I actually made
the palette for this kiddo myself and it's the first time in a long time
that I've done that, so I hope everything turned out alright!
(also, I thought I should mention that the white lines are completely
removable if you would prefer not to have them!)


anyway, the contest for this kiddo should be pretty simple!
I want you to tell me all about their favorite place~
(their 'chill spot', or where they like to hang out!)

Code: Select all

username ::
name ::
gender ::
chill spot ::

be as creative as you can, there is no word limit! but please separate
your text out if it gets long ^-^
you may add an extra if you'd like (1 art or 500 words) but the main
focus of the contest is on their chill spot~


ends on March 15th 17th 11:59 pm EST

[ArizonaT3a]

username ::
Akemi-chan
name ::
gender ::
chill spot ::

Holy hecc reserve <3 This is so beautiful elf!!

[trans]

username :: trans
name :: cara/hurley
gender :: genderfluid/nonbinary (any pronouns)

chill spot :: the strong smell of burning wood and ash, ever pungent in the night air. the whistle and crackle of the bonfire, entangled with the stench of cooked fish, the two dancing together in perfect harmony. the flash of bright neon colors from a fluorescent glow stick, sometimes a bracelet or a necklace. the sight of the sun just as its going down beyond the horizon to rest for the night, leaving the sky orange and pink and purple in its wake.

this is the place she loves to be.

under the bridge on westerberg street, the one right by the beach, when the tides are low and the moon is starting to peak out of its starry covers like a shy, sleepy lamb, and like faithful followers to their queen, she and many others escape from their lives at home to the safety of the darkness of night.

the water shines and shimmers under the moon's soft rays, glittering like the finest jewels, and reflecting back the faces of those who gaze inside the translucent pools. ripples spread out like radio signals, radioing to each other back and fourth.

the sand is otherworldly soft, soft like petals, soft like pillows, soft like silk and sheep's wool and a duck's down feathers. the sand is colored like pearls, milky and a lot like an opal, and it's impossible for anyone to resist sifting their hands through the material and feeling it for themself.

there's no need for formalities such as names here, not when they've finally got the chance to be themselves. she doesnt have to be "samantha," or "sammy," or "our precious daughter," she can just be "she." she can just be "sister," and "best friend," and "partner in crime." she can be "my trans sister" and not "my tranny friend." she can just be herself.

under the bridge on westerberg street, who's now all rusty and decorated with all kinds of graffiti spray painted all over it and covered in plants and moss and held together with old, tired and worn out bolts, people like herself go to breathe, to live, to exist. people like her, they come here to escape, to be free.

the graffiti gets added onto each time they come here, new people writing their name or an influences message, like "you cannot tame us" or "we are more than our parts" or "our lives are worth the same as yours." sometimes the deceased are mourned for with moments of silence, when their birthdays and their death dates roll around, other times there's festivities and drinks and everyone talks about the person they're supposed to be remembering.

"to celebrate their life, and the meaning they had, still have, and will always have, is sometimes the greatest form of remembrance and mourning of all." someone had once told her.

under the bridge on westerberg street, sometimes the beach gets covered in flowers and candles, smelling of fruits and flowers and spices, and the bonfire is made bigger, flames reaching up to touch and curl against the night sky, a deep indigo lit up by shining stars, flares of light that make everyone's eyes twinkle and shimmer under its welcoming, supportive embrace.

she can taste the sea salt in the air then, and on her tongue, a faint yet strong taste that nothing can wash out, and the sand gets between her pads and toes and she can grab a handful and feel every grain, every small, tiny fiber, in her palm and between her fingers, and the tide sweeping at her feet, playful, ticklish, wanting her to join it for a dance full of waves and ocean music.

she jumps in after a long sprint from the other side of the beach most times, everything still on her person, and she feels the ocean grip her and hug her and tell her its proud, its proud she lived another day in a world that would be glad to see her and others like her dead.

the ocean sings to her then, a melody especially for its people, children born of land and sea, and it whispers to her the musings of those before her. it sings to her its lullabies and its melodies and then it sends her back, soaked and dripping wet with sea water and shivering, sand sticking to her like sea urchins to skin, like coral to the sea floor, and she wraps herself up in the warmest, fluffiest towel, and she just dreams.

dreams and dreams, feet still in the water, dreaming of better places and better things and if one day she'll be the one remembered.

under the bridge on westerberg street, she feels like she's the top world while she and others pour their hearts out into songs that maybe meant nothing to the creators but they, the lowest of the low, the outcasts, the rejects, the kids who meant nothing to anyone, they mean everything.

they sing for hours into the night, city lights and street light just a half an hour away, cans and popcorn boxes and all sorts of things littering the ground as they get breathless singing song after song, stars in their eyes and hopeful dreams, so many dreams, worn like capes on their backs. sometimes they cry, sometimes they scream, sometimes they just sing their hearts out and lungs tired.

with her pants rolled up to her knees and the thought of a better world for people like herself to live in fresh in her mind, she closes her eyes, and she wishes on every twinkly, blinking star in the entire giant galaxy and beyond that they'll be okay, and the kids like her that come after never have to see the things that people like her had to deal with.

she dreams of telling those she loves that she isnt who they think, that she's different, she's got some weird thoughts going on, she needs their support, and then she laughs, bitter and coarse like the sea salt she tastes in her mouth, because that'll never happen.

under the bridge on westerberg street, where the street rats and the thieves and the homeless and the rejects and the no-good'ers go to play, big dreams, big big dreams too big for anyone, little alone people like them, to be dreaming, filling their minds and their postures and their expressions with hope until all that's left is desperation for something far brighter than they can have.

she feels the breeze tickle her cheeks, stings her eyes, makes her blink a few times just because, and she stares silent out at the ocean, feet buried in the sand and hands finding purchase on driftwood.

she hates the texture. it feels like cardboard, feels like boxes, and she hates feeling boxed in, hates feeling caged up like a bird. still, she has to hold onto something.

the ocean rolls over her feet softly, gently, like a mother's caring touch, and she reaches down and pats the sand as if the ocean could come up and sit next to her and they have a talk. they talk for hours about anything and everything.

"i got a binder. my friend bought it for me and helped smuggle it inside my house. it's nice."
"i met a new friend today at school. they're like me. they dont know what their gender is but dont really seem to care."
"i thought about saying something to mom, figured maybe she'd understand, but she doesnt. i know she doesnt."

the sand feels gritty then, gritty and grainy and rough, but still she digs her hands in its, as if reassuring the ocean its okay, she's angry too, everything'll be fine.

when it's all done and said and over, and the sky is turning back to blue and yellow and a little bit of green inbetween, like time is being reversed, and the stars disappearing and the sun starts to peak over the horizon like a proud lion, showing of its mane in the form of bright, dazzling colors, she gets ready to go.

she gives the ocean a wave and a hug and then she's gone, flitting away from the one place she feels safe and back to the world around her, the world who would kill her and everyone else here if she ever made it mad.

under the bridge on westerberg street, the one nearby the sea. that is her her favorite place to be.

[revvington]

username ::doglady88722
name ::Jade
gender ::female
chill spot ::Jade's favorite chill spot is the beach, because she watches the fireworks on the Fourth of July there.

[yen.]

Dropping out; best of luck to everyone still entering!

[rustyroxy]

username ::rustyroxy
name :: zemirah
gender:: she/her
chill spot ::

a cool salt water cavern is where they hang out, stalagmites hang from the ceiling and glisten above their head. the salty air wafers and flies around knocking down any stray items in its bath. the harsh sun beats down outside the cave, it protects zemirah from the cruel ball of gas

[jello]

username ::
name ::
gender ::
chill spot ::

[whatswrongwithangela]

Ahh, Your Ga! Congrats!
And While Im Here,
SUPER MEGA MARK/RES <33

[suzu]

username :: suzu
name :: max [maxell] often called [honu] which means turtle
gender :: male
chill spot :: Maxwell is 18 and young, at times when he has nothing to do he goes out to the beach and sits for a while. on that coast there's a hut called "


wip

[lacewing]

username :: Just.Apathy
name :: Bates
gender :: Male
chill spot ::
Bates has a tire swing that is his safe space, in a sense. It is the place where he goes to calm himself down after a stressful day, or a place where he seeks refuge when he feels attacked. He and his father made this swing from an old tire and some rope in an especially long summer, and sitting on it makes him feel, what are the words... Serene. He loves it with all of his heart, the calm shade of the protective birch tree, the stillness of the world that seems to surround him whenever he is there. The sentimental tire swing can calm him, of course, but also, it makes him sad. Childhood memories creep up on his heart often, and this tire swing seems to invoke the best and the worst of them. He finds himself crying or tearing up at random intervals, even if he is just trying to chill at his special place. So this is more than just a chill spot, it is where he goes to relive his best moments when he needs to, and it is where the sheltering limbs of the tree seem to hug him and tell him that everything will be alright. When he feels he had nobody that he can open up to, this is where he goes to feel happy again, and this is where he goes to be comforted. It seems strange to him at times that just being in a place can invoke certain emotions, too. He will take in the fresh smell of the countryside and let the tall grass brush against his legs, staring at the sky for hours on end. The swing will go back and forth like a pendulum, taking him back to when his brother would push him on that very same tree, and to when they would have picnics under that birch tree when it was still young and not dripping sap. He remembers his brother's fresh, homemade tea and he remembers the happiest nights of his life were spent there in the setting summer sun, crickets jumping around and bees buzzing to the wildflowers. This tree, this swing, and his brother. Although his brother is long gone, Bates' times at the tree are still sweet. Cherishing all of his memories and just taking in the calm, chill place that he loves more than anything in this world.