7,500 words of what happened after Killian and Emma met at a bar one night, and then when she contacted him via instagram 10 months later. I know that many amazing, wonderful, lovely readers do not care for CS baby fics. So this is a warning- this fic is not for you.
The bar was exactly what he needed tonight. Dark. Dingy. Someplace no one would ever expect to find Killian Jones. He’d been invited to many parties, all at trendy places a few miles to the west in hipper areas of Boston, but tonight he just wanted to drink around real people with real lives and real problems. Not people whose sole purpose in talking to him was to see what he could do for them. To see if any of that “Killian Jones” magic could transform their lives. It couldn’t. He couldn’t help anyone.
He’d turned his sorrow and skill with a guitar into a successful career, but that was it. It has brought him no happiness, and he had nothing to share with anyone else.
Hey guys my roommate showed me this petition against animal cruelty and I thought I’d share it with all of Tumblr. This girl microwaved her pet turtle and posted it on social media for everyone to see (tw graphic images in the story). Her mother supports her actions and they currently aren’t receiving any punishment for their animal abuse.
Pets are vulnerable and helpless creatures that trust that their human counterparts will be dependable and treat them with kindness. This girl tortured her poor turtle to death and I cannot even imagine how painful that must have been to experience. Please SIGN THIS PETITION and seek justice for her turtle. The petition will be sent to the Boston police station for review once enough people have signed I believe. Signing only takes a minute, but it could stop a future pet of hers from experiencing cruelty 🐢
The screams have become background noise. I can hear them but they’re muffled and far away. Logically, I know that I should be in pain. But, instead, I’m staring up at the ceiling and there’s this beautiful, glass chandelier reflecting a thousand different shades of color and honestly, it’s not so bad. There’s blues and yellows and pinks and greens, and it seems like the more commotion there is erupting in the building, the more the colors sway and jump around. It makes me think of you, so bright and vibrant and free. A thousand different shades and layers, each one more beautiful than the last.
I wish that I could breathe better, but the cloth from my mask was covering up my mouth and it made the air seem so hot. I can see my chest rising and falling from the bottom of my eyes, but it’s not in rhythm, it’s choppy and shallow. Unnatural. Desperate.
There’s so many different noises to differentiate from. There’s the cries for help. Some people are sobbing. Some are yelling. There’s the sirens outside, growing more and more intense as the entire Boston police department shows up. There’s a crunching sound nearby, someone stepping on shattered glass as they attempt to run. There’s more gunshots. More screams.
Someone almost steps on me in all the commotion, or maybe they did. It doesn’t matter though, I can’t really feel the rest of my body anyway.
In the heat of it all, someone’s grabbing my arm. Their silhouette blocks my view from the chandelier and I want to protest, but then Tyler’s features come into focus and I let out a shaky sigh of relief.
He looks worried, his mouth’s moving, forming words that I can’t understand, but he’s not hurt. He’s here, alive and well. Tyler’s got both hands on me, gripping my arms and pressing down on my torso, looking from my chest to my face, back and forth. I briefly wonder why he keeps doing that. It’s only when he raises his hands, to cover up his wide, gaping mouth, that I see the glistening, red, liquid all over his skin. He’s covered in blood. My blood.
The sight of it snaps me back into reality, which, in all honesty, isn’t ideal. That’s when the pain hits. It’s a searing, ripping sensation in my chest. There’s pressure and heat and it just _hurts. _I try to call out, but when I open my mouth, there’s this gurgling noise and a bitter, irony taste in my mouth.
“Oh God—“ Tyler gasps as he quickly presses down on my chest once again.
I sputter, blood spewing in the air with each breathe I take.
Tyler’s telling me to hold on just a little longer, that the van would be here any second. But it’s hard to listen. Amidst it all, I suddenly think of the trip to Jamaica that I never got to take. I think of the white, sandy beach. The fresh ocean air. The cool drink in my hand. I can picture it. Or at least everything I hoped it would be. The pain starts to go away. Tyler blurs out of focus, and the world around me starts to narrow in. I think of the pizza place on fifth avenue that I never tried, or the Fenway tickets I never bought. I think of the letter I wish I had written to my mom.
I think of hundreds of places I never went and thousands things I didn’t do, but the last thing that pops into my head before the whole world goes dark, is you.
So after I heard about the Boston Policeman who was found with bomb explosives or something along those lines, I decided to google some pictures of Dzhokhar and Tamerlan at the marathon. My heart dropped. I noticed he’s in almost every picture you can find of the brothers at the marathon.
Emma Swan is having a horrible day, and just when she thinks things might look up, she gets stuck with a very cranky patient, but God is he gorgeous.
Nurse Emma Swan
Generally speaking, Emma loved being a floating nurse at Boston Mass Gen Hospital. She moved all around the hospital to different departments letting her do a bit of everything, which she found exciting. Ruby, her best friend who was also a nurse, was always complaining about how boring her floor was.
Ruby worked in the post-operative ward, where patients were sent to recover after their operations if they were considered stable. Most of the patients were just waiting until they were well enough to be discharged so they could go home, while others were older and waiting, well, for anything. Some were hoping their children would come and take care of them, while others were waiting for a spot to open up in a nursing home. Ruby had coined it the ‘limbo floor’.
Emma couldn’t count the number of times that Ruby had complained because she was forced to give someone a bed bath or had to empty out their ostomy bags. Emma had laughed at the time, having yet to work on Ruby’s floor herself. She had only lived in Boston for about seven months, and she had only worked at the hospital for just a month less. Most of Emma’s floating was done in the emergency room, labor and delivery, or on the pediatric floor, but soon that would change.
Emma woke up early enough that she could go for a run before her shift. It had rained the night before though, and the pavement that morning was unforgiving. She slipped on the pavement in front of a crowd of high school kids waiting outside for the first bell to ring. If that hadn’t been mortifying enough, when Emma got home, she discovered that she had stepped on what appeared to be a used condom somewhere along the way, and it had tagged along home with her on the bottom of her shoe. The day was already off to a horrible start, and then it got worse.
Today I learned that Igor Stravinsky’s 1943 arrangement of The Star-Spangled Banner got him harassed by the Boston Police Department.
The arrangement, heard in the linked video, contains a diminished seventh chord on the “land” of “oer the land of the free,” right at the 1:30 mark of the video. The effect is palpable. Stravinsky created this arrangement for the Boston Symphony, due to his ”desire to do my bit in these grievous times toward fostering and preserving the spirit of patriotism in this country.”
From Timothy Judd at The Listeners’ Club:
After the first performance, the audience was apparently shocked by what they considered to be an unconventional harmonization. The Boston Police, misinterpreting a Federal law prohibiting “tampering” with the National Anthem, told Stravinsky that he had to remove his arrangement from the remaining programs. Reluctantly, he conceded.
With the benefit of hindsight, and years of garishly over-embellished ballpark vocal renditions, Stravinsky’s Star Spangled Banner doesn’t sound so bad. This is the National Anthem through the ears of an immigrant. Its bass line and inner voices suggest a hint of “Great Gate of Kiev” Russian weight. There’s some interesting, unorthodox modernist voice leading that might vaguely remind you of Stravinsky’s Pulcinella.
I love it. It might be my new favorite arrangement of our (sorta-crappy) national anthem. To me, that chord suggests that our union is incomplete; that the past 240 years have been the struggle to make it more perfect, with the emphasis on “more.” There will always be more work to be done, more improvements to be made, more successes to celebrate, and more battles to fight. Our truths and values may be self-evident, but they are not self-actuating. Our path is long and winding, and at times we have lost our way, but we can (and must) walk it together.
Donald Trump described anti-fascist and anti-racist demonstrators who converged on Boston as “anti-police agitators” on Saturday, in a tweet that seemed destined to revive the still simmering controversy over his remarks equating the far right and anti-Nazis in Charlottesville last weekend.
“Looks like many anti-police agitators in Boston,” Trump tweeted. “Police are looking tough and smart! Thank you.”