a library of wealth

  • What she says: I'm fine.
  • What she means: Ao3's most read fic has 844,743 hits. Any book with those readership numbers would end up in all the top most read lists in the world. If we put our money where our mouth is and consumed queer literature by queer writers not only it would become normal to see queer representation in libraries, but we would also distribute wealth to queer writers. Instead we continue consuming the same old media by the same old white cishet male creators and providing it with free advertisement with our fanfiction and I don't get why you all are okay with this!!!

anonymous asked:

There would literally be no difference if the library of Alexandria hadn't burned, yeah it was a big library with a great wealth of knowledge, but there were several other libraries just like it all around. All they did was copy books and stuff and send out the copies and kept the originals (or vice versa if I'm not remembering correctly), the only thing that was lost lost was probably personal commentaries or journals.

Cool tidbit of info!

“A library of wisdom, is more precious than all wealth, and all things that are desirable cannot be compared to it. Whoever therefore claims to be zealous of truth, of happiness, of wisdom or knowledge, must become a lover of books.”

~ Plato

Σοφία Κέλσου, Library of Celsus, Ephesus.
Personal photography © 2010

Ephesus (Greek: Ἔφεσος) was an ancient Greek city on the coast of Ionia. It was built in the 10th century BC by Attic and Ionian Greek colonists. During the Classical Greek era it was one of the twelve cities of the Ionian League. The library of Celsus is an ancient Roman building in Ephesus, Anatolia. It was built in honour of the Roman Senator Tiberius Julius Celsus Polemaeanus (completed in 135 AD). Celsus had been consul in 92 AD, governor of Asia in 115 AD, and a wealthy and popular local citizen. He was a native of nearby Sardis and amongst the earliest men of purely Greek origin to become a consul in the Roman Empire and is honoured both as a Greek and a Roman on the library itself. Celsus paid for the construction of the library with his own personal wealth. The library was built to store 12,000 scrolls and to serve as a monumental tomb for Celsus. Celsus is buried in a sarcophagus beneath the library, in the main entrance which is both a crypt containing his sarcophagus and a sepulchral monument to him. It was unusual to be buried within a library or even within city limits, so this was a special honour for Celsus.

Skyrim: Dungeon Crawl

I’m sorry but…I really like writing about @nikanono ‘s OC, I haven’t written my own character in years and having Vi around really brought Fey to life in such a great way. 

So here is Fey and Vi drawn by Nika

And here is part 1! 

If I continue this, it will most likely be rando adventures with the two of these nerds 

“Let’s see we got that good old fashion ten layers of dust, spider webs for days, burnt stuff, broken stuff, more spiders and oh! Just that wonderful rotting flesh smell”

Vi stopped for a moment in the middle of what was once a small library that contained a wealth of knowledge but was now a decaying pile of ash, probably the scene of a fire or mage fight, it was hard to tell. There was nothing left but broken furniture and books burnt beyond repair, most likely due to one too many thieves and other adventurers alike. She took a deep breath, as if to enjoy it like the fresh mountain air but proceeded to cough and hack as dust promptly flew into her throat.  

“G-gotta love it” Vi groaned, doubling over and continued to wheeze.

Fey rolled her eyes but found herself chuckling lightly.

“You’re an odd one”

With one last sigh, Vi stood back up and huffed, clearing her throat of any other foreign specks of dust or ash, “If I had a coin for every time you said that so far I’d earn back what I fronted you”

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Holy shit, that spell WORKED: also, spells and mental illness

Isn’t it the best feeling?? When you’ve done a spell, and the results unfold for you in an unmistakable way?

I’ve been waiting for weeks to talk about this particular spell I did, one of the biggest I’ve ever cast (behind that one money spell, idek where that one came from). I didn’t want to talk about it before I felt it had run its course.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a mental health professional. This is all opinion and experience. If you feel or practice differently, I respect that! Everyone is different, and different things work for them. This is a complex subject so not everything is addressed, and I’m absolutely not trying to shame anyone. I just want to write about some thoughts and experiences I’ve had on this journey.

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anonymous asked:

Hitler was a mental case (anxiety and other mental disorders) and a junkie who tried a concoction of all sorts of drugs. How about Ouma begins experimenting with drugs in the nurse's office in order to cope with his anxiety of the killing game. After a while, he begins abusing the drugs, and his behavior changes to the point where others worry. This prompt has some creative liberties because drugs affect people differently, especially drug cocktails. I'm interested to see how he recovers.

I’m probs gonna have to write a Part 2 to this story, because I couldn’t fit in the recovery aspect that you’re interested in. Sorry D: Probs post a part two tomorrow? Or maybe after doing a few other prompts (got 15 other in me box here oh wow :0) Either way, a Part 2 is defs being planned! :D

Anyways, I like writing an Ouma who has completely given up. An Ouma in despair, not despair crazy, just, despair… empty. Despair… sad. You’ll see I guess. :0 

Also, as a side note… I have… no idea, about drug stuff, at all. I’m kinda… not the best at that so uh, I’m sorry if my portrayal isn’t accurate D: Anyways, um, please enjoy ^u^ 

To Rekindle Your Hope

There was something seriously wrong with Ouma Kokichi.

Amami barely noticed it at first, just an off-hand comment or a strange look Ouma gave Amami every now and then. It wasn’t anything memorable, it wasn’t anything concerning. It was just a moment of weirdness that everyone got from time to time, right? Amami thought there was no need for concern.

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Flood my Mornings: History and Proper Usage

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

History and Proper Usage

“OH!!! Oh, honey, you scared the bejeezus out of me!!!!” 

Jamie had nearly come out of his skin, himself, at the skelloch that had greeted his entry through the front door moments before. In fact, he’d reached instinctively for the absent dirk at his belt, feeling an irrational but deep-rooted panic at finding it two hundred years gone. 

Even so, he recovered quickly and hastened into the living room. “I’m terribly sorry to have startled you, Penelope,” he said, stooping to retrieve the knitting Ms. Byrd had dropped onto the floor.

“Oh, nothing to fret over, Mr. Jamie,” she said, breathing heavily with her hand over her bosom, but smiling now, eyes crinkled with affection. “It’s just I wasn’t expecting–” She checked the clock on the wall, a flicker of alarm crossing her face once more. “Goodness, it’s only 3:00! Is everything alright. Are you getting sick again? Do you need the doctor?” 

“Och, no, dinna fash, a nighean,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Hank (the farmhand with whom I ride to Fernacre, ken?) had an appointment wi’ a Dentist in town for 4 o’clock that he’d forgotten ‘til the last moment. Rather than find me someone else to get a ride with, Tom said just to take the rest of the afternoon ‘for myself.’” 

“Oh, how lovely!”

He gave a small shrug. “I’m no’ accustomed to being at my leisure, to be honest… but I wagered you wouldna mind me taking Brianna off your hands for few hours? I was thinking we’d go to the park, perhaps. It’s a fine day for it,” he said, gesturing toward the bay window behind the sofa, which showed the hot, blue day beyond. 

Penelope’s face twisted with regret. “Oh, Mr. Jamie, little Bree’s just gone down for a nap. Normally, she’d be waking up right about now, and typically I’d say you could wake her in any case, but, OH, she was ornery as all get-out the whole day, so I really think waking her would be a bad idea, and–”

Jamie cut off this stream of anxious apology and assured Penelope it was no great thing, that she was perfectly correct that the lass needed rest; but in truth he was disappointed. He enjoyed the work at Fernacre and was very glad of it, but he missed his wee lass all the more for being gone from her during the day.

“What can I make for you?” Penelope said, bustling toward the kitchen with the conviction of a woman who knows for a fact that good food can cure anything.

“Please dinna trouble yourself,” he called, following her in haste to prevent her preparing a restorative four-course meal for him. “Truly, I’m not all that hungr—”

Nonsense,” she said firmly, already preparing a plate for him. “Chocolate chip banana bread fresh from the oven. Warmed with honey butter, it can’t be beat, if I do say so myself!”

“You’re a verra stubborn woman, Penelope.” He took the proffered plate, bending to kiss the dear lady’s weathered cheek. “And if ye ever should leave us, the Frasers would all shrivel up in despair.” 

He ate standing in front of the living room bookshelf (she was right—the sweet bread couldn’t be beat, warm and soft, dotted with wee morsels of chocolate) perusing Claire’s collection of a dozen or so books. Most of these were novels, and almost all published in the nineteenth century. Treasure Island. A Tale of Two Cities. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre.  He checked once more to be sure. Aye, he’d read them all, now. 

“Does Claire keep books anywhere else in the house?” he asked hopefully, poking his head back into the kitchen.

“Not that I know of,” Penelope said, after considering for a moment. “But the library is only four blocks away, if you want something new.”

“Oh, aye?” Jamie said, perking up considerably at that. “I didna realize there was a university so close.”

“No, no, just the local public library,” she said, laughing as she dried her hands on a towel. “Do they not have those in Scotland?”

Jamie could have died a happy man, standing there in the public library.  So many books, on every topic imaginable, all beautifully bound and organized. He walked around in awe, reading the placards that denoted the sections. 

The history aisles drew him at once, promising knowledge of all of recorded time, of all corners of the world. Asia. Africa. Islands of the Pacific Ocean whose names he’d never heard. Countless volumes having to do with northern Europe: Sweden, the lowlands, France, England, Ireland….Scotland… 

His fingertips hovered over the spine of Culloden and the Clearances: the Destruction of Highland Culture in the 18th-19th Centuries. 

No…Not yet. 

On and on the aisles went. Literature. Science. Periodicals. Children’s books. It was a small building, but it must have housed thousands upon thousands of tomes. A posting in the entry hall had boasted dozens of libraries throughout the Boston area. The sheer wealth of knowledge available to any person that cared to walk a few paces from his home to inquire after it…  

But dinna let your eyes outstrip your wallet, man.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” he said to the nearest employee, who was occupied with restocking the shelves, “Might you be so kind as to direct me toward a price schedule?” 

She looked puzzled for a moment, no doubt surprised by his unusual accent, then she smiled back. “A library card is ten cents, sir.” She gave a kind nod of the head and turned back to her work.

“And the volumes?” Jamie pressed patiently, “What is the rental fee per book, if ye please?”

She gave him a look of dumbfounded amusement, speaking slowly (but in no way mocking) as though to a young child. “Well, once you have the card, you can check out any book for free.”

Jamie stared at her, now he the dumbfounded one. “Truly?”

“Yes, of course!” she laughed. “As many as you want… as long as you bring them back in two weeks.” 

Good God, what a time this was…. when ten cents gives a man access to practically all useful knowledge of the known world. 

An hour later, when the same kind lass assisted him with purchasing a library card and stamping the books he’d chosen, she gave him a bemused look (something of a specialty with her, it seemed). “You’ve got quite the selection here!” 

He had limited himself to a half-dozen books for this excursion, including: The Industrial Revolution: how the nineteenth century changed the world; The World Wars: (1914-1946); and Recent Innovations in Communication Technology. She placed Flora and Fauna of South America in the paper bag she’d been kind enough to provide for him. “Are you going on vacation or something?”   

“No,” he said with a smile, handing her the final tome (a novel, with the most intriguing title of Journey to the Center of the Earth), “it’s just that I’ve a verra great many things to learn.”

As Jamie passed the park on his way back to the house, he checked the wristwatch that Claire had bought for him: nearly 5:00. Claire would be home soon…but he was far too excited to wait. 

He sat on a park bench and reached into his sack for the book he’d been most elated to find: The Automobile: its History and Proper Usage (1949 edition). 

He flipped through the pages hastily. He would come back to read about the events of the machine’s invention later; the only one thing he wished to learn about at present began on page 68. 


The carburetor is fitted with an automatic choke which correctly proportions
the fuel mixture during the starting and warm-up period.

1. Place gear shift lever in neutral position.
2. Depress clutch pedal, and–

He felt his enthusiasm being stabbed by the tremors of doubt such novelties always provoked in him at first meeting. The words on the page might as well have been a foreign language to him.

“But no harder than Latin or Greek or Hebrew, Fraser,” he muttered sternly to himself. “And ye didna learn those save by study and hard work.” 

He removed the small notebook from his pocket and opened to the most recent entry. It was naught but a few lines jotted down in the men’s room after the lunchtime conversation with Tom and some of the other lads; a conversation during which he’d nodded and said a great deal of “Aye, certainly,” but kept quiet: 

America’s President: Trueman (sp?)

President= powerful minister in lieu of king; elected by the peoples’ vote; only keeps power for (x) yrs [ask Claire]

He’d been making notations in the wee book for the past several weeks, now, taking care to write always in Gaelic against the possibility that his notes should be discovered and raise questions that had no answer. It was the only way he knew to chip away at the overwhelming immensity of things to be learned, and so far, it had helped tremendously.  

Jamie turned to a new page, and utilized the book’s glossary to make sense of page 68. 

Carburetor: “a device in an internal combustion engine for mixing air with a fine spray of liquid fuel” ((no apparent relation to the driving of vehicle  just makes the thing move; same for “choke”))

Gear shift lever: “Should always be placed in neutral position before starting engine. Raise knob and move lever forward for reverse gear and rearward for low gear. Move lever to neutral, depress and slide forward for second gear and rearward for high gear.” ((found on right-hand side of steering wheel)) 

With a small laugh, and with the remembered reek of what the three Americans had called “weed” in his nostrils, he jotted a title at the top of the section:

Horseless wagon of certain death.

[Keep reading with the next chapter]

the-nerdy-barnacle  asked:

What kind of lgbt+ representation is in your book?

The main character and two others are lesbians.

Also a character in the upcoming third book is non-binary (neutrois).

The books are published by Harmony Ink Press, an LGBTQ+ Young Adult publisher and they have an exceptional library of available titles with a wealth of different positive LGBT+ characters and stories. I highly recommend them!


Are you lonely too?

Songfic request from @crazyfangirl345 :Show me the meaning of being lonely.

You had lost your fiancé to a demon and had hidden away while carving an antipossession sign into your own thigh. You had found the boys in your house, the one you had bought together, exorcising the demon. Unfortunately that particular demon had decided to knife his meat, leaving your fiancé dead on your dining room floor. The hunters were about to explain when they saw your DIY protection. They’d taken you on pretty soon after that, after running into you on another demon hunt. Dean had argued with Sam about it and begged you to leave before you were stuck in the life, but you weren’t doing it for revenge like he thought; you were doing it because you never wanted anyone else to feel like you did, and you were going to help that dream as much as you could. You and Sam had been growing closer over the last year. Pretty much since you’d moved into the bunker with the two men. You weren’t sure what was happening between the two of you, but recently it had taken a much more intimate turn and you were nervously toeing around it. Testing the waters. You knew Sam understood the hurt but he’d also closed himself off years ago.

Researching late one night, far longer than either of the Winchesters, your mind began to wonder to the stolen glances and fleeting brushes of feet under the table. Your mind completely on Sam now, you started to write in the note book you had in front of you, eyes barely open.
So many words for the broken heart
It’s hard to see in a crimson love
So hard to breathe
Walk with me, and maybe
Nights of light so soon become
Wild and free I could feel the sun
Your every wish will be done They tell me
Show me the meaning of being lonely
Is this the feeling I need to walk with?
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are
There’s something missing in my heart

Once finished, you yawned, and felt a little better then walked off to your room.

The next morning you woke after only a few hours sleep, you barely slept at night these days. Noticing your book still open, to your embarrassing writings, as you walked passed the library you blushed but thinking that you were the first up you kept walking. When you got to the kitchen you headed straight for the coffee pot only to find that there was a very hot, very fresh, pot sitting ready. Your face lost all colour as it became completely feasible that your open book could have been read. You weren’t sure how you felt about same, let alone ready for him to laugh at how sappy you could be; you all but ran to the library, forgetting your need for caffeine. When you got to the desk your book seemed to have moved, and there was another verse written in much smoother handwriting.
Life goes on as it never ends
Eyes of stone observe the trends
They never say forever gaze if only
Guilty roads to an endless love
There’s no control Are you with me now?
Your every wish will be done
They tell me
Show me the meaning of being lonely 
Is this the feeling I need to walk with? 
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are 
There’s something missing in my heart
Your heart sped with all the possible connotations of what you had just read. You were about to write again when Sam and Dean came into the room, you could have sworn Sam’s cheeks reddened as he passed you a fresh cup of coffee.

The day had been spent perusing the library and its infinite wealth of knowledge and planning to find the other bunkers scattered around the world, to try and bring as much of it back here as you could if those factions had also died out. Finally the two men had said their goodnight’s around eleven o'clock that night, which was strangely early for them, and you had opened your book once again. You reread the smooth script once again and bit the inside of your check as you wrote the next little bit of verse. You were worried about the reception it may have, but you needed to see his next move.
There’s nowhere to run I have no place to go
Surrender my heart, body, and soul
How can it be
You’re asking me
To feel the things you never show?

You were shocked to find tears running down your cheeks when you had finished. At least one thing had come from this experience: you now knew how you felt, and you also knew it made you very nervous to share it. You took some deep soothing breaths before forcing yourself to leave the book open, rising from your chair, and walking back to your room in somewhat of a trance.

The next morning you were woken by a light tap on your door and a sliding sound. When you got up you notice the book had been forced under your door, you also noticed the shadow of feet still standing outside. Your heart was beating in your ears as you picked it up and flicked to the page; breathing a sigh of relief at the addition of the tall mans steady hand, that was less steady now, and started to read.
You are missing in my heart
Tell me why can’t I be there where you are?

It was short and sweet, but enough confirmation. You threw open the door and leapt into the man’s arms, happy he’d still been waiting out side your door. You both laughed and your tears were dampening his shirt, and you could swear your hair felt damp from his.