a thousand screams in the night

i. I miss you. Each day that you’re gone feels like a bullet in my chest. I’ve spent too many nights clawing open the wound that you left, now I’m sure it’s never going to heal.

ii. I’m sorry for pushing you away. Each day that you’re gone feels like I’ve lived and died a thousand times. Every star screams out for you, to come back, to come home.

iii. The infection in my heart is spreading. Each day that you’re gone feels like my bones are splintering. Ten thousand fragments entering my bloodstream, ripping my veins open from the inside out.

iv. I’ve spent the last week scratching open my throat. Each day that your gone feels like my skin is cracking open. The words that have died in my mouth are trying to shatter my teeth and tear open my lips, just to reach you again.

v. The sun doesn’t seem to want to rise today. Each day that you’ve been gone hurts more than the next. The moon doesn’t want to stay in the sky, it wants to rip a hole in space and time and slip away from reality. It would seem I do as well.

—  4-00am-thought 

maybe we all have that one person that we’d always take back. bruised mouth, bloody ribs, you’re screaming at me and i’m taking it because no matter how bad it gets, there is always good to follow. and that’s what a lot of people don’t understand, the people who ask me why i can’t see the signs of an unhealthy relationship, why i can’t just walk away - that the good days outweigh the bad ones. i would walk away from you screaming one thousand times just to fall into your arms at the end of the night. i’ve learned how to catch your punches. i’ve learned how to find the beauty in pain. and i know: i should find happiness within myself or at least within people who are good for me, but i can’t help the way i feel and i can’t just leave something that makes me so happy. i will take you back until you literally throw me away.

the nights you fight best
when all the weapons are pointed
at you,
when all the voices
hurl their insults
while the dream is being

the nights you fight best
when reason gets
kicked in the 
when the chariots of

the nights you fight best
when the laughter of fools
fills the 
when the kiss of death is
mistaken for

the nights you fight best
when the game is
when the crowd screams
for your

the nights you fight best
on a night like

as you chase a thousand
dark rats from
your brain,
as you rise up against the
as you become a brother
to the tender sister
of joy and

move on


—  “Regardless” from Charles Bukowski’s Slouching Towards Nirvana
Miami's joyous Cubans hope for change with Castro's death

MIAMI — Wearing his “Bay of Pigs Veteran” shirt, 80-year-old Rafael Torre stood amid hundreds of Cuban-Americans celebrating the death of Fidel Castro and marveled that he remained in power for so long.

Cuban exiles such as Torre tried numerous ways to dislodge Castro after he took power in 1959, including the failed 1961 CIA-backed invasion memorialized on his shirt. Now, like many others, Torre is hopeful for Cuba’s future with the bearded revolutionary leader finally gone.

“We tried for more than 50 years but couldn’t do it. Now he’s dead, and maybe things can change,” Torre said. “It might take three or four years. Maybe the revolution will be on the streets in three or four months.”

Thousands of people took to the streets of Miami and nearby cities Saturday shortly after the early morning announcement of Castro’s death at age 90, and kept the party going all day. They banged pots with spoons, honked car horns, waved Cuban and U.S. flags in the air and whooped in jubilation on Calle Ocho — as Little Havana’s 8th Street is universally known.

Police blocked off streets leading to Cafe Versailles, the quintessential Cuban-American hotspot where strong cafecitos — sweetened espresso — were as common as a harsh word about Castro, the nemesis of so many exiles for so long. Many said they recognize his death alone doesn’t mean immediate democracy or freedom for the communist island.

“We need for the people of Cuba to have the freedom we have in the U.S., but this changes nothing. There won’t be change until the people revolt,” said Juan Cobas, 50, who came to the U.S. from Cuba at age 13.

Others saw Fidel’s death as a sign that a generation that has ruled Cuba for decades is passing from the world stage, many noting that his brother, current President Raul Castro, is 85.

“I’m feeling this is the beginning of the end,” said Alex Pineiro, 32. “Fidel was the architect of what’s going on. It’s a mix of emotions, I’m happy he’s dead, but I’m celebrating hope.”

There were no reports of violence or any arrests during the demonstrations, Miami police spokeswoman Kenia Fallat said Saturday. Miami-Dade County officials said there were no plans to activate the emergency operations centre — another sign of the more subdued reaction to Castro’s death than might have previously been expected.

“They are celebrating but in a very peaceful way,” Fallat said of the demonstrators.

The U.S. Coast Guard was running regular patrols and not increasing staffing levels or taking other emergency steps, said Petty Officer Jonathan Lally. The Coast Guard has seen a sharp uptick recently in Cubans attempting to arrive in Florida by sea, with at least 7,411 Cubans attempting to migrate over the Florida Straits in the fiscal year that ended Sept. 30 compared with 4,473 in the same timeframe last year.

After Castro took power, Cubans fled the island to Miami, Tampa, New Jersey and elsewhere. Some were loyalists of Fulgencio Batista, the president prior to Castro, while others left with the hope they would be able to return soon, after Castro was toppled. He never was.

Many other exiles believed they would never be free under Castro and his communist regime. Thousands left behind their possessions, loved ones, and hard-earned educations and businesses, travelling to the U.S. by plane, boat or raft. Many Cubans died on the ocean trip to South Florida. Some had land and possessions taken by the Castro government.

The ones that made it to Miami took a largely, and vehemently, anti-Castro stance.

“He should not be revered. He should be reviled,” said U.S. Rep. Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, a Republican who was born in Cuba.

Some people said the election of Donald Trump as president could lead to a tougher stance against the Havana government that might hasten change.

“I hope that Trump takes a hard line against the Castro regime,” said Henry Marinello, 60, who left Cuba as a child in 1961,

On New Year’s Eve every year, Cubans in Miami utter a toast in Spanish as they hoist glasses of liquor: “Next year in Cuba.” But as the Cuban exiles aged, and as Castro outlived them, and as President Barack Obama eroded the embargo and younger Cubans returned to the island, the toast rang silent in many households.

News of Castro’s death was long anticipated and had been the subject of countless rumours over the decades, so that it became something of a running joke. This time, though, it was real.

“We’re all celebrating, this is like a carnival,” said 72-year-old Jay Fernandez, who came to Miami when he was 18 in 1961 after he was jailed twice by the Cuban government. He and his wife and another woman held up a bilingual sign he’d made four years ago when Castro first became ill. “Satan, Fidel is now yours. Give him what he deserves. Don’t let him rest in peace.”


Lush reported from St. Petersburg, Florida, and Anderson from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Associated Press writers Adrian Sainz in Memphis, Tennessee and Josh Replogle in Miami contributed to this story.

Curt Anderson, Ian Mader And Tamara Lush, The Associated Press

my favorite aesthetics

blood running down lips after a fight. the sound of humming cicadas on a warm summer night. laughter echoed in a room with friends. the philly skyline reflected on the water below the bridge. kissing foreheads of those you love. the smell of pot hanging heavy in the darkness of a packed concert. the warm smile on a singers face when thousands of people scream along to their songs. the feel of grip tape on bare feet. a friend holding a sewing needle, etching ink into skin for eternity. the clicking noise of a cassette tape in an old car. star gazing with friends with the grass under your palms. poetry scrawled on the back of notebooks. the feel of guitar strings pressing into soft padded fingers. the sound of keyboard keys clicking in a silent library. soft sheets on naked skin. sweat rolling down your back accompanied by the scatching of a lovers nails. soft “i love you"s through labored breathing. the smell of turpentine and a new canvas. the hum of a tattoo gun dulled out by your own heart beat thumping in your ears. petting dogs on city streets. lines of coke cut across religious text in the name of art. empty museum halls. tears flooding down cheeks at the sight of beauty. a bouquet of flowers tossed in the gutter out of anger, only to be picked up by someone else. the smell of perfume in an empty room. graffiti carved into a school desk out of boredom. high glass ceilings reflecting blue skies. soft lips brushing against broken, bruised knuckles. the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore line. the muffled bassline of a strangers music through headphones. soft smiles exchanged on public transport. ginsberg’s words being proclaimed from the rafters. the loud, echoing passion of protest. the unity of people coming together for a common goal. love being shared between all. people being welcomed and oceans being cleaned and animals saved and all of us protected and loved and happy.

Viktor Krum was a lucky lucky man. He had the riches, the career, the women, and anything else any self respecting twenty two year old man would want. He was a professional quidditch player for the national team! Women hung on his every word, men wished they could be him. So why was he so lonely? He attended a different party every night, had a new girl every week. He had just signed on to the Tornado’s starting lineup for next season, with a 10 thousand galleon advance. So, he asked himself again, Why was he so lonely? Often times he felt like he could scream and no one would hear him.

Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, and one third of the Golden Trio. She had everything. Fame, Riches, Brains, Men throwing themselves at her. She wanted none of it. What she wanted was to be left alone. For the daily prophet to forget she existed instead of the daily headlines, guessing at who she would choose. Harry or Ron? Neither! They were her brothers, They were her family. How could the rest of the wizarding world expect them to be anything more? It made her stomach turn even thinking about it. So she found herself thinking about leaving the UK in the year following the war. She had received numerous offers from MACUSA to come work in their research department. They had the number one research facility for Magical and Mental Diseases, it called to her. Maybe she would discover something to reverse the memory charm she had placed on her parents.

Two weeks later her bags were packed and she was ready to start a new life in New York. She had said her goodbyes to everyone. Harry had been sad but had understood her desire to leave. Ron had thrown a fit that would have rivaled even Lavender Brown, he had called her selfish, had accused her of trying to hurt him on purpose. “But what about me, what about us?” He had asked. “I wasn’t aware there was an us, Ronald.” she had answered back. That had set him off, he had screamed, cried, even threatened her. That’s when she had left. He had always assumed that she would just come to him, that she somehow belonged to him. Well she was Hermione Granger and the only person she belonged to was herself. They hadn’t spoken a word to eachother since.

She’d been in New York for almost a year now and she couldn’t ever remember being happier. No one knew her here, there was no reporters following her every move, there was just herself and her research. She was content.

She was now soaking in her bathtub and relaxing, thinking about everything that had led her here. She looked at her watch and was stunned to find that she had lost track of time. She now had an hour to get ready for the ministry’s annual Christmas ball. The first she’d ever be attending.

Climbing out of the bath tub she instantly set to work. Her hair would take the most time so she decided to get that out of the way first. She cast some relaxing charms, as well as using a taming potion Ginny had sent her. Her make up was next, she really hated the stuff, but she applied some lip gloss and mascara, leaving her face natural. That left her with 15 minutes to get dressed and get to the ministry building. Thank Merlin for the floo. She had arrived with five minutes to spare, deciding that she deserved a reward for getting there in time, she walked over to the bar and ordered a fire whisky.

Viktor Krum had been invited to the American ministry’s annual Christmas party. He had no interest in attending, but his manager had insisted that it would do him well to be seen mingling with the International wizarding community, and so he found himself in the MACUSA building, clutching at a flute of champagne wishing it was something stronger. He did so hate the politics that came with these parties. He was staring off into space when a beautiful set of legs had entered his line of sight ( he considered himself a leg man, after all. ) He started from her black pumps with the signature red soles, tracing up the olive toned skin, going up her mile long legs, to the red dress that stopped a few inches above her knees. It hugged every curve of her body, but left him wanting to see more. His eyes traveled all the way up until they reached a beautifully familiar face.

“Hermione?” He could not believe that he was seeing her here after all of these years, she was just as beautiful as he remembered. She flinched at the sound of her name. Who could possibly know her here? Halfway around the world. The heavily accented voice stirred something in the deep recesses of her memory. Suddenly, she remembered the broad chest and the soft lips that accompanied that tell tale Bulgarian accent. She looked over, eyes wide, not daring to believe that he was here. She had thought about him a lot, he seemed to cross her mind every couple of weeks. Unbeknownst to her, he had never stopped thinking about her. Ever since those days of the triwizard tournament, in the confines of hogwarts library.

“Viktor? I can’t believe it!” she leaned into him and hugged him. She had missed his arms, more then even she realized. He hugged her back, inhaling deeply, her scent had not changed in the last 5 years. She still smelled like old parchment, crisp apples, and cinnamon. That scent had stuck with him, he had missed her terribly, she was what he had needed. She was the reason he could never seem to find happiness with any other woman.

The night passed swimmingly after their chance encounter. They danced and laughed. Reminisced and got to know eachother all over again. They posed for pictures and Viktor had informed the reporters that he was off the market. Finally, as the music died down and the American minister announced the end of a successful Christmas ball, Hermione grabbed Viktors hand and led him to the out going floos. She had never been one of those girls, who invited a man back to her bed after one night. But this man was different, he had known her since she was 14, had embraced her studious side, had told her she was beautiful before she had learned how to tame her hair and had fixed her teeth. No, this was no ordinary man. This was the man she wanted, and she would have him.

Viktor, with a smile on his face, had let himself be led away. He promised himself he would not let her walk out of his life this time. She was what he had longed for all along, and have her he would.

  • fluttering in your veins
  • like kisses in the rain, your brain
  • a thousand swarming bees in the black-and-yellow night as you fall among the wildflowers
  • but she's gone and she took the flowers with her; he's screaming, screaming for solace with no one to comfort him but a boy he can't even see,
  • and the dreaming boy is there, holding hands with the boy who stole his heart and kept it in a jar and he smells like lizard brains pickling in the basement with a bark as strong as
  • her bite, a princess in pink with golden ringlets, curls with rows and rows upon rows of teeth so strong and you trail up above the
  • clouds, a girl she's floating high, held back by the rope only the strongest can hold we love
  • our girl, muddy feet, she is the strongest, dependable, lost her brother and still smiles with all her heart
  • a heart so strong just like our love but burning with passion and when she loves she burns your insides and expects everything you have in return;
  • can you feel it? your name is Jacob. you are sixteen years old and live in Florida in 2016 and you have fallen in love with a beauty named 1940 and she is a bird, she is someone and something and everything you have to protect and 'we miss you, Jacob' is not an option at this point. because you are the only one who can see them, because you love them and they love you and you have become those flowers, those bees, you are their strength and will to succeed, you are their fire and flames and teeth and frills and their sky high ambitions so wild you dream of them every night and even when you feel like your heart is going to burst he is there to read to you, to talk to you with an invisible hand on your shoulder, on your chest, combing through your hair so soft and cupping your cheek tilting your chin-
  • they are beautiful and she is a bird you have loved so dearly since he beginning of your life, years before you were born when your grandfather first felt the waves recede and sprinted up the pebbles (it is not Poland but it is good enough) and he felt the warm embrace of
  • home.

When Ladybug is quiet enough, sits still enough, she feels herself multiplied by a thousand. 

She feels filled to the brim with ghosts of battle cries, mortal wounds, and ultimate sacrifices that feel foreign and familiar all at once. Like her suit that feels thick and heavy one day, and like it’s melted into her skin the next. 

Tikki says it’s because her miraculous loves vitality, loves spirit, loves passion. It doesn’t know how to let go of it all. 

Marinette wakes up screaming some nights for the safety of a village she can’t remember, can’t picture. Sometimes, she throws her yoyo into the air and she swears she feels the splintered shaft of a spear as it soars from her hand. Dull blows to the torso that send her flying for very brief seconds feel like bullet wounds that pierce deep and true. 

The Ladybugs before her fought wars. Led revolutions. Saved civilizations. She is just a little girl who stands in awe before her city and still finds herself unable to predict how she’ll manage to protect it tomorrow, and the day after that. Her legacy is already written, and it’s too vast for her to comprehend. 

Chat Noir finds her staring out into the lights of the city, her head tilted to the sky, listening to the dozens of voices, the hundreds of languages, the millions of cries for peace, for justice, for Ladybug. She tells him how much it excites her and how much it scares her. How unclear yet pristine her future looks. She is luck and creation. She is change. She is hope.

She asks if he ever feels like that. He admits that sometimes he’s petrified. 

He holds his baton and swears sometimes that it’s crumbling in his fingertips. He wakes up screaming because he swears his heart isn’t beating. When he’s flung against buildings, he sits there stunned for a moment like his blood is still and his skin is chilled. 

Ladybug asks him what he hears when he’s still and quiet. He says he hears screams, and then nothing. 

Harry-- Morticia

Ever since I was a little girl and seemed to be just a little more interested in the Book of the Dead than the rest of my classmates, I’ve always dreamed of finding the Gomez to my Morticia.  Someone who would not only put up with my oddities but love me even more for them.

I had found my Gomez in Harry.  I had never expected for it to be a singer, someone with millions of dollars and thousands of screaming fans ready to fall at his feet at the snap of a finger, who would find me and not only see me for who I was, but love me for it.  It was Harry who would see an oddity antique shop, duck inside, and come home with a trinket that was something I actually, truly loved.  It was Harry who would sit up with me at night, discussing the curious and unusual while he trailed warm fingers up and down my skin.

It was Harry who loved me with such a fierce ferocity that it could make others slightly uncomfortable being around us at times.  Like I was the sun and he orbited around me.  Like a magnet, we seemed to attract each other.  Even at parties when we tried to split up and work different sides of the room, we always ended up together.  A strong hand on my elbow.  Elegant fingers barely brushing his lower back.  A love for each other that was so tangible that no one could question it.

Keep reading

Okay so since last night there have been literally hundreds, maybe thousands of crows flying around and screaming at the top of their lungs - this is just one of the trees outside my house, they’re filling every tree nearby as well. 

Does anyone have a scientific explanation for this because I’m not superstitious in the slightest but given everything that’s been happening in the world lately I’m fairly certain I’ve stumbled into the prologue of a post-apocalyptic thriller

Tweek and Craig: *eventually kiss in an episode*

News reporter the day after the episode airs: thousands dead in a strange and unknown accident last night, and more following this morning. None of the deaths have been confirmed to be suicides or murders, but there is one thing that is common with all deaths. Everyone who died last night was watching te newest episode of the show ‘South Park’ and died either by heart attack, suffocation, which as been confirmed to be caused by screaming too much, and broken necks from jumping off couches. We’re currently trying to contact the creators of the show to get a statement on what they think has happened. More at 6

Show, Don’t Tell

“Show, don’t tell.” This phrase is one of the most common things I hear when I work on my stories, and it is what I recommend many others to do as well. I think it’s one of the most important principles in writing, because learning how to do it can turn your story into something that is much more enjoyable and professional than if you didn’t. I haven’t totally mastered the art yet myself, but it’s something I’m definitely working on. Below is a good example of how I can tell you a story, and how I can show you a story. This is taken from the first chapter of Kadamitas, a book I am writing.


Sirens wailed through the night and a thousand screams sped toward the werewolf as their glorious tower fell.

This is what I had originally posted the other day. At first glance, it looks alright to me… but if I had really fleshed it out at the time, it would have looked something like this:


Sirens wailed throughout the city, echoing a harsh red glare down its empty streets and alleyways. The foundations of the Echelon shook and a cloud of black smoke exploded through the entrance of the distressed skyscraper. A deadly fire raged within, and its windows shattered as the voice of a thousand screams pierced the night. Immense chasms opened up on the ground like lightning, cracking outward from the base of the structure and consuming all the poor houses that stood in their path. The Echelon tilted ever so slightly until it was clear to the wolf: their glorious tower was falling, and there was nothing else he could do to save them.

Quite obviously, this sounds much more intriguing than what I had originally written. I added quite a bit more depth to the story, it didn’t take me much longer, and it is more likely that someone else would be hooked into reading it. This is what they all mean when they say “show, don’t tell.”

Now, this idea is also related to one of the things I find a little off-putting about much of the therian community on here: they keep trying to prove that therianthropy exists, as if it is our sole purpose to educate the “outsiders.” This might not seem related, but think about it. They list out all of the traits. They say “Here are all the things I do that probably make me a therian, so you need to respect me about this,” and… I feel as if saying those things is skirting around the bigger picture. If you want to catch someone’s interest and make it seem like you are the real deal… if you want to BE the real deal, the very last thing you want to do is spew out list upon list of symptoms.

The same is true of any religion, group, or skill. If I want to learn guitar, it’s not because I think it might be cool to know how all those “fancy” finger positions work together, and it’s most definitely not because I’m interested in practicing an hour or two every day (which most would describe as extremely mundane). Instead, it’s because I have seen people play the guitar, I have heard people play beautiful music with it, and I want to be able to do the same thing. And it’s more or less the same story all around.

As for therianthropy itself… I don’t blame the community for how it has gotten. Too many therians have gotten fixed on describing the why instead of showing their desire. And I know, describing your closest emotions is a pain in the ass; it doesn’t matter who you are. I know how tough it is. I’ve been trying for years. But I’m close, so I know it’s possible - and once we start doing this more consistently, then others will start to understand and take us more seriously. They’ll see value in therianthropy and want to be around us. If we don’t, the outside world will only see therians as confused and underdeveloped instead of as the community that we all hope to exist as. That’s what I see, at least within the Tumblr community. That’s why I am writing Kadamitas. And that is why I challenge you, therian reader, to write a novel. Dream. Lay your emotions bare, make sense of them, and condense them into a story. Even if you aren’t a therian, writing a story is one of the best ways to express your innermost feelings. But if writing a story isn’t what you’re interested in doing, get out there and live, and stop worrying about whether people will think you’re valid or not. That really doesn’t matter here. All that matters is that you’re happy doing what you like to do.

If you do want to write but you don’t feel like you have what it takes, you will someday. You should’ve seen how terrible my book was when I first wrote it, and that was four years ago. So don’t be discouraged, and don’t rush it. Remember, the vibrant and developed community we all want takes time to develop. The book you want to write takes time to create. The life you want takes time to live, so go live it. And remember: show, don’t tell.

There he was, a blue light illuminating the back of his messy blonde hair, the most beautiful figure I ever saw staring into ten thousand screaming souls, it was the most peaceful yet loudest moment of my life where I couldn’t differentiate sound from silence.

The passion of his voice captivated every inch of my skin, all the anguish gathered inside my chest seemed to fade away.

The night of September 23rd is one night my heart will never forget.

Thank you Michael, thank you 5SOS, thank you Sounds Live Feels Live.


Based on the song La Vie En Rose (covered by Daniela Andrade)

Author’s Note: So this is a tiny drabble series, like all together it makes one fic, but they’ll be posted in tiny excerpts. We’ll go on a journey with Bucky and the girl. I hope you guys enjoy it!

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