angel flares


01.31.2017 w/ Moon @ Cafe Gratitude in the Art’s District in Downtown LA- an all organic, entirely plant-based restaurant nestled in the most interesting and unappreciated part of Los Angeles. Check this place out! Maybe I’ll see ya there.

(happy hour is from 3 to 6pm daily, just saying! )


Smoke angels….

This is what happens when a huge C-17 Globemaster transport aircraft deploys smoke flares.

There’s two important phenomena at work here to create this dramatic image:

     – The unique smoke pattern caused by a plane deploying its flares. These smoke shapes left behind are often referred to as “smoke angels.”

     –The existence of wingtip vortices, which can only be seen in the presence of smoke or a similar substance. The vortices appear as spiral patterns produced as a result of the plane creating lift.

The smoke flares are dropped for a variety of reasons: as tactical markers; to mark the location of air-dropped supplies; and, sometimes, to obscure the enemy’s vision.

The C-17 commonly performs strategic airlift missions….transporting troops and cargo throughout the world, tactical airliftmedical evacuation and airdrop duties.

The C-17 is 174 feet (53 m) long and has a wingspan of about 170 feet (52 m). It can carry 90 tons (roughly 90,000 kilograms) of equipment, supplies, vehicles and personnel.

For many – civilian and military – the C-17 IS an angel!

5 minute writing challenge

I was tagged by @bxdcubes and @feelingsdusk​ :)

Sometimes, when Peter looks at Stiles in the right light, at the right angle, just out of the corner of his eye, he can make out angel wings flaring from the boy’s back.

Nobody else seems to notice. Not the wings, not the peculiar, silent, almost floating grace Stiles walks with in those rare moments when he isn’t actively pretending to be flailing around and tripping over thin air, not the eyes that sometimes gives Peter the impression of staring into a black hole perhaps, endless and cold and ancient.

And they certainly don’t notice the little things that happen around them - a hunter’s bullets just missing their mark in turning Scot into Swiss cheese, a challenging Alpha’s claws never close enough to an important artery despite the entire pack’s strategy consisting of flinging themselves at the enemy and hoping brute force would work this time after the first dozen times of failure, even darling sweet Allison surviving the Nogitsune with little consequence save for a new set of nightmares, a small price to pay for dodging the drooling comatose mess that the ordeal should have left her in, and the Nogitsune itself mysteriously disappearing overnight - all the near little misses with death that the pack tends to dismiss as nothing more than good luck, time after time after time.

Since when has anything to do with Beacon Hills ever won the favour of Lady Luck?

But Peter sees. Mostly because he’s always watching Stiles, fascinated by this boy-not-boy from the very beginning, the otherworldliness that marks him as something not just not-human like the werewolves and banshee and kitsune in their midst but beyond-human, in the edge of overwhelming power in his scent and the detached amusement he regards everything with and the way Peter - when he manages to catch a glimpse of those brilliant, bright wings - always has to look away when they begin to make his eyes burn.

Peter sees because he’s always looking, every pack meeting, every fight, every research session, every shared meal and then shared lazy afternoon and then shared day out in town. And soon, although longer than Peter expects, Stiles notices him looking. Notices him seeing, all the things that make Stiles other. And Peter makes certain that Stiles also notices how Peter cares, but only because he likes Stiles, in all his hidden angelic glory, and maybe one day, he’ll tell Peter why he’s here at all, walking amongst humanity, indulging a pack of idiots who don’t even know they should be so, so grateful to the sole protector in their midst.

But until then, Peter will enjoy everything Stiles already gives him, every smile, every word, every softened look from those eyes that are still old but seem to thaw a little more when directed at him with each passing day.

The first time Peter feels something big and soft and encompassing fold around him like a particularly feathery blanket, they’re enjoying a picnic out in the woods.

Stiles is perfectly nonchalant about it. Peter couldn’t stop himself from smiling if he tried, so it’s good he doesn’t have to, and he lets himself lean willingly into the warm embrace instead.

Tagging @wordsformurder, @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger​, @cooliogirl101, @discontentedwinter, @labtrinthine, if you wanna.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather | Sylvia Plath
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

Lucy Heartfilia badass moments

Survey the Heavens, Open the Heavens…
All the stars, far and wide…
Show me thy appearance…
With such shine.
Oh Tetrabiblos…
I am the ruler of the stars…
Aspect become complete…
Open thy malevolent gate.
Oh 88 Stars of the heaven…
Urano Metria!

Lucy vs Angel - Episode 58

Lucy vs Flare- Episode 159

Lucy  vs Jackal - Episode 249

Lucy Heartfilia and the Really Dumb Choice

What a title. My most creative yet! Prompt: Transformation.

She should have never taken that dare.

She should have never entertained the brash teasing in potions class. She was a proud Ravenclaw with high intelligence and wit. There were smarter ways to deal with incessant teasing from the Slytherin girls of her class. Like, telling them to shove it, by chance.

Alas, Lucy Heartfilia had a limit. A limit that itched to cram the scathing words back down the harpy’s throats.

It had been the whole crew today: Minerva, Flare, and Angel. They could be nice when they felt like it but today in Professor Porylurca’s class, the mean gene came out to play.

Making a Draft of Living Death was difficult, even more so when the damn book misled the reader with false instructions that even a blind wizard could notice in the printing line. Cut the sopophorous bean, it instructed. Cut the bean and feed it slowly into the cauldron.

It’ll be fun, it should have added.

Any decent potion maker would know that sopophorous beans secreted juice when crushed. Lucy merely…diverted from the printed text. It was a poor guide line, anyway.

The blonde followed her instinct, much like she did with wand work, and ended up with a draft that radiated fatality with a single drop. Professor Porlyusica was pleased, or the blonde liked to assume it was appraisal, as the pink haired teacher dropped a leaf into the cauldron and hummed when it burned to a crisp.

Not one of her classmates did remotely as well, including Levy, who was frazzled and desperately trying to adhere to the text like it was law.

Thus, the teasing began.

“So, all knowing potions goddess: How did you do it?” Minerva asked, shoving her shoulder harshly into Lucy as she sidled up to the blonde, her own pathetic potion abandoned. Angel and Flare watched from across the table, sneering so violently that the Ravenclaw woman hoped their faces would freeze that way.

“Yeah, how’d you cheat?” Angel added with a snort, ignoring the glare from the silent Levy.

Lucy pursed her lips, cleaning her black cauldron with a swivel of her wand. At her silence, Minerva laughed obnoxiously, “Oh, Ravenclaw secret? You’re not so spunky when your Gryffindor friends aren’t around, you know.”

The blonde did not rise to the teasing, packing up her ingredients proudly. After all, there was no point in her staying, right?

Angel hummed thoughtfully, picking at her rat tail with a new light to her behavior. “You are right, Minerva! The proud Ravenclaw is so timid without her brave Gryffindor guards! Why do they even call you an honorary Gryffindor? You are not brave at all!”

Lucy ignored them, shouldering her bag and whispering into Levy’s ear, “I’ll be in the Common Room.”

“I just don’t understand. She’s so brave in defending her friends, but is a Pygmy Puff with every other thing. I bet she can’t even brave the Forbidden Forest! Typical half-blood.” Minerva guffawed in amusement, flipping her dark hair as if posing for the Daily Prophet.

The blue haired woman scowled, her lips parting to speak when Angel flicked a little water at her, all three laughing uproariously at how Levy violently dodged for fear that it was part of a potion.

Lucy then had enough.

You know what?” Her mouth moved before her mind could stop it, a fault in her clever attitude that even Natsu pointed out once before. It was a curse, getting so irritated that she loses control over a certain part of herself with burning fire. It got her into trouble more than once, especially with Professor Jose and getting into fights in the halls. “I’ll take you on.”

She was quite a gambler with her sickles, why not with her bravery?

Levy jolted quicker than a Firebolt, latching an iron grip onto the blonde’s robes. “You can’t be serious. Lu-chan, please reconsider.” She warned seriously, already knowing about how her friend’s mouth had a mind of its own.

It was far too late to back out now.

Oh? Then, I dare you to go into the Forbidden Forest tonight and bring back an item from a creature in the forest. Anything.” Minerva specified haughtily, giving her group high fives as Lucy considered the option.

“Deal.” Her stupid mouth moved without her permission.

Lucy!” Levy hissed, along with some of the other Ravenclaw students that had been eavesdropping.

“You can’t bring anybody with you and you can’t tell your precious Gryffindor pals.” Angel added snootily with a tap of painted nails on aged desk wood. “You have to do it on your own.”

Lucy smirked grimly, already knowing she couldn’t back down now. As pride of the Ravenclaw house, Lucy held herself to honesty and the solid keeping of promises. It was better than most of the Prefects, anyway.

“Okay. If I do retrieve an item from a creature in the forest, I want you three to eat Fullbuster and Dragneel’s Puking Pasties in the middle of the Great Hall and I want you all to respect the Ravenclaw house by referring to every member as ‘Duke or Duchess’. A curtsy for each would be nice, don’t you think, Levy?” Lucy mused in an effort to hide her anxiety. She was not clever at all for walking right into this mess.

Ravenclaw was not all wit beyond measure.

Levy was stunned silent as all three Slytherin girls whispered and then nodded in agreement. “You’re on, Heartfilia. I’ll be writing your eulogy.” Minerva snorted with insufferable confidence as she sauntered back to her cauldron as if she won some battle.

It had only just begun.

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