at-some-lighthouse

anonymous asked:

tell us some stories from your lighthouse job

well there was the time that i mentioned in the tags of that fart post where a tourist farted in the tower and it reverberated off the walls for a solid 3 seconds before stopping (plus i was speaking at the time and not laughing was literally the HARDEST thing ive ever had to do in my life)

there was this rock in the water that waves would keep splashing over and some tourists would think it was a whale. one guy in particular was super stoked and was cheering “there he goes again!!!! and AGAIN!! oh-HOO!!!! WOOOOO!!” and i didnt have the heart to tell him he was cheering for a rock

once a tourist came in with a blade of grass and asked us “what kind of plant is this”

there were 2 baby foxes living right behind the lighthouse and i would go visit them everyday and watch them play. heres a photoset i posted of them

NIGHT SKY WITH EXIT WOUNDS SENTENCE STARTERS.

all text taken from the poetry book night sky with exit wounds by ocean vuong.

  • ‘  in the body, where everything has a price, i was a beggar.  ‘
  • ‘  he was singing, which is why i remember it. his voice — it filled me to the core like a skeleton.  ‘
  • ‘  even my name knelt down inside me, asking to be spared.  ‘
  • ‘  it is all i remember.  ‘
  • ‘  i was alive. i didn’t know there was a better reason.  ‘
  • ‘  i lost it all with my eyes wide open.  ‘
  • ‘  do you know who i am?  ‘
  • ‘  how easily a boy in a dress the red of shut eyes vanishes beneath the sound of his own galloping.  ‘
  • ‘  i’m dreaming of a curtain of snow falling from her shoulders.  ‘
  • ‘  snow scraping against the window. snow shredded with gunfire. red sky.  ‘
  • ‘  show me how ruin makes a home out of hip bones.  ‘
  • ‘  let every river envy our mouths. let every kiss hit the body like a season.  ‘
  • ‘  if you must know anything, know that the hardest task is to live only once.  ‘
  • ‘  if we make it to shore, i will name our son after this water. i will learn to love a monster.  ‘
  • ‘  he laughs despite knowing he has ruined every beautiful thing just to prove beauty cannot change him.  ‘
  • ‘  hey! you didn’t have to go this far. why did you go so far?  ‘
  • ‘  sometimes i feel like an ampersand.  ‘
  • ‘  everyone can forget us — as long as you remember.  ‘
  • ‘  i hold the gun & wonder if an entry wound in the night would make a hole as wide as morning.  ‘
  • ‘  there’s a lighthouse. some nights you are the lighthouse, some nights the sea.  ‘
  • ‘  what this means is that i don’t know desire other than the need to be shattered & rebuilt.  ‘
  • ‘  even tomorrow you will have today.  ‘
  • ‘  you’ll never forget yourself the way god forgets his hands.  ‘
  • ‘  the body is a blade that sharpens by cutting.  ‘
  • ‘  my mother said i could be anything i wanted — but i chose to live.  ‘
  • ‘  i am ready to be every animal you leave behind.  ‘
  • ‘  and this is how we loved: a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers though my hair — my hair a wildfire.  ‘
  • ‘  when our lips touched the day closed into a coffin.  ‘
  • ‘  the year is a distance we’ve traveled in circles.  ‘
  • ‘  we made it, baby. we’re riding in the back of the black limousine.  ‘
  • ‘  i love my country. i pretend nothing is wrong.  ‘
  • ‘  i’m holding your still-hot thoughts in, darling, my sweet, sweet ___.  ‘
  • ‘  you want to tell him it’s okay that the night is also a grave we climb out of.  ‘
  • ‘  you say thank you thank you thank you because you haven’t learned the purpose of forgive me.  ‘
  • ‘  you’re so quiet you’re almost tomorrow.  ‘
  • ‘  to love another man — is to leave no one behind to forgive me. i want to leave no one behind.  ‘
  • ‘  even though he’s gone, i still want to be clean.  ‘
  • ‘  if only the rain were gasoline, your tongue a lit match, & you can change without disappearing.  ‘
  • ‘  he dies each night you close your eyes & hear his slow exhale.  ‘
  • ‘  wait, i have something to say.  ‘
  • ‘  as if my finger, tracing your collarbone behind closed doors, was enough to erase myself.  ‘
  • ‘  to forget we built this house knowing it won’t last.  ‘
  • ‘  it’s funny. i always knew i’d be warmest beside by man.  ‘
  • ‘  don’t laugh. just tell me the story again.  ‘
  • ‘  speak — until your voice is nothing but the crackle of charred bones.  ‘
  • ‘  look how happy we are to be no one & still american.  ‘
  • ‘  i’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven/  ‘
  • ‘  say you’d kill for it.  ‘
  • ‘  don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here?  ‘
  • ‘  silly me. i thought love was real and the body imaginary.  ‘
  • ‘  i said yes because you asked me to stay.  ‘
  • ‘  there is so much i want to tell you. how my greatest accolade was to walk across the brooklyn bridge & not think of flight.  ‘
  • ‘  you will always remember what you were doing when it hurts the most.  ‘
  • ‘  dearest father, forgive me for i have seen.  ‘
  • ‘  once, i fell in love during a slow-motion car crash.  ‘
  • ‘  i wrote a better hour onto the page & watched the fire take it back.  ‘
  • ‘  this means you are not alone.  ‘
  • ‘  don’t stay here. don’t cry anymore.  ‘
  • ‘  i promise to stop soon.  ‘
  • ‘  how come depression makes me feel more alive?  ‘
  • ‘  i shouldn’t have, but he had the hands of someone i used to know. someone i was used to.  ‘
  • ‘  i dreamed i walked barefoot all the way to your house in the snow. everything was the blue of smudged ink and you were still alive.  ‘
  • ‘  here. that’s all i wanted to be.  ‘
  • ‘  don’t worry. your father is only your father until one of you forgets.  ‘
  • ‘  the end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us.  ‘
  • ‘  don’t be afraid, the gunfire is only the sound of people trying to live a little longer & failing.  ‘
  • ‘  remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world.  ‘
  • ‘  the difference between prayer & mercy is how you move the tongue.  ‘
  • ‘  so what if my feathers are burning. i never asked for flight.  ‘
Pater’s Rose 2

The story continues….. 

I hope you will like it and I would be happy if you tell me what you liked or not!!! 

Lots of love 

E. xx 

The morning sun wakes me up and I smile with my eyes closed. Burying my face deeper in the white clean pillow, I open my tired eyes. I guess it’s a beautiful day waiting for me outside. And for the first time I feel excitement; what will I do today? Nothing here is compulsory, like my days in London. Looking at the alarm clock on my nightstand I am startled. 9 am. I slept very long. With a satisfied smile I fall back into the pillows and close my eyes, feeling a long missed feeling. No pressure, no expectations which I have to fulfill.

Pulling back the duvet I creep out of the bed, slipping in my expensive slippers, walking towards the window which is covered with curtains. I pull the soft rosé coloured curtains away.

The sun warms my face and my white nightgown shines bright in the light. It’s a beautiful day.

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anonymous asked:

Could you maybe draw a picture for that one Robin, Jinx, and Red X headcanon? I know you're probably really busy, but if you could, I'd be very grateful.

This one?

Anyway, instead of video games, they all hang out on some abandoned lighthouse where no one can see them together.

Jealous [Anders/Fenris]

Insp. by this post: ‘we’ve been fucking with no strings attached but i just saw you go upstairs with another guy and im drunk and following you both upstairs to punch the shit out of him’.

Wrote this a while back and finally decided to post it, since I don’t think I will ever write a second part as I originally intended. I do feel I got it to a good enough stopping point that it stands on its own though, so enjoy!

Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Anders/Fenris
Rating: PG (no actual sex, but sexual references)
Words: 1892
Content warnings: Alcohol use, jealousy/possessiveness

Fenris growled and downed another gulp of the swill Varric had placed before him earlier that eve. The dwarf had given it high praise as “the only thing actually worth paying for at The Hanged Man” (though he’d later revised his claim after Isabela reminded him that she had a room there). Perhaps Aggregio Pavali had simply ruined him for all other spirits, but Fenris honestly couldn’t tell it apart from the usual piss water they drank on card nights.

He was now three pints in and nearing physical illness, and the shit still wasn’t doing its job. Oh, he was drunk. Perhaps drunker than he’d ever been, but damned if that meant anything. He still hadn’t managed to tear his attention away from the mage. His mage. His mage leaned heavily against an attractive blond human by the hearth fire, face pink from laughter, his amber eyes wide with unmistakable desire for the man at his side.

The drink had all but reduced Fenris’ world to a dizzy swirl of colors and light, but Anders alone remained bright and in focus, like some mortal lighthouse mocking him across a rageful sea.

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anonymous asked:

hey jenba! i was wondering if you had anything planned for the 64 x 64 lot on the windenberg island? sorry if this has been answered already

Hi Anon! I can’t remember if I mentioned it, but I do have plans for it! It’s basically going to be a big park/campground with some buildings on it, like my red lighthouse and some small cabins. It’s so my Sims who want to visit the island but can’t afford to stay in one of the beach houses can have somewhere to sleep and hang out. That’s the idea, anyway! I have no idea if it will work out or not. :)

Telephone Prayers ☎

It falls, not dramatically as Icarus perhaps, but like one of his feathers caught on wind currents, indecisive where to go, weighed by wax until it sinks into the ocean. Like him, however, it is not forgotten. 

It floats up from the volcanic floor of the ocean, a strange thing Hephaestus found and tried to make something out of it. A thought, a hope, a whisper? 

When it withstands the volcanic vents, Poseidon splashes on the shore, throwing it upwards, like a swimmer exploding out of the water after holding their breath to long. The message nearly dies at the rocks after mulling and stewing and rolling in the waves for weeks, tumbled smooth. 

 Hermes catches it, however, as he glides across the water like a skipping stone. On his way up some lighthouse stairs to deliver a message he sends it out with a signal to send ships another way, and beckon weary travelers to shelter. 

 Apollo catches it riding the lighthouse beam to a rainbow to the sun glinting over the clearing storm clouds. He tends to the broken, feeble little thing, patching it up with the music of sea gull cries and wind chimes of the nearby shore. 

 Zeus picks it up where Apollo left it, resting on a wisp of a clouds he overlooks the world, and spots Hera. He sends it down to her in a sun shower that graces her fingertips, and she smiles –they have their happy moments too. 

Hera passes by Artemis in the park. They stop to talk over coffee as Artemis jogs in place while Hera reminds her to eat more vegetables in her motherly way, until her son shows up. 

Artemis holds in in the palm of her hand and when she arm wrestles Aries and beats him, he takes it. Each battle is about success as much as it is defeat, and he knows to take both honorably.

It’s exchanged in a flirt from Aries to Aphrodite. First in the eyes, where the spark sends butterflies into their stomachs like always. Then in the hands, where pinkies link in passing and it’s not a spark but warmth. 

She holds onto it, rides her bike all the way home and delivers it to Hestia with a kiss on the cheek. 

It appears to Athena as she reads by the fire in a spark of inspiration, a stray flare when Hestia pokes the hearth fire again. She rushes outside with it tumbling from her lips and a new layout for the garden.

Demeter scolds Dionysus for getting in her way, but smiles fondly. He discusses vintage and blends of various fruits as she pushes them into the ground and they spring back up. 

Dionysus is tying fairy lights around her garden trellises and tomato cages, and every cherry, every grape, every fig he pops in his mouth ferments before he swallows. When the evening festivities arrive he offers Persephone a glass of wine with juice-sticky fingers. 

Persephone drinks six sips and discusses it over with Morpheus as he drops by. 6 o'clock she decides to walk home and her friend joins her. She talks at length, dominating the conversation as she does everything. 

Morpheus winds it back into a neat little package, translated into a dream where it is more detailed and vague than ever before. The dreamer dies in his sleep and Morpheus meets up with Hades as he does every night, and they talk long hours into the night until Persephone rises to visit her mother again. 

The ever dutiful Hades measures it ten times over in every dimension. The eternal account, he records it all in his neat and precise order, and files it away, because it has already been answered. These things are rarely mishandled in his care, not with so many hands holding it.

geniusflirt  asked:

‘ there’s a lighthouse. some nights you are the lighthouse, some nights the sea. ‘

NIGHT SKY WITH EXIT WOUNDS  //  I DON’T KNOW  /  DESIRE OTHER THAN THE NEED  /  TO BE SHATTERED & REBUILT.

there is a lighthouse, and sometimes he can see it, in the distance, calling to him. the night air sings, the way the waves wash against rock and recede, the soft ambiance of it. he closes his eyes and imagines :  when he was young, his father would drive them all the way to the sea, and jim would stand on the highest rock and watch the waves come in. he only remembers the terror they instilled in him, their raw and wild power, and the wonder :  what would he find, if he were to probe their depths ?  if he were to take a boat so far he could no longer see land ?

he watches films where the heroes find themselves at the edge of a storm, the waters choppy and desperate and endless, where saltwater seeps through the door and into the cabin, and he spends the whole film with his knees tucked to his chin, shaking, the horror of the situation so real to him.

and still, when the storm has worn them out, has tossed them shivering and shouting upon a rocky shore, there is a light calling them home.

look.

some nights the fog falls thick and heavy across the sea, and all light dilutes. he can’t see his hands when he holds them up before him. sometimes he is swimming in the cold surf, dark and ravenous around him, his legs straining, his body shuddering beneath the waves, and he is forgotten in the swell of it. sometimes he is the voice, calling you home. sometimes he is a hand stretched down into the dark, into the sea, and sometimes there are fingers that reach up to grasp him. he is a lifeline, and he almost feels okay.

look. 

some nights he is the ocean and some nights he is tumbled, tossed frantic through the dark. some nights he holds his cell phone on his bed, its florescence blinding, and stares at tony’s number. with his mother asleep, the air so still he can hear her breathing if he steps out into the hallway, he is left alone with the worst of him. he is nothing but the worst of him.

some nights he presses  ‘ call, ’  and it rings and rings, the sound cacophonous in the dark and silent house. it sounds like the world falling apart, and he hunches his shoulders against it, but he presses the phone against his ear with shaking hands. for he sleeps and nightmares swallow him, visions of great crystals growing out of the soil, fitting themselves together into the shape of a goliath. he sleeps and he sees his mother and toby caught on the other side of a widening chasm, sees them slip and plummet.

he wakes and finds all the lights off in toby’s house across the cul-de-sac. he wakes and tiptoes down the hall; he stumbles through the dark of his mother’s room to check her pulse. alive, alive, unconquerable. alive.

on nights like this, where the dreams devoured him and he woke sweat-drenched, he lays shuddering beneath his covers, terribly awake, and doesn’t know who to turn to lest he worry someone who he loves. on nights like this, where the empty house echoes around him, he takes out his phone. he listens to tony’s voice in the static of his voicemail message, so warm and so alive, and takes comfort in it. jim holds it close and it is almost as if he is not alone in this hollow house where still a ghost walks the halls, a hazy father-shape that mingles with jim’s nightmares.

he just needs to hear that he is not alone, that another soul is breathing.

and some nights, some nights tony answers. 

jim spreads out on his bed, relief easing his body, keeps his voice careful and soft when he speaks. he says,  “ i guess that makes sense, as some kind of metaphor. ”

he says,  “ look, can you just– talk to me ?  i mean keep talking to me. i mean, thanks for picking up the phone. ”

he doesn’t say :  tonight, you are the lighthouse. you are that blinding warmth, calling me home. thank you, thank you, thank you.

anyone remember this kids show that had uhhhhh this kid living in like a lighthouse with some aliens or monsters or something? i forgot what its called but i just remembered about it and i just want to Know What It Is

essahe  asked:

May I ask if you have any advice/tips for a novice builder in ts4? I find myself more often than not frustrated and shutting down the game because I seem to supersize things or make a box. I'm deeply sorry for bothering you with this. Thank you for sharing all your wonderful builds and cc with us and I hope you have an amazing day.

Building is quite unique in a way, as people don’t always do it the same. Some build by room, others build the facade and then add rooms later. I generally do both depending on what I want to achieve so I can see what I give you in the way of tips. There may be other ways, but this is the two I am comfortable with.

I will put it under a read more since it got long.

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She would die like some bird in a frost gripping her perch. She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable  — […] — this interminable life.
—  Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway