center road

I made friends with a lady-vulture at the World Center for Birds of Prey in Boise. She was stolen from her nest in the wild and raised with people who had no idea how to properly provide for her care. She has imprinted on humans as a result and cannot be released. What a darling little ham she is! If there weren’t bars and a window on her enclosure she probably would have snuggled right up to me. <3

He calls you late at night, and you can’t help holding your breath, waiting for a drunk confession of love, because this must be the time that daydreams become reality.
His voice is barely an exhale, but you hear every syllable because that’s how you always listen to him: so very closely. “Can you come pick me up?” It’s slurred, though his voice is just a whisper.
He’s drunk, but he isn’t in love.
So you slip out of your house, and you start the car, easily agreeing because it’s him. It’s him and it’s him and it’s him, and that is any and every excuse you’ll ever need. Street lights pass in a blur as you get closer and closer to him, and you don’t know why it’s always like this—why does every road and every map lead to this boy?
You like to think that it’s fate.
Your road ends where it always begins, and you stop in front of a bright house in the dark night, and various bottles and different people are scattered across the lawn, and there he is, walking toward you, and he’s drunk and he’s exhausted and he looks like hell, but it’s him—it’s him and it’s him and it’s him. He gets into the car, and he slumps in the passenger seat, and you want to say something—you want him to say something—but silence swallows you whole as you start the car and pull away from the curb.
And you drive, and you drive, and you try to focus on the yellow lines in the center of the road rather than his ragged breathing or your erratic heartbeat, but the lines are blurred and your heart won’t still.
Finally, he mumbles something, and you wish that you didn’t hang on to every word he says. You wish that this wasn’t fate’s plan because this is not the ending you’d always dreamed of. You wish that you weren’t listening close enough to hear him say her name, to hear him mumble, “She’s beautiful, and I don’t fucking deserve her, but god, I wish I did.”
Because he’s drunk, and he’s in love. He’s just not in love with you.
—  H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #42

Some schoolkids might be happy if their school were knocked down.

Not in Nairobi.

On May 15, a group of primary school students sat at desks in the center of a main road to block traffic. Along with their parents, they were protesting the demolition of their school, the Kenyatta Golf Course Academy, over the weekend.

According to a BBC article, the schoolchildren chanted: “We want our school, we need to study in school.”

The reason for the demolition was a bit hard to pin down. Foreign Policy writes: “It appears the school was destroyed without any prior warning to parents — who had already paid their children’s tuition for the year. The school was on land that belonged to a church, and the school was destroyed without warning on Saturday over a land dispute, though exact details of the dispute weren’t made immediately clear.”

Why Are Kids Sitting At Their Desks In The Middle Of The Road?

Photo: Moses Muoki/Kenya’s Capital News

Did You Miss Me?

Originally posted by ourfearlessnightingale

This theory is going to work against most of my ‘A’ or ‘A.D’ theories but…. I think that Alison Lauren DiLaurentis might be ‘A’ this time. (or ‘A’ all of the time)

————————————————————————————–

Since the summer finale I can’t stop thinking about how Spencer literally risked her life for Ali and how she has ALWAYS protected her. In every scene that ‘A’ has targeted Ali and the Liars together, Spencer stands in front with her arms and body shielding Alison. It’s her natural instinct. 

Funny enough, it’s actually all of the Liars natural instinct, to protect Ali before themselves. Why is that? Because Alison conditioned them to protect her at all costs. 

She knew that if she was ever in danger and asked for their help that they would run to her rescue. Even if she were crying wolf… even if she were lying… 

And ever since then (with the exception of when they let her get arrested for Mona’s murder) they have never once let Ali down. She ensured that. She played them like they were dolls… or puppets. Just like ‘A’. 


Ali’s puppets. 


A’s dollhouse.

Why didn’t ‘A’ capture Alison if she is their favorite doll? Is Alison the ultimate puppet-master? 

Jenna even gives the audience a little foreshadowing before the doll house and reminds us all that the Liars have always been Alison’s puppets. 

“Like they were her dolls…”


“We’re coming full-circle on this show.” -Marlene King

Back in the pilot episode after Aria gets the very first ‘A’ message she automatically assumes it’s Ali. And she’s not the only one..

In fact, Emily and Aria both admit to each other that they think ‘A’ is Ali. How could it be anybody else, right? Alison is the only one they told their secrets to. “Friends share secrets, it’s what keeps us close.”


It’s been right in front of us this whole time and we chose to not see it. We chose to see Alison as a victim based off of what we have learned about her and her family, but that doesn’t excuse her actions. It doesn’t change her past.

The Liars only dismissed Alison as an ‘A’ suspect after the police found her “remains” buried in her backyard. It was a perfectly well thought out plan, don’t you think? ‘A’ sends the Liars their first message and then Alison’s body is mysteriously found and she’s declared dead, making her appear as a victim rather than a suspect. Classic ‘A’ move. Classic chess move. Check.

Alison being ‘A’ would make things come full-circle.

It would tie the Liars into the plot and it would explain how ‘A’ has always been one step ahead. Alison knows the Liars better than they know themselves and it wouldn’t have been hard for her to anticipate their next move. She is who the Liars thought was ‘A’ in the very beginning and how ironic that ‘A’ now goes by ‘A.D’, Alison’s initials. 

This show is centered around Alison. 

All roads lead back to the DiLaurentis house.

All roads lead back to Ali.

Originally posted by infinifi

Hey @mywaay I love your Road to El Dorado AU

Can you tell what's wrong with this picture?

I’ve framed the photo. It sits in my cubicle in the same spot it has occupied for the last two years. It’s a reminder for me to work harder. A reminder of all the pain that was caused by moving too slow.

Seventeen kids went missing that summer. Snatched from their bedrooms without a trace of who had done it. This case cut deeper than any I worked on before. Every day another parent would come to me and ask “why haven’t you found my baby yet?” And I would have to say “I’m trying. I promise.” After the sixteenth disappearance, we got a photo in the mail. There was writing on the back. Two words.

“clocks ticking”

If you didn’t know better, you might think the picture was kind of beautiful. It’s of an old gravel road that winds delicately up a hill. The picture is taken from the middle of the street, the lens aiming up its path. One side of the road is lined by a patch of bright autumn leaves that look like they’ve recently fallen. The leaves are matted down slightly, as if by a heavy rain. In the center of the road there is a small basket. The camera is angled so you can’t see inside of it. On either side of the road there are gigantic pine trees that cast crisscrossing, haunting shadows.

Our department was able to find this location but there was no evidence. No basket in the street. Nothing in the woods. They dismissed as a false lead, but something about the photo got to me. I kept it on my desk for the next year, just trying to figure out what it meant. All I wanted was to tell those parents what happened to their kids.

There was just something off about the picture. Something that felt really unnatural about it. I thought about it all the time. The basket. The leaves. The pine trees. Then one day it clicked. Fallen leaves and pine trees. Pine trees don’t have leaves. They have needles. Needles don’t turn those colors and they don’t fall off in the fall. The pile of leaves wasn’t natural.

After a year of staring at the picture, a year of telling parents that I couldn’t find their kids – I finally figured it out. I dug a hole where the leaves were in the photo. There was a basket buried underneath the dirt. It held a child’s skull. Dental records matched it to Michael Blasters. One of the children who had gone missing.

I ordered an excavation of the area. The other kids were buried nearby.

Only one complete skeleton was found. It was a child that disappeared only a few days before we got the photo. Unlike the rest, her body was in a coffin.

There was a note pinned to the front of her dress. The same handwriting as the photo.

“48 hours of air – you could have saved her.”

The Offer

my writing group does exercises based on a random prompt every monday. today, our prompt was “why are you lying to me?”  

this was what i came up with.



He finds her not at the Crossroads, nor the Arbor Wilds, nor anywhere else that he’s set his gentle traps to ensnare the army he needs.  The effort to locate this single elf is more draining than a god could ever admit.  She’s made him work for her, walk the lowest streets for her, beg and beguile for scraps of information about her.  And when he finally catches up to her, on the Imperial Highway outside of Minrathous, Solas is half furious.  

It’s too warm for fur and armor, so he conjures humble robes and a gnarled walking stick and dresses his expression to match.  Before he can speak, before he’s made himself known, she turns in the center of the wide road like she’s been hailed by a friend.  Upon seeing him there, however, her mouth twists into a sour smile.

A folk hero should not be so elusive, he thinks, or so indifferent.  Given the reverence with which the other elves speak of her, he half expects the woman to be crowned with white horns, borne on a litter of gilded ivy, and followed by a retinue of purposeful, sop-eyed worshippers.  

Instead, she is alone.  Filthy from the knees down.  Her bare feet darkened by weeks of highway travel.  They are, he notes, the only dark things about her.  In every other way, both physical and magical, she’s radiant.  If the Veil were gone, if the world was as it should be, Merrill would stand beloved as a champion, attended by a blinding array of spirits.  

It is that world he intends to offer her.

As he approaches, preparing a warm smile, she shakes her head.  Solas stops short, baffled.

“Please don’t,” she says, her voice soft and brusque with exhaustion.  She flaps a small hand in the direction of the distant city.  “I’ve such a long way to go.”

Solas cocks his head.

“It’s because you’ve come so far that I am here.”  He squares himself before her, dropping most of the pretense.  Slowly, he extends a hand, one he prefers she take willingly.  “And you know there are easier ways to travel.”

“You’re a slow arrow,” she says, mirroring the tilt of his head. For a moment, her eyes close as if lulled by song, but when they open again Solas is wracked by a swift chill.  “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who remembers that.”

Dust coats her rough braids, her vallaslin snarls beneath sunburnt skin, and where she grips her staff Solas sees that her blood-lacquered nails are chipped.  She will not go easily.  More than that, she will hurt him if she has to.  Already, he senses the entropy gathering around her, hungry, coiled beneath the stone and dirt.  Monstrous, too, are the voices beyond the Veil that threaten him on her behalf.  She will hurt him, if she wants to.

“And so you seek allies in a pit of vipers?” Solas muses as his eyes drift to the city, shrouded in a pale haze.

“Not really.”  Merrill shrugs, but her gaze remains cold.  All the sweetness within her begins to harden.

Solas loses the patience that’s been gradually shredded during his search for this particular elf.  

He snaps, “Why are you lying to me?”

She becomes contrite as the offense she’s caused dawns on her.  Eyes fluttering wide, Merrill closes the distance between them.  A blazing thrum follows with her, that of magic and power, that which could be used against him.  But as she touches his arm, Solas is enraptured by her bright sincerity, those voices from beyond that cannot help but recommend her, and he dismisses the idea that she’s capable of more than this.  This dogged, mortal belief in a better world for all.

“Oh, ma’abelas, I was only being respectful!” she gushes up at him.

Her words patter against him, rapid as Spring rain, distracting him from the intensity of her tiny grip.

“You see, a very good friend, a very old friend, once told me that lies were the only language you understood. She was so awfully wise, you know. So kind to us, in her way.”  

Merrill’s voice keeps its affable lilt, even as her eyes turn Void black, and her fingers become talons, and…late, too late… Solas senses the slavering ground beneath him open like the jaws of a Titan.  

“And you killed her.”

In A Moment Ch. 5

An Avengers Series

Character Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 1482

Warnings: Action, mild violence, swearing and some fluff.

A/N: Time for a different kind of action… the non smut variety.

Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four   

Originally posted by its-wicked-stuff

 

Steve slowly came awake to the sound of boots outside of the motel room door. Heavy footsteps like those could only be made by combat boots. Steve turned his head on the pillow. You were still sound asleep between him and Bucky. Your hair was over your face and your leg was thrown over his thighs. Steve looked past you to Bucky. His eyes were also open, looking at Steve. He had heard the boots too.

More sets of footsteps had joined the first.

Time to go,” Steve mouthed to Bucky. He slid out from underneath you and started pulling on his clothes. He bent down and threw yours on the bed as Bucky was waking you up. Whatever Bucky had said to you in your ear, startled you awake. You sat up quickly, pushing your hair out of your face. You scrambled out of bed as quietly as possible and pulled your own clothes on. Bucky was doing the same as you went over to your backpack and searched for the gas grenades you had stashed in the side pocket. You pulled two out and held them up to Steve and Bucky. Both nodded their heads in approval.

Bucky threw everything he could find that belonged to the three of you in his backpack and put it on. Steve picked up his shield and motioned for you to peak out the curtain.

You leaned up and peered through the slight opening down the middle. It was still dark outside but you could make out the men standing around the door. You lifted your hand up, showing the number five. Then, made a gun out of your thumb and index fingers.

Keep reading

syauska  asked:

As someone who's only familiar with your more plaguelike alter ego novels, where would a good place be to start the REAL McGuire's books? I saw that there are two good-length series and a smattering of trilogies and duologies, but... I wouldn't want to start a sequel or spinoff series instead of a root, or something. you know?

Well!

Rosemary and Rue was my first book, and is the start of my longest series, the October Daye novels (to give you an idea of “how long,” #11 comes out in September).  They’re urban fantasy about a half-fae private investigator who is very tenacious and very bad at her job.  If you like this book, it unlocks a long and ongoing series.  If you don’t like it, you know that I only improve from here.

Discount Armageddon is the start of my second longest series, InCryptid, about cryptozoologists trying to keep the monsters of the world safe from humanity.  It’s sort of Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets Sanctuary by way of Xena Warrior Princess, and I love them so much, I can’t even.  They change narrators every few volumes, as different members of the family get their turns at center stage.

Sparrow Hill Road is InCryptid-adjacent, but doesn’t require reading the main series.

Indexing and Indexing: Reflections are their own thing, as are the Wayward Children books.

Hope this helps!