first it was the feather extender

The Hunder Enters The Forest

A fecund chance.

Amazed, you venture an unfabricated labyrinth.

Needle carpeted pathways

twisting in and out of tangled

shade.  Groping in patterns

or chaos. Chirp. Snap. Whirr.

Chatter. Silence opens now and again.

A bluejay feather snared in bramble.

A hollow wasp in a web of threads.

Jabbing crow cries.

 A stream continually spilling over

stationary stones, coaxing loose

debris, fallen leaves, clods.

Something rushes in brush and dry leaves.

Four legs. Fur. Black eyes.  Active nostrils

sniffing threat or the stink of fear.

You stand still, holding the  

motionlessness for three hours.

                            First hour: drumming

back the thumping ennui.

                            Second hour: fighting the pain

of holding still.

                            Third hour: inside you see

a diving board extending

over a pool of fog.

You plunge through pain

into the encompassing

blessing of stillness.

Without sound or will, you ever so

slowly lean and reach into the dark

     clutter of leaves and pull out a throbbing

chip monk. Its squeal peels the silence.

              You admire each stripe

on its back and the feel of tiny paws on the deck

of your open hands.  You lower the platform.

The beast leaps and disappears.

The hunter exits the forest.


© Scott Thompson

anonymous asked:

What is you opinion of Safari LTD's line of feathered non-avian dinosaur toys?

I like them a lot! There’s some room to grow though

The coloration if off from what we know now but the Psittacosaurus is still quite excellent 

A FEATHERED COELOPHYSIS?! YAS Very good, no accuracy complaints really

Very good, shaggy arms, great Duck Satan

HOLY FUCK yes good 

… *sigh* I appreciate that they’re feathered, and that Microraptor is accurately colored, but the hands

The feathers should extend to the first finger on both (so no fingers should be totally scaly) and frankly I’d like to see fewer palms in raptors (not that the hands showing on the inside is impossible, but it’s become a meme when there isn’t evidence for it, it could just have easily been totally feathered on the inside as well). 

So overall a solid A- score

Edit: Also as far as I could see none of them have pronated hands which might bump the score to an A O_O

Wings of Midnight Black

Dean had to stop to catch his breath.

Castiel wasn’t even aware that he’d entered the room which was surprising, but provided an amazing opportunity.

The enormous wings fluttered slightly as Cas rubbed a cotton cloth over them. He paused slightly and used his long fingers to ruffle through a few inky black feathers to pluck out an unattached piece of down.

Dean had never seen them before. He’d seen the shadows and the general shape of them, but never the real things. They were magnificent. When Cas moved their surfaces
seemed to shimmer and sparkle, even under the dim light. Dean had never thought it would be possible for something to look so damn beautiful.

Suddenly Cas’ head snapped up. His eyes flashed with embarrassment momentarily. “Dean. I did not hear you come in. Just a moment,” he stammered as he began to fold the wings in and put them away.

“No! No, don’t mind me!” Dean stammered. He didn’t want Cas to put them away. Not yet.

Cas looked at him with those ocean blue eyes. “Well. I was only just starting…” he muttered more to himself than to the hunter sitting on the opposite bed.

Dean grabbed the leather-bound journal from the edge of the nightstand and pretended to read while Cas resumed his grooming.

As soon as Cas was once again occupied, Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. Cas dipped the cloth in a bowl of water on the edge of the table and softly ran it down each individual feather of every layer, pausing to clean the cloth every once in a while. His concentration was incredibly intense, and he made sure that not a single inch of the appendage was missed. After Cas finished cleaning them, he ruffled them softly with a hand on either side, getting any loose down feathers out while simultaneously fluffing the wing so that it would dry.

Dean had stopped pretending to read for quite some time now, and openly stared as the angel preened.

Cas eventually noticed. Confusion flitted over his features. “What is it?”

Dean flushed red. “What? Oh. Nothing.”

The man tilted his head slightly, as if he knew Dean wasn’t fully telling the truth.

Keep reading

Outlast  Joker x Reader  Part 1

A/N: Sorry for not posting much, I’ve been very sick and just didn’t have the energy to write but this is a new series I wanted to start, if people like it. The reader is a introverted reporter from home and writes stories that she posts on a website. I was eventually thinking of turning this into an Outlast crossover, and if any of you have played that game you’ll see how that would be an exciting twist. Anyway, this is how she met J, and then if people like it I’ll continue it into the story of Outlast, of course adding my own twists. 

Warnings: Like, one swear word

Y/N looked at the club, the Smile and Grin. There was no going back, and it’s not the first story she would do that would almost get her killed. It is, however, the first that would score her a psychopathic boyfriend. She walked in, immediately feeling overdressed as she took in her surroundings. It took her awhile to spot him since he was behind beads, staring directly at her. Y/N immediately turned away, trying and failing to act natural. She discreetly looked back, only to see him still looking at her. She awkwardly turned around again, bumping into people.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She yelled while they gave her dirty looks. While making her way over to the bar she tried to be casual as she checked behind her again. He wasn’t looking this time. ‘Thank God.’ She could hear his famous laugh from over here and she smiled. ‘So close’. Now she just had to get him to answer some questions. She nearly spit out her drink when he stood up, his men leading him and some guy, whom Joker had wrapped his arm around, to a back room. The guy looked uncomfortable from here. Taking a quick gulp of her drink, she got out of her seat and followed. Before the door could shut, she tried to dart inside managing to get half her body in.

“Ow.” She squeezed herself in and noticed it was a hallway with 5 or 6 doors. “Crap.”

“The boss has him?”

“Yeah, right this way.”

“Crap!” Y/N heard voices coming closer and went to the nearest door, keeping her eyes on the hallway where the voices were. Her heart was pounding, her lungs ready to collapse as her eyes expected to see them come around the corner. She got the door open somewhat quietly and backed in, slowly easing the door shut. She let out a sigh of relief, turning around only to scream as she saw the Joker removing the veins of the unfortunate man. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she passed out. J and his henchmen continued to stare at her. J’s forehead creased as they all looked at each other, not really knowing what to do. Then Y/N gasped and sat up. Before she could run, two henchmen grabbed her arms, holding her in place. J’s smile grew larger.

“Well look what we have here. My shadow. You’re that reporter, aren’t you? The one that’s been nipping at my heels?” She glanced to the side.

“Um, hi?” J laughed, amused at her discomfort.

“Hi.” He drawed out playfully.

“So, um, I’m sorry. I, uh, was looking for the bathroom and I just got lost. Really. So, uh, it would be cool if you’d, y’know, let me go? Y’know, if you want. It’s up to you.” She gulped, her voice trembling throughout the whole thing.

“It’d be cool?”

“Y-yeah. I really like you by the way. I’m a big fan.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, totally.” J smiled, more like baring his teeth, as she shut her eyes in fear. The two men holding her were twice her size, their whole hands enclosed around her shoulders. J wheezed, the laugh catching in his throat and drawing out, creating an awkward and tense atmosphere for everyone but him. Like it was a casual everyday thing. He dumped the guy out of the chair. He’d be upset that his toy died so soon if he didn’t already have another waiting for him.

“Come! Sit dear, I’ll answer all of your questions.” Y/N, too gullible and curious for her own good, perked up.

“Really?”

“Of course, sit.” She sat in the chair, clearing her throat sightly. J extended his hand and sighed,  waiting for the feather light kiss. Y/N, who wasn’t used to dealing with people whatsoever, gave a surprised little, “Oh!” and grabbed his hand, shaking it up and down. J opened his eyes and looked from his hand to her. She smiled, thinking she had a chance of surviving if he was being so nice.

“So first question.” J looked at her in surprise. She can’t be serious. Apparently she was, because she pulled out a crumpled list with chicken scratch handwriting, and cleared her throat.

“Full name, please?”

“….Joker.” J stated reluctantly and Y/N scribbled away. His eyes met Frost’s, who just shrugged.

“Eh-hem. Hello Mr. Joker. I’m Y/N L/N. Next question…um, let’s see. Do you see yourself as a pariah? To Gotham of course.” She spoke in a weatherman tone, fake politeness and drawn out syllables. Then she leaned in with a giggle, and said in her normal tone,

“Sorry, I’m excited. It’s my first time interviewing someone in person. And if you haven’t noticed I’m pretty shy-” J closed his eyes, bored with her rambling.

“Got it, got it, got it.”

“Do you want me to ask the next question?”

“Why the hell aren’t you scared?”

“Well, why would I be? I mean you’re being so polite even though I know you have a hard time talking to people-” J raised his eyebrows. “-just like me! You just handle it in a more, uh, extreme way.”

“Where do you plan on publishing this?”

“Oh! I have a website-”

“Ok, doll. I’ll make you a deal. Quit your job, don’t publish the, ‘interview’ and you can work for me.”

Y/N blinked, a smile forming on her face.

“Really?” This time J blinked.

“Isn’t that what I just said-”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!!” She wrapped her arms around him, making him grab ahold of something to keep himself upright. She pulled away, the light in her eyes undoubtable. J wasn’t sure if he was just messing with her or not, but what the hell. She certainly was ambitious enough.

“So what am I doing? You want me to write stories for you? I already have plenty of topics to choose from.” She pulled more paper out of her pocket. J wrapped an arm around her, leading her out. He breathed in, opening his mouth as if he was about to say yes.

“No. You’ll be doing something else.”

“Oh. Like what?”

“I take it that you can keep up with things, right? Schedule my meetings, like a receptionist.”

“Oh, I’m not very good at keeping up with things.” J rolled his eyes as she bent down to pick up the paper that fell out of her pocket.

“If you’re not up to it, go back to the chair.” He thought it was pretty obvious that he would kill her if she refused to take the job, but she didn’t catch on and turned towards the chair.

“No.”

“But you said-”

“No. You’re taking the job, or I’ll kill you.”

“Oh. I thought the interview went well-”

“That’s why you have the- Jesus Christ, never mind. The old receptionist left a list of my meetings. Keep up with them, it’s your job to remind me.”

“Old receptionist?” J rolled his eyes for the hundredth time that night. Did she have to question everything he said?

“Last time I checked you don’t need a tongue to do this job. Keep talking, and you’ll lose yours.”

“But you said it’s my job to remind you-” One look alone shut her up.

……

J  decided to keep Y/N around after debating whether or not he should kill her. She was right- she wasn’t good at keeping up with things. Once he found several crime bosses at his door and found out she had scheduled 10 meetings at the same time. Apparently she told one to come the next day so he came a day early. Even though she still screwed up, she claimed it was his fault that he couldn’t follow instructions. The crime boss apologized when she started crying, and J told them all to just leave.

“What the hell was that, Y/N?”

“I told you I’m not good at working with people.” She sobbed.

Since she was amusing, he decided to keep her. Later that evening as an apology she baked him dark chocolate chip cookies. They were shoved in his face as he looked over his plans.

“Looks good-” His mouth dropped open when when he saw her appearance. About ¾ of her was covered in chocolate batter.

“Did a bomb go off in the kitchen?”

“No.” She whined. “I forgot to put the lid on the blender.”

J sputtered for a second, letting it sink in.

“You don’t need a blender to make cookie batter.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She looked so defeated so he took a bite of the cookies. They tasted undercooked but he made an unconvincing, “Hmmm.” anyway. He rolled his eyes when he saw her tears.

“I just wanted to make you happy.” She covered her eyes with her hands as she sobbed.

“Doll-” She sobbed louder, making him sigh and stand up. He walked around his desk and patted her back, not knowing how to comfort her. She walked into his chest, apparently taking it as an invitation, and he rolled his eyes. The smell of the cookies made him hungry, and he looked down at her. He pried her hands away from her face, and then pulled her up to his height just to lick her face.

“Still good.” He shrugged and continued licking her face, cleaning her like a cat while she pouted.

“Hey boss-” Frost walked in, stopping when he saw J’s tongue on Y/N’s tear-stained cheek.

“What?”

“…Never mind. It can wait.” He walked out, and J shrugged, going back to licking off the chocolate. After it was mostly all gone he pulled away, taking in her appearance. Messy hair, tearstained cheeks, a childlike pout on her face, but still pretty.

“Fuck it.” He said and kissed her.

you don’t tell your father why you love the sun when he asks. you don’t offer a comforting false promise when he tells you the infatuation isn’t healthy. the gods don’t love us, he says, the gods use us for play things. you don’t listen.

you don’t tell your father about the burnt prints along your shoulders when he asks. the skin will be too sensitive for the wax, he says; the heat won’t compare, is the reply you think.

he visits the night before your flight. the god. he lights the balcony like a flare and your eyelids burn red, before flickering open. he is lit faintly within the workshop, admiring your father’s work, making the gold glint, then turning to you, still admiring his work, eyes scoring your muscles. he approaches you as you sit upright, brushes hot fingers along the bow of your lip and your eyes flutter shut as he whispers a request before disappearing and your feel his heat on your lip till the morning.

the heat of the wax feels like nothing, as you predicted. but the feathers are something entirely new, ivory and light and long, you feel true to yourself and freedom and longing fill your lungs. your father gives precautions but who are you to listen, you have a request to fulfill.

bare feet on the balcony are barely and inhibition before you leap to the sky, winds carrying your wings as your father’s warning disappear in the air. he is clumsy behind you when you turn, too cautious and uncertain but you soar and feel real for the first time. to dip low, wing tips slicing through the waves before cutting the air upwards, through the clouds and a hand extends to you with a warm loving smile following. but you don’t feel the heat of the wax running down your back, the feathers loosing as your fingers brush the god’s and you descend. you call for him to find you and the ocean catches you in her cradle.

—  now go and look for me in asphodel. you have a request to fulfill. // apollo’s request m.g.
Gentle

Just something I came up with while on my trip.

Ocarina of Time Zelink. No connections to any of the other stories I’ve written. Just a oneshot. 

Without a doubt, Zelda mused, Link was most ardently a gentleman. And not the manipulative type that was seen at court, nor the ambivalent type where a man treaded the boundary of living up to his noble station and being an outright brute when his temperament took control. Link was gentle in the most congenial of forms. 

Keep reading

on the wings

SUMMARY: Sometimes, we can discover bravery within ourselves when somebody weaker needs help. If you think you didn’t get a miracle, become one for someone else.

WORD COUNT: 4220;

WARNINGS: none.

PAIRING: Amimagus!Reader x Credence Barebone

A/N: this idea struck me when I was sitting without internet after six hours of studying a goddamn atomic physics, reading some Credence fanfiction. I got inspired by this drabble, so check it out. I hope that @credencebarebonebby​ won’t be mad at me, ‘cause their writing is amazing. Hope it was worth it. I’m planning on doing Part 2, with more fluff.


Originally posted by creek-nymph

Keep reading

Dark Orchid: The Misborn

“Unfortuneant. As one scampers through the colony they may come across incarnations of failure. These mangled messes of humanity were destined to be as the other victims of the Presence, but instead they were abandoned, aborted from their chrysalis as unfinished sculptures of meat. Their skin is tender as a newborn’s, but darkened by broken veins. Rubbery bones twist and collpase, rib cage extendeds forth, protruding the flesh as one would pitch a tent. Muscle and sinew stretch and feather, much of the strands left exposed and frayed, unknitted from the limb it was meant to be.

Most of the Misborn died in the first days of the Orchid’s influence, but some still cling to life, moaning and sobbing of  their condition. Others are envious of all, dragging themselves towards any sign of life, attempting to kill out of frustration or simply because they are too afraid to commit suicide. It is reccomend to put them out of their misery, though a scrambled nervous system denies them a quick death.”

@qadmonster

Strangepath Ficlet

Because after watching Doctor Strange three times, it needed to be done. Thanks to @fragile-teacup for taking a look at it!


Kaecilius, the man had said. What a strange name.

His yellow outfit stood out in the plain, wood-panelled room that was Cal’s office – a stark contrast that looked straight out of a Kung Fu movie. But that was not the most eerie thing about him. His eyes were. Not the color – a warm amber tone, serious, yet soft – no, it was the skin around them. Some of it was simply gone, leaving a dark membrane in its stead, black and blue and pink like space itself. The remaining skin looked cracked, or dried up maybe, like curd too long out of the fridge. Green, almost like snake scales. He looked otherworldly, as if he had seen something forbidden.

Cal felt safe next to him.

He had cried for help and help had come. He had doubted; he had lost hope in the Light. He had been drunk for much of the past few days, but he knew this was real. Someone had been sent to guide him through the darkest of times, to help him ascend further.

The stranger strolled around the room, looking out the window or at random pieces of paper, before he stopped behind Cal’s desk in front of the wooden eye. He examined it with a frown. The red symbol on his forehead crinkled.

»The Third Eye? Or the Eye of Agamotto?« he asked.

»The what of what?«

Kaecilius turned to look at him. There was an energy about him – a sparkle in the brown of his eyes that spoke of deep wisdom. He stepped closer.

»You have the eye as your symbol and yet you see nothing.«

»I have strayed from the righteous path,« Cal admitted. »But I wish to understand. I wish to reach the Garden.«

»Then you shall.«

Kaecilius extended a hand and touched Cal’s forehead. Something happened and at first Cal thought it was the touch itself that provoked the reaction of his body. His belly fluttered; he felt light as a feather, detached from his physical limitations. As if Kaecilius and he had a special sort of connection. But then he realized that it was something else entirely – that he was literally floating in the air, away from his body. He saw himself fall in slow motion.

»Your mind is open to the vastness of space, but your head filled with wrong ideas, crafted by human hand.« Kaecilius’ voice rang in his head and his words were like a melody, drawing Cal in.

He was pushed back, or so it felt, and suddenly he found himself rushing through open space, his body left behind in Upstate New York. Cal screamed and cried and spun round and round; left the earth, flew toward the moon, further still, into the galaxy. No ladder to hold on to. He saw colors and shapes, inconceivable pictures that extended everything he had ever thought possible. A hidden door opened in his mind and he felt knowledge flood him like ocean waves. And at the end of it all, there was no light – there was darkness.

Cal had led so many into the Light. Prisoners, caught in their limited versions of reality. And now his situation was the very same. In the back of his head, Plato asked if he would condemn Kaecilius as Satan himself, accuse him of lying and retreat back into the cave.

Another touch and he was brought back into reality. Cal was on his knees in front of Kaecilius – his body had hit the floor without his presence. His own body felt like a prison now, strange and ill-fitting like a pair of shoes that had become too small. Kaecilius thumbed his cheek, wiping away the tears that were falling silently from his eyes in astonished wonder.

»See?« he asked.

His touch felt grounding. Cal never wanted it to end. He looked up at the stranger and swore allegiance right there.

»Yes.«

What does Mary Morstan even do in the books?

NB: People argue that the Doctor’s marriage (at least one; to Miss Mary Morstan) is canon.

For the sake of this argument, it has to be assumed Holmes and Watson were two real people and Sir ACD merely their editor.

(The cases are sorted chronologically, by the way.)



The Noble Bachelor, 1887

It is set in 1887, but it is supposed to be “a few weeks” before Watson’s marriage. Either Watson was married before Mary Morstan, but that would mean that he married this potential wife in 1887, that she died in the course of that year, and that Watson remarries in early 1889 after meeting Mary in 1888. Which does not sound too logical. Or somebody just got the dates wrong (by no means unlikely, this is Watson writing). Still, it does not really “do” for a husband to forget the year in which he was married…


The Five Orange Pips, 1887

My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

First, wrong year again. Secondly, the reason why Mary came to Holmes for help was that she was orphaned and thus alone in the world. So Watson does not only forget his wedding date, but his wife’s family relations as well. Or Mary tricks him into thinking that she is visiting a nonexistent mother and is instead having an affair. Which, again, shows how much Watson was paying attention (not): if it is an excuse, it is possibly the worst I have ever heard. Or Mary does not exist at all and Watson just invented a wife when he needed to remind the readers that he was married. Anyway, this does not bode well for Mary’s importance.


The Sign of Four, 1888

Mary Morstan, an orphan, first appears in The Sign of Four, where she is introduced as a client. She has lost her father in 1878 and is now appealing to Holmes’s help. In the course of the case, Mary looses a treasure she had claims on, but gains a husband instead; Watson almost immediately proposes to her.

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature.

After the first interview:

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor — her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father’s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now — a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience.

Now, if you do not believe in love at first sight, this might be interesting because a popular and by no means unlikely theory is that Watson invented a wife (or more) to keep the readers from wondering. (Good luck with that.)


The Crooked Man, 1888

One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood upon my step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to catch you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum! You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then! There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson. You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could you put me up tonight?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

So, Watson is exhausted, but instead of joining Mary in bed, he is essentially hiding from her. And although he is supposedly exhausted and does not like the prospect of being kept up all night, Watson sees Holmes and although he has myriad experience with Holmes keeping him up all night (no pun intended), he is “delighted”.


The Second Stain, 1888

Although it is set in autumn, there is no mention of the wife. So I suppose her loving husband just forgot her.


The Boscombe Valley Mystery, 1888

Note: this is probably set just after the marriage

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.

“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you go?”

“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.”

“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s cases.”

Translation: Let us assume Mary actually exists for the sake of this argument. Watson has been married for maybe a month, and he is already looking ill. Why? Because he is locked up with his wife instead of being with Holmes. Watson’s health is getting so desperate that his wife literally begs him to meet Holmes for what appears to be a romantic holiday in rural England. (“Air and scenery perfect” - really, Holmes?)


A Scandal in Bohemia, 1889

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other.

Well, if you want to convince yourself so much… However, fact is that on his way back home from a patient, he just so accidentally ends up on Holmes’s doorstep (probably not for the first time) and is seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again. Make what you want of that.


The Stockbroker’s Clerk, 1889

Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington district.

[…]

I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere himself save upon professional business. I was surprised, therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British Medical Journal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones of my old companion’s voice.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recovered from all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the Sign of Four.”

“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by the hand.

“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in our little deductive problems.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past results.”

Long story short, a newly married man spends his time writing about his platonic best friend. Right. Watson is in a state because he cannot be with Holmes as often as he would like and so tries to evoke his “spirit” by writing about him. Does this sound like he married the right person?


The Man With The Twisted Lip, 1889

One night — it was in June, ’89 — there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.”

Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.

It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”

Later, after he has found Whitney in that opium den and Holmes too:

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.

Watson will spend the next night in a single room with Holmes somewhere outside of London and his wife will not get to see him for some time. Also, I could simply paste in what I wrote above; the upshot of it being that a tired Watson immediately stops being tired and listless as soon as he gets out of his wife’s company and sees Holmes. Well…

Oh, and has anyone noticed that Mary calls John Watson “James”? This is where they got the “Hamish” from (he is called John H. Watson, and he is probably Scottish, and “Hamish” was “James” in Scotland). Or Mary is cheating on our doctor with a man called James and Watson does not notice, for crying out loud.


The Naval Treaty, 1889

The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases of interest

[…]

My wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

[…]

Watson and Percy Phelps return to London, while Holmes investigates on. And they do not go to Watson’s, but to Baker Street, although Mrs Watson is in town. And on the following morning: It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps’s room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

First, breakfast-time with his wife does not seem particularly important to our dead doctor. Moreover, he is so engrossed in Holmes’s case that instead of returning to his own home and comfortable bed, he stays in the Baker Street living room or Holmes’s bedroom for the night because it is clearly stated that Percy sleeps in the “spare bedroom”, i.e. Watson’s old room. Either he cannot face his wife, or – as said before – he has by now forgotten that he created one. Which is by no means uncommon for Watson; he often mentions his wife in the first paragraph and then immediately forgets her, spending the after-case time with Holmes as well. (For an example, see immediately below.)


The Dying Detective, 1890

Holmes fakes illness for a case, and Mrs Hudson goes to warn Watson:

I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced.

[…]

I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat and my hat.

[…]

And the ending of the case is such: Holmes suggests that When we have finished at the police-station I think that something nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place.

So Watson just runs off without remotely thinking about alerting his wife or anything, and then lets Holmes take him out on a date. Watson either is not married, or he does not care all that much. Which I personally would not believe Watson is callous enough for.


The Blue Carbuncle, 1890

It all starts with Watson coming to Baker Street on Boxing Day: I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season.

But the story ends with him staying for a Christmas dinner. Holmes says: If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.

Do you not have a wife to return to, doctor?


The Final Problem, 1891

It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent start in private practice, the very intimate relations which had existed between Holmes and myself became to some extent modified.

[…]

“I must apologise for calling so late,” said he, “and I must further beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house presently by scrambling over your back garden wall.”

“But what does it all mean?” I asked.

He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two of his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

“It is not an airy nothing, you see,” said he, smiling. “On the contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over. Is Mrs. Watson in?”

“She is away upon a visit.”

“Indeed! You are alone?”

“Quite.”

“Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come away with me for a week to the Continent.”

“Where?”

“Oh, anywhere. It’s all the same to me.”

Watson’s nonexistent wife is nonexistent. The luck he has that she is always visiting random people… (And if you are interested, there is no reason whatsoever to go anywhere. Holmes only wants Watson on another romantic holiday, this time in the Alps.)


The Empty House, 1894

In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he, “and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

And that is the last we will ever hear of Watson’s wife.

Incidentally, it has been suggested that Mary 1) died, 2) divorced, or 3) was arrested. How could that be? Well, here is an interesting quotation from Holmes:

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night [Moran].”

I.e.: Ms are evil. Morstan…



The Norwood Builder, 1894

At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months, and I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes’s, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

No mention of his wife’s death – only of Holmes’s return. Which also suggests that Mary did not in fact die but was either killed off by Watson or they got divorced, depending on which theory you favour. And, by the way, it means that Holmes is prepared to spend a fortune on Watson’s return to Baker Street without telling him. This is very sweet.


The Blanched Soldier, 1903

I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.

This is Holmes speaking of a wife who will never be mentioned again and even though I will not enter into all the subtext that is in the two stories narrated from Holmes’s perspective, let it just be said that there are some real doubts regarding his retiring alone. (Big surprise.) The story has a huge gay subplot that I have explained already, which could hint at the gay plot that is also going on, although Holmes and Watson have to take precautions because they have got the people talking again…



In conclusion:  

There are two theories too choose from: That Watson was indeed married but that he was not interested in his wife at all, which enabled her to have affairs, lie to him etc, or that Watson invented Mary as a necessary plot device.

Personally I believe in the second theory for the following reasons: In the first story (A Study in Scarlet), Watson does not show much interest in women, and in The Sign of Four, Sir ACD (or the doctor himself) saw the necessity to establish Dr Watson as a heterosexual married man to avoid rumours about a potential “deviant” relationship between Holmes and Watson. So a wife was invented, presented as absolutely lovely during in The Sign of Four, and is then literally made to disappear. After her first appearance, she never so much as says more than three sentences in a row. The author clearly did not make much effort creating Mary Morstan’s character, which can be concluded from several facts, icluding the one that we do not even know how Mary dies. Or if.

But be as it may: do you really get the impression that the doctor cared at all about this wife of his?

anonymous asked:

I absolutely love your paleoart, Miss Willoughby! Just a question regarding primaries; we have fossil evidence of a velociraptor using it's forelimbs to grapple with and claw at a protoceratops; wouldn't long, stiff primaries hinder that action somewhat?

Hi there, I’m glad you like my work! This seems to be a fairly common question when seeing larger dromaeosaurs depicted with large, voluminous “wings”. There are a few things to address about this idea, so let’s first take a look at the fighting dinosaurs specimen:

(Wikimedia commons, by user “Cobalt”)

The Velociraptor here is definitely grappling the Protoceratops with its left hand and being grasped by its beak with its right hand, but it’s not clear whether the animal actually intended to use either hand in the attack. More recent theories on the origin of the flapping motion in birds suggest that the predatory precursors to birds may have stood on top of their prey with their feet, using outspread clawed hands to help with balancing rather than active predation. This behavior could have persisted in dromaeosaur lineages, and a greater surface area of feathers on the arms would have provided better balance. 

(Deinonychus atop its prey, using its winged arms for balance. Art by me.)

It’s unclear whether dromaeosaurs were using their hands for predation very often at all. It may well be the case that the clawed hands of dromaeosaurs were employed in a similar way to the hind claws of cats: cats don’t typically use their hind claws to capture prey, but anyone who’s ever been grabbed and “kicked” by a cat knows that it can certainly use them to inflict pain, when it wants to. The fighting Velociraptor specimen may have been grasping the Protoceratops’s frill as it was struggling to get away after the tide turned against it. It’s hard to say.

Either way, it’s also probably the case that long primaries would have impeded the grasping abilities of dromaeosaurs less than you might think. A 2006 study by Phil Senter and colleagues addressed the question of whether primary feathers on the hands of deinonychosaurs would significantly impede the ability to grasp. 

(Diagram from Senter 2006 illustrating grasp ability of deinonychosaur with long hand-feathers. (A) dromaeosaur reaching forward with wrists flexed. The wings do not obstruct each other in this position. (B) obligate supination when reaching forward with right wrist extended. © one-handed grasping of an item to the chest; can only be done with one hand at a time.)

Senter showed that a deinonychosaur could hold and grasp objects in several different positions of the hand and arm without obstruction of wing feathers, even if very long. Incidentally, a later study by Senter showed that Bambiraptor, at least, may have had a partially-opposable first digit (thumb) that it could use to grasp a small item against its third digit.

(Senter illustration showing possible dromaeosaur grasping ability of first and third digits.)

In this sort of grasping of the hand, note that the second digit remains stationary. As any present remige feathers would be attached to this digit alone, a stationary position would not cause the “wing” to impede the grasping motion.

It is always possible with the fighting dinosaur specimen, at least, the Velociraptor may have fared better without the long primaries. But the advantages of having voluminous remiges probably outweighed any possible drawback, especially if the animal did not usually use its hands for this purpose in predation. This particular Velociraptor, clearly, fared poorly.

Fairy Nice

Imagine a pocket-sized you leaning on Namjoon’s neck, the space between his neck and shoulders have become one of your favorite places to rest every time the two of you go on your nature walks. Words of unrecognizable thoughts escape your lips, your mind being occupied by the wonderful shades of green that cover the world around you. Among the sea of green, a little spec of white flutters along. The sudden color change grabs your attention immediately and you turn your head to observe the little white object. At first, it seems to be a puff of cotton or something of that sort. As it flies closer to Namjoon’s shoulder, you realize that it looks just like a fairy!

Your mouth falls open and you extend your arms out as the tiny creature approaches you. You don’t realize the size of it until it lands on your hands. The fairy-like creature is large enough for you to grasp between your palms, and you nuzzle your hand into its feather-like body. Still convinced that the creature is, in fact, a fairy coming to visit you, you flash a wide grin and ask the little friend if it could grant you the right to have ten pancakes ready and made for you every morning. Namjoon, suddenly hearing you speak, cranes his neck to where he can barely see you in his peripheral vision. He was just walking and talking, not even realizing that you weren’t paying attention for the longest time. Watching you asking for a multitude of food from the miniature creature has him shaking his head, one of his signature smiles painting itself onto his mouth. You’re too innocent for your own good.

Metal and Feathers

Warning: slight cussing (a few words I think), some bare body moments, sass, i think fluff, Peter being a little shit that he is.

Pairing: Warren Worthington III x reader, the rest is platonic or family style friendship

A/n: sorry that this isn’t something that was requested or asked for but I had this idea and all I can say is that this man kept my mind going with this. If you all like it and want it to continue, let me know. 

Italics: mentally talking

Tag list: @a-lonely-string @fandoms-writer @nea90sweetie @mysaria @captainamericasbeautifulbutt

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3


               You walked down one of the halls, walking away from the danger room after a bit of training with Jean, Scott, and Kurt. You smiled at the thought that Jean, well mainly Scott, thought it would be fun doing a team red verses team blue. Her and Scott being team red, seeing as her hair is red and Scott’s lasers are red. While you and Kurt were team blue, Kurt obviously blue and you had your wings that were several different shades of blue.

               You always loved training with them but they couldn’t fly like you. Sure Jean used her telekinesis to glide through the air but it’s not the same. You were one of the few at the school that had any noticeable mutations. Your wings weren’t the only mutation or ability you had. You were also able to heal others. More than just the little cut or broken bone, but you were able to return something that was never meant to change. Fix and mend things back to the way they are supposed to be. Yes, you tried to heal Charles’ legs but it just wasn’t meant to be that way. You healed Peter’s leg all because you didn’t and couldn’t stand him complaining about not being able to do anything for himself.

Keep reading

Aesthetic Meme: [⅙] quotes, poems or lyrics

‘But, I love him.’ the Sea whispers to the Sun.
‘I know,’ The Sun replies. ‘But I’ve loved him longer. I loved him first.

                                     — The Fall of Icarus - Commentary  | p.d

[Caption: a picspam of ten images inspired by the quote above. In order: the back of a man floating in water / a person falling with the sun in the background / the text: ‘But, I love him.’ the Sea whispers / an extended hand with white feathes between fingers / a kneeled man with wings, his back turned to the viewer / a underwater picture of someone falling into the water / hands half black (as if they have been burned) holding a feather / the text: ‘I know.’ The Sun replies / a man about to fall into the water / a wing burning]

Sparrows and Iron (Part Four)

Pairing: (Eventual) Tony Stark x Reader

A/N: Well, now that I’m emotionally destroyed by the CA:CW trailer… Here’s part Four.

@nicolejones412

Word Count: 1,030

Previous Parts: One~Two~Three


To say that things were tense between Tony and Nat was an understatement. It was like the thermostat dropped twenty degrees every time those two were in the same room together. The rest of the team tried to work around them, but it was getting difficult.

One day, (Y/N) was sitting against a window in the common room, trying not to draw the attention of the others who were hanging out, playing Mario Kart on the big-screen TV. She was just gazing at the skyline when Tony suddenly ran in.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), come here, I did it!”

She snapped her head up with an excited smile as he ran over to her, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. He dragged her towards the lab, earning curious stares from the others as they wondered what could possibly have the pair so excited.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Tell me everything you can about that Alien AU! I need to know everything!

Criminals in a space ship!

Gavin:

  • if its humid he leaves little slime footprints 
  • saliva is acidic not strong enough to melt metal but a bite from him wouldn’t be fun
  • can eat anything he can put in his mouth
  • eyes and mouth glow a lil bit
  • can chose between solid and liquid states

Michael:

  • a sun in a human sized body
  • can control his heat output as long as he has a level head
  • has almost melted through the floor several times cause of gavin
  • anything he eats just turns into charcoal in his mouth

Jeremy:

  • star glow child
  • strong!
  • ryan got him the coyboy hat lol
  • heat resistant

Ray:

  • special diet 
  • human foods mess with his skin color
  • will still eat doritoes and skittles regardless
  • poison glands allow him to breath out toxic gas

Geoff:

  • “i’ve got my eyes on you”
  • can’t be exposed to any kind of suns for an extended period of time
  • very human like other than the eyes and white skin

Jack:

  • plants grow all over her skin
  • depending on mood depends on the flower
  • almost has to be under some kinda of UV light 

Ryan:

Lindsay:

  • she is a carnivore 
  • scales and feathers 
  • got a screech that will make yah ears bleed