my local paper

I had a really busy day and got home 1am tonight so I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to finish this days challenge in time. I might get a spurt of energy, I will post two drawings tomorrow otherwise! 


anonymous asked:

I always ALWAYS (sorry for the yell) love when you post something thought provoking regarding Sam, Cait and/or the ship. I just read your response to the post about people suggesting Sam had a typo on his "chose life" tweet and meant to type choose. By my calculations that would put Sam at 2 mis-tweets in one day as people are saying he didn't read/mean to RT the PopSugar article. I mean, how dumb do folks think Sam is? I agree w/you. Sam is a grown man who makes his own statements. Man can READ

Wednesday, January 25, 2017 (1815 Standard Outlander Time)

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for your ask. It may be your 72nd and if so, thank you, again. It’s hard to tell with so many askers sharing a name.

GOOD YELLING IS OKAY! It’s so wonderful to hear from one of my three readers. I appreciate your loyalty. Truly.

Yes, Our Sam is much brighter than some losers people seem to think. And he’s often quite strategic, but you have to be paying attention to see it. Strategy is often in play when he ignores things too, but there’s no way I’m opening that can of worms right now. It’s terribly unfair when people equate physical attractiveness with duh. I’m always always annoyed when people take one look at me and assume I’m a moron.

Two mis-tweets in one day? Oh, Sam… Our wonderful lad meant to retweet the PopSugar story as surely as you meant to dress before you went outside today. He kens what he’s doing. Just like he kens what he’s doing when he tweets and retweets mentions of Cait’s accomplishments. Just like he kens what he’s doing when he calls her wifey. Just like he kens what he’s doing when he posts photos of him and Cait on Instagram and doesn’t write a cutline. He kens a picture paints a thousand words. He can’t help it if some fans and spaceship captains can’t read.

Can you imagine how happy he must have been to wake up and read a happy story about his hot date the previous evening? Before I married Murtagh, headlines in my local paper usually read, “boyneriver spotted thumbing a ride home after criticizing her date’s grammar.” Sigh.

Enjoy your day, Dear Anon #72, and thank ye so kindly for keeping my reader count at three. I strive for excellence.


boyneriver-fraser, BS, MS, PhD, lots of shady trees

File No. 72

if i can’t get my old gig at the paper back i’ll look for more news writing jobs in the area. i’ve worked as an unpaid intern for two separate papers (one of my town’s local papers and the newsletter for the chamber of commerce) it’s not like i’m unqualified

anonymous asked:

My local free paper has a 'rush hour crush' section and its stuff like 'girl in the pink hat I see on the no.8 - your so cute, let's go out ? The other day there was one 'sex red head train guard - you smiled at me menacingly then we touched as I got off at my stop. Drink ?' Cherik or what ? Couldn't believe it !

You Smiled At Me Menacingly 

charles: oops! sorry to bump into you!


Originally posted by hereliesafrozenheart

charles: I’m Gonna Fuck That

Creepypasta #541: Imaginary Friends

When I was five-years-old I had an imaginary friend. My father and I lived in a small house in the woods of West Virginia and didn’t have any neighbors with kids. There were only two other houses near ours and they were inhabited by elderly couples. My father wasn’t a very nice man and I never knew my mother.

I used to play in the backyard with sticks and a toy fire truck. My father didn’t have a lot of money so he never bought me new toys. He spent all of his money on alcohol. I can still smell his breath sometimes when I think about him.

I was playing with my fire truck the day I met Tim. I pushed the truck down the little dirt path behind our house and stopped a few feet short of the shack that sat out back. I was always scared of that shack but on that day I decided to go inside.

I entered the shack and it smelled of urine and rotten meat. The floor was littered with empty cans of soup and bottles of alcohol. There was a couch in the center of the room that had red stains on it. A belt hung on the wall across from me and a broken mirror to the right.

I walked through the room and looked into the bathroom on my right. The toilet was badly cracked and the wall that used to hold a sink was bare. My throat tightened and I was about leave when I heard him speak for the first time.

“Are you here to play with me?”

I turned to the only other room in the shack and looked for the source of the voice. I stepped into the small room and saw the boy sitting on the ground next to a broken window. His hair was black and matted to his forehead. He was naked other than a pair of white underwear that was grossly stained. I could see bruises on his arms and scars on his back.

“Hi,” I said.

“Wanna play?” the boy said.


I sat down in front of him and pushed the truck to him. His odor was strong. He was sitting in his own feces and piss.

“I’m Tim,” he said.

“I’m Alex.”

I went and saw Tim every day that I could. We played with my truck and he seemed happy. I never asked him why he was there, I was just glad that he was. I didn’t have any friends so I was glad to have someone even if he smelled bad and scared me a little.

Tim changed every few months during that year. A few times he insisted his name wasn’t Tim. For a while he had blonde hair like me and his bruises disappeared. After a few weeks the bruises came back though. He changed back to having black hair eventually and I was happy about that. When he had blonde hair he wasn’t as fun.

Your imaginary friends never are the same are they? They are just your imagination on any particular day. I couldn’t create the same person forever. Eventually Tim told me his name was Blake. I didn’t like Blake so I was glad when he was gone.

After Blake left the shack was empty. I checked a few times each week for a month or two before finally giving up. My friend was gone. I was alone again.

My grandparents came and picked me up from home one day after that. I never saw my father again. My grandparents told me he had told them to take care of me. My grandparents raised me as their own son and my life improved greatly. They had many neighbors with kids for me to play with and I made many friends throughout the years.

I never forgot Tim though.

It’s been thirty years since my grandparents took me in. My son, Alan, has an imaginary friend now too. He calls him Tommy. Timmy and Tommy. Like father, like son.

“Dad, Pap and Meemaw are here!” I heard my son scream from the downstairs living room. He’s four-years-old today.

I’ve always been curious of where my father had gone and I’m not sure why it took so long for me to look him up but it did. I searched his name and a few newspaper articles popped up from local papers. My eyes burned in the light from the computer monitor as I stared with intense purpose. I don’t remember much about my childhood just bits and pieces here and there. And Tim, I remember Tim.

The articles were about a man charged with the kidnapping of four boys and the murder of three. The photo below the headline was of my father. There was a second photo to his left of the shack behind our old house. Halfway through the article were three photographs of the missing boys and I recognized them immediately. They were all of Tim. Well, I guess, they were of Tim, Blake and Roger (the other name he had tried giving me). I got dizzy and felt like I was going to throw up. I read further and tears rolled from my cheeks.

The fourth boy was never found, the article said. His parent’s called off the search after three years. He was taken on his fourth birthday. Below the article was the fourth child’s picture. Blonde hair like Blake’s, like mine.

The photo was of me.

The date on the article was from three days ago. The man had escaped from the local penitentiary after being locked away for twenty-seven years of his life sentence.

I heard the door downstairs slam. I ran to the window and watched as a black car with tinted windows and no license plate sped from my driveway. I bolted downstairs almost tripping over my feet.


I reached the bottom of the stairs and fell to my knees. I grabbed my phone from my pocket and tried to remember the numbers to 9-1-1. I crumpled over in defeat and tried to catch my breath.

The last thing I remember before the cops arrived was the faint smell of alcohol.

Credits to: Suspense304 

Suck on that, inner hater.

All right, guys, here’s something interesting for you. I randomly tweeted Orlando Jones last night about how I wished he was still on Sleepy Hollow since the show’s being shot in Atlanta now. I could have met him. And then I thought gosh, I could see Tom Mison shooting around here if I wasn’t such a chicken. Orlando said he’s awesome and I’ll like him. (I talked about that part in a previous post.)

For a minute, I felt worse. I thought wow, I really could go see the show being shot, but then I thought why? Meeting new people is difficult for me. It’s the wheelchair, you know. Then Orlando chimed in again and said:

He got it right. There is a hater in my head. It’s been that way for many years to a lesser extent but stronger recently because I’ve been stuck at home a lot more. I’m always very insecure about being a burden on other people, so I have trouble asking for help, especially when I want to go out somewhere. Even so, I know he’s right in that logical part of my brain. The hater often stops the dreamer. I screencapped what he said and I saved it.

Much later, a Facebook friend who also lives in the Atlanta area sent me a message. She said there are so many movies and shows being shot here that extras and actors are in very high demand. It seems Sleepy Hollow has been casting left and right around here. She talked about how she’s been an extra in several different movies with some pretty big names because it’s like Atlanta has eclipsed Hollywood with opportunities lately. Several casting calls have specifically asked for people in wheelchairs and I should put myself in with local casting agents. I told her that I have trouble getting around (i.e., letting my inner hater have its way) and she actually said in so many words that it’s not a valid reason to not try it because she would help me get around herself. She will drive me places if I go after my dream.

I thought about it. I thought about all the times I said, “If I could audition for [Supernatural, Sleepy Hollow, various shows] and put more disabilities in the media, I would.” Then I thought about what Orlando said about the hater vs the dreamer.

So I’ve submitted myself to a few different casting agents here in Atlanta–one of which has been casting parts for Sleepy Hollow for weeks. If I looked last week, I could have tried for the Halloween episode. They shot a scene for that on the 11th in Lawrenceville (my local paper showed Tom Mison there on set!) and they were looking for people with fun costumes. I could have been a qualified extra (I have boxes of costumes, being a seamstress) if I wasn’t himhawing around with my inner hater! The worst that can happen is I won’t get cast for anything but there’s so much being shot in Atlanta now, extras are in decent demand.

I’m 33 and I’m a quadriplegic in a wheelchair but I have normal cognitive and speech abilities. I’m a Civil War reenactor with period and reproduction wardrobe suitable for 1850-1870. I also have extensive knowledge of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I’m open to all sorts of experiences that will allow me to create more of a diverse presence in the media by being a bright, intelligent woman with a disability.

Why shouldn’t I try to get in on this filmmaking boom in Atlanta? Suck on that, inner hater. This face might one day be on TV, maybe even in Sleepy Hollow.

My local news paper is so cute but lmfao. They thought Benedict rated the hotel he stayed in a “B+” not realising he signs off his messages with his usual “Bx”. Maybe they think that he goes round signing hotel books grading them “ran out of toilet paper but one was sent to me in 1min 40 seconds from making the first phone call to reception. Not bad. C-” <3