writings take one

excerpt from original piece titled “heroes”

Braelyn Stewart
October 5th
Austin, Texas

The wind. That was all Braelyn Emilia Stewart could hear. Whistling, twisting and turning violently as it blew through the dark, ominous-looking sky. The almighty, indestructible, unstoppable wind howling into her pierced ears, it’s deafening cry striking into her every bone. It seemed to be calling out into the midnight-blue, early morning sky. ‘Jump, Braelyn, just jump!’ The air seemed to command her. She took long, deep breaths as it roared into her back mercilessly, smacking her backside with just enough force to nearly shove the blonde off of the towering scrap-metal, rusty looking structure, that rose at least a good eighty, maybe even ninety feet off of the ground. She swore she felt the constructed contraption that she couldn’t quite name wobble from the amount of force the wind gave off. Following this, she began to feel her eyeballs start to tilt downward. ‘No, Braelyn. Stop. Don’t look down! You’re fine! You’re okay!’ She mentally ordered her nervous self to keep her eyes level with the horizon ahead of her. She continued attempting to push herself to not give even a slight glance downward at the tiny toys below her. Of course they weren’t toys but they sure as hell appeared to be.

The reason she was trying so very desperately to keep her head from drifting downward and looking below at the ground almost half of a football field beneath her, was out of fear, particularly because she was petrified by the mere thought of heights; however, given the circumstances, and the fact that she almost lost balance and fell down a good towering ninety feet, she couldn’t help but let her head drag down at the dusty Texas land beneath her. The sight sent chills up her spine and goosebumps rose on her suntanned skin. Her palms grew sweaty and she was beginning to feel like her heart was on the verge of pumping out of her chest, like it was about to explode. As an atomic bomb about to cause a nuclear fallout might. Her breaths came in short, shaky exhales. She felt a deep sense of nausea slither itself into the pit of her stomach as her hands shook anxiously. The tone of the girl’s skin altered and shifted to a light, light pale color she got when she was anxious or scared or feeling any emotion having to do with fear and fright.

Suddenly, a deep voice stirred the girl from her thoughts and shaky breath. Shit. She forgot that Zane Benson was with her. He was going to video tape her jump, just as he’d videoed the last three times she’d done this. This job came to fall upon him because of two things. She needed someone who would keep quiet, he needed someone to look out for him. Simple bargain.

Any who, he was shouting something to her, but she couldn’t quite make out what it was he was saying, but she could take a guess it has to do with her being okay. She went with it, responding to what she was guessing he was asking her. “Uhm,” she cleared her throat, nervously, “yeah, yeah, erm… I’m uh- fine. Just uhm, start the camcorder and give me the countdown.” She assured him as she called down at the young man. She heard him yell an ‘okay’ up to her. “Ready?” His faint voice added. She could picture the boy raising his right somewhat bushy eyebrow and dipping his head down with a grin as he always did when asking another a question, or questions.

“Well, uhm…” She attempted to accumulate some kind of response. That was a positively excellent inquiry. Was she ready? Was she ready to jump? Truth is, she wasn’t so sure. Something about this time felt off. Though she wasn’t quite sure why? It wasn’t like she’d never done this before… so why was it such a huge deal? It wasn’t… was it? It wasn’t. She told herself. But if it wasn’t a major deal, then why was she nervous to the point of shaking? I mean it wasn’t like she was going to die or anything? Well, she hoped she wasn’t. Or did she hope she was going to die? That would explain why she was feeling so frightened, other than the fact that she had an extreme, extreme fear of heights. 'Woah, Brae! Snap out of it! Are you crazy? You don’t want to die! You’re cheer captain, homecoming is in a few weeks, and you’re finally meeting your real parents. You have everything. It’s the height problem. Nothing else. Nothing at all. You’re fine. Deep breaths and let’s do it.’ She coached herself, shaking her head and running her hands through her golden-yellow locks, before giving the thumbs up to Zane. Enough with all of the dumb unanswered questions. Let’s just get this over with. “Oh shit, let’s just do it.”

“Alright, on my count…” Zee shouted up to me as I looked straight ahead, poker faced without blinking. “3…” The number echoed in her head as she gulped down any fear she had in her. “2…” She took a large, calm and collected, deep breath, inhaling through the nose, and exhaling through the mouth. “1…” Braelyn looked straight down at the ground, not a trace of fright in her twinkling chocolate tinted eyes visible as she squeezed them shut. “Now!” He called out. Without thinking another thought, she took a deep inhale, and Braelyn Emilia Stewart jumped.

anonymous asked:

(Tw drug abuse, tw ed)Oddly, one thing that helped me get over my internalized fatphobia was David Bowie, specifically, learning about him. When he was super on drugs and weighed only ninety pounds and lived on milk, red peppers, and cocaine. Looking at that era, knowing that, made skinny no longer desirable. It actually grosses me out when people find that point in his life attractive now just as much as chubby chasing does.

-nods- I get where you’re coming from. 

Yea, Bowie didnt live the healthiest of lives back then. I dont think many artists back then did. But, I’m happy to hear that you learned how to combat your internalized fatphobia. 

- Mod Dom

the please stay stains on my hands
spell out desperation
maybe this time i’ll keep
apologies to a minimum
stick with the charade
keep your smiles in my pocket
let you make the mistakes
let me be the last to forget

i read my diary
remembered how you made me feel
two separate points
two separate points

had my in head my hands
didn’t quite cry just
had an overwhelming urge to die
this is a formal goodbye
doesn’t really mean anything
nineteen ninety-seven
was never really worth reliving
today is an anniversary
lets have a party
share in our despair
laugh at our inability to forget

4

Tom Hanks (Captain Miller) and Tom Sizemore (Sergeant Horvath) in “Saving Private Ryan”

Miller: You see, when you end up killing one of your men, you see… you tell yourself it happened so you could save the lives of 2 or 3 or 10 others. Maybe a hundred others. Do you know how many men I’ve lost under my command?

Horvath: How many?

Miller: Ninety-four. But that means I’ve saved the lives of ten times that many, doesn’t it? Maybe even twenty, right? Twenty times as many? And that’s…how simple it is. That’s how you… .that’s how you rationalize making the choice between the mission and the men.

Horvath: Except this time the mission is a man.

Life has been really different recently.

I quit both of my jobs, one of which I have had for five and a half years. The other, I was good friends with both of my co-workers, and another one of my best friends ran her business next door. I knew it inside out and upside down. On our lunch breaks, we would go into town like school kids to the bakers and spend quiet afternoons watching nineties music videos or documentaries about Disneyland.

I am now a temp in an office. I have never done anything like this before, but it’s been fairly easy so far. It’s going to get busy in a few weeks though, so I have been told. I have started helping campaign for the elections in my local area, because Scotland is a mess and I don’t want to sit still anymore. I want to have conversations with people who care about society as much as I do. I want to engage, and I want to make a difference.

I am going to retire Gypsy. She has had enough. She is the smartest animal in the world who I love with my whole heart, but she told me something the other day. I think she was waiting on Amber settling down, before she made up her mind, but tonight she told me that she had done her time, and she is right. It breaks my heart, but I know that my lady always knows, long before I do, what’s going to happen.

Everything in my life is changing, who knows what’s around the corner next. I have a feeling something else is coming, I just have no idea what yet. I can feel it brewing, but I don’t know if it’s just me being hyperbolic as usual.

A hopeless romantic, a lover for a lifetime.


It was one of the sweetest love affair of the fall season with nobody aware of their love, except just that the affair was one sided. 

He would write poems in memory of her, which included all sorts of characters she jumped on playing to cheer him up, the way she would look out for the sky mesmerized by it’s limitless existence, times when she would find herself talking to the flowers she had lovingly planted in her little garden of joy, unnoticed things like how she would slurp up the first sip of chai on a cold wintry evening with her fingers all over the pages of an old romantic novel she would read on evenings like this, times when she would carefully paint her toe nails and how lazily she wouldn’t care to fill the nail paint brush while applying to the little toe guy, times when she would move around the house humming her favorite song back from the nineties because she loved vintage, times when she would give him his favorite smile while looking him in the eye and in the moment realizing how much he loves her.., he would carve all these emotions into his pretty black diary who knew all about him, his dreams and his nightmares. 

On evenings like this he would think about her favorite music and play it a thousand times and more and still be amazed at how she got into him. Smiling like an old school lover boy, stupidly thinking about all the times he would catch her in doing sane things that made him fall in love with her madly, his smile would stretch a little more. 

Preparing himself for the family dinner party he would wide open his curvy closet only to take his eyes off from his favorite pair of bright shirts and leather jackets and ending up wearing the simple piece of cloth he had got for himself from that modest store because she admired humble approaches and given the way he loved her he could probably turn himself into a soft toy if she demanded so. 

Starting to leave the room he locked up his little best friend back in the drawer of the closet only to realize that his dreams have been locked up but his nightmares escaped. 

Looking into the mirror he could see herself dressed up as his dream girl which is when reality strikes hard and he gets back to his senses only to find himself lying on his bed on a cosy afternoon cuddled up with a soft pillow and having imagined the most sweetest love affair of the fall season. 

Day Ninety-Five

Today, was the same cycle in Donald Trump’s life as before; tweet about fake news faking their news, tweet how important the wall is and tweet about Obamacare being in a death spiral. The only difference from yesterday is his obsession over his call to National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s Peggy Whitson and that Mike Pence is coming home with a quick visit to Hawaii. Mike Pence is calling, calling home…

9

#anzughosemalanders    #sportychic 

In der vergangenen Woche habe ich euch meine elegante Anzughose im Twenties Look präsentiert. Heute zeige ich euch eine Variante diese Hosenart anders in Szene zu setzen. Demnach entsteht ein für mich vollkommen untypischer Stil- sporty Chic! Eine klassische Hose kombiniert mit Kleidungsstücken und Akzenten der 90er Jahre. Diese Kombi ist einfach perfekt für die nun angekommenen warmen Sonnenstrahlen!

Um dem edlen Material einen Cut zu setzen trage ich obenrum ein absolut bequemes Ringelshirt. Passend dazu trage ich eine derzeit angesagte Jackenart, die heute wiedereinmal ein Revival erlebt. Zudem passt die Baseballjacke in einem wunderbaren Oliveton optimal zum Shirt. Am ungewohntesten sind für mich die sportlichen Schuhe (ja, ich wollte tatsächlich einmal etwas Neues versuchen). Da sie aus Leder sind passen sie gut zur eleganten Hose. Ebenso gut würden hier jedoch auch andere Sportschuhe oder Anzugschuhe aussehen. Damit das Outfit nicht zu leer wirkt, trage ich eine besondere Art der Choker Kette am Hals. Das Gold gibt hierbei einen spezielleren Touch und macht den Look interessanter. Um diesem freakigen und eigenen Look die Krone aufzusetzen trage ich meine heiß geliebte und zugegebenermaßen äußerst große Hornbrille mit Farbverlauf. Das Make-up sollte hierbei eher dezent ausfallen und möglichst natürlich wirken.

Fest steht: Definitiv ein Stil, den man zu jeglichen Anlässen tragen kann ohne sich unwohl zu fühlen. Probiert es aus.

My Favorite Brunette - Good Prototypical Hope Comedy

Bob Hope movie we watched when we got on a ‘Bob Hope’ kick for a brief spell in the late nineties after enjoying 'The Lemondrop Kid’ one christmas. This was a pretty decent espionage/comedy much along the same lines as later comics would use as vehicles (like Chevy Chase in 'Foul Play’ or the 'Fletch’ movies, or Bill Murray in 'The Spy Who Knew Too Little’ etc etc).

Hope plays a baby photographer, who gets mixed up in a whole mess of trouble when taking care of a friend’s private eye office. Also features Peter Lorre and Lon Chaney Jr and Dorothy Lamour. Fun stuff and a good example of the sort of dumb light entertainment your grandparents chuckled at in the theaters.

3 stars out of 5

Released 1947, First Viewing June 1998

Respect where it's due...

For all the shit I’ve said and reblogged about Batman, and specifically his BatGod persona, I’m not blind to why he’s so popular. And I think one of the reasons for that is that his more level-headed fans are open to new ideas.

Whether they like them or not is another matter altogether, but they don’t shut them down immediately as often as a lot of the Superman fans do when faced with the same thing.

The Superman books used to be vibrant with imagination and creativity, with some degree of intelligence, but now they’re just mundane superheroics under the direction of men whose last bouts of creativity regarding Superman came in the late nineties/very early 2000’s, and even that can be debated.

Fact is, much as I hate to say it, the DCU is Batman’s universe now, and Superman just lives in it.

1071

21071 = 25 300 281 663 413 827 294 061 918 339 864 663 381 194 581 220 517 764 794 612 669 753 428 792 445 999 418 361 495 047 962 679 640 561 898 384 733 039 601 488 923 726 092 173 224 184 608 376 674 992 592 313 740 189 678 034 570 795 170 558 363 467 761 652 042 654 970 959 809 093 133 570 250 935 428 086 587 327 262 919 456 144 944 542 601 257 064 044 846 194 041 676 826 903 812 816 523 290 938 580 750 782 913 463 467 636 686 848 — twenty-five censextillion, three hundred cenquintillion, two hundred eighty-one cenquattuortillion, six hundred sixty-three centretillion, four hundred thirteen cenduotillion, eight hundred twenty-seven cenuntillion, two hundred ninety-four centillion, sixty-one novemnonagintillion, nine hundred eighteen octononagintillion, three hundred thirty-nine septennonagintillion, eight hundred sixty-four sexnonagintillion, six hundred sixty-three quinnonagintillion, three hundred eighty-one quattuornonagintillion, one hundred ninety-four trenonagintillion, five hundred eighty-one duononagintillion, two hundred twenty unnonagintillion, five hundred seventeen nonagintillion, seven hundred sixty-four novemoctogintillion, seven hundred ninety-four octooctogintillion, six hundred twelve septenoctogintillion, six hundred sixty-nine sexoctogintillion, seven hundred fifty-three quinoctogintillion, four hundred twenty-eight quattuoroctogintillion, seven hundred ninety-two treoctogintillion, four hundred forty-five duooctogintillion, nine hundred ninety-nine unoctogintillion, four hundred eighteen octogintillion, three hundred sixty-one novemseptuagintillion, four hundred ninety-five octoseptuagintillion, forty-seven septenseptuagintillion, nine hundred sixty-two sexseptuagintillion, six hundred seventy-nine quinseptuagintillion, six hundred forty quattuorseptuagintillion, five hundred sixty-one treseptuagintillion, eight hundred ninety-eight duoseptuagintillion, three hundred eighty-four unseptuagintillion, seven hundred thirty-three septuagintillion, thirty-nine novemsexagintillion, six hundred one octosexagintillion, four hundred eighty-eight septensexagintillion, nine hundred twenty-three sexsexagintillion, seven hundred twenty-six quinsexagintillion, ninety-two quattuorsexagintillion, one hundred seventy-three tresexagintillion, two hundred twenty-four duosexagintillion, one hundred eighty-four unsexagintillion, six hundred eight sexagintillion, three hundred seventy-six novemquinquagintillion, six hundred seventy-four octoquinquagintillion, nine hundred ninety-two septenquinquagintillion, five hundred ninety-two sexquinquagintillion, three hundred thirteen quinquinquagintillion, seven hundred forty quattuorquinquagintillion, one hundred eighty-nine trequinquagintillion, six hundred seventy-eight duoquinquagintillion, thirty-four unquinquagintillion, five hundred seventy quinquagintillion, seven hundred ninety-five novemquadragintillion, one hundred seventy octoquadragintillion, five hundred fifty-eight septenquadragintillion, three hundred sixty-three sexquadragintillion, four hundred sixty-seven quinquadragintillion, seven hundred sixty-one quattuorquadragintillion, six hundred fifty-two trequadragintillion, forty-two duoquadragintillion, six hundred fifty-four unquadragintillion, nine hundred seventy quadragintillion, nine hundred fifty-nine novemtrigintillion, eight hundred nine octotrigintillion, ninety-three septentrigintillion, one hundred thirty-three sextrigintillion, five hundred seventy quintrigintillion, two hundred fifty quattuortrigintillion, nine hundred thirty-five tretrigintillion, four hundred twenty-eight duotrigintillion, eighty-six untrigintillion, five hundred eighty-seven trigintillion, three hundred twenty-seven novemvigintillion, two hundred sixty-two octovigintillion, nine hundred nineteen septenvigintillion, four hundred fifty-six sexvigintillion, one hundred forty-four quinvigintillion, nine hundred forty-four quattuorvigintillion, five hundred forty-two trevigintillion, six hundred one duovigintillion, two hundred fifty-seven unvigintillion, sixty-four vigintillion, forty-four novemdecillion, eight hundred forty-six octodecillion, one hundred ninety-four septendecillion, forty-one sexdecillion, six hundred seventy-six quindecillion, eight hundred twenty-six quattuordecillion, nine hundred three tredecillion, eight hundred twelve duodecillion, eight hundred sixteen undecillion, five hundred twenty-three decillion, two hundred ninety nonillion, nine hundred thirty-eight octillion, five hundred eighty septillion, seven hundred fifty sextillion, seven hundred eighty-two quintillion, nine hundred thirteen quadrillion, four hundred sixty-three trillion, four hundred sixty-seven billion, six hundred thirty-six million, six hundred eighty-six thousand, eight hundred forty-eight (323 digits, 4365 characters)

“When Princess Margaret died, at age 71, in February 2002, the Queen lost her most intimate companion. Margaret’s funeral was observed quietly with pomp at Windsor Castle on the 50th anniversary of her father’s funeral, and two months before her mothers. I think it was the only time anyone ever saw the Queen show her emotions in public. Never explaining anything to the world - what she feels, or why she does what she does - is part of her greatness. But for a few minutes that day, as she stood by the steps of St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle, watching her sister’s coffin being borne away, her eyes betrayed her.”

Ata Kak at the Jazz Cafe, London gig review: Ghanaian dance-rap artist leaves crowd elated with eccentric tunes

ATA Kak performs his infectious dance-rap to the crowd at the Jazz Cafe in Camden like there’s no tomorrow, because the Ghanaian musician probably knows that his fame is the sort that is fleeting.

Imagine self-recording an album of seven repetitive, lower than lo-fi dance-rap songs on a cassette in Ontario in the mid-Nineties, to be sought out by an obscure record collector over a decade later. That man, Brian Shimkovitz, found Ata Kak’s album in a market on Ghana’s Cape Ghost in 2002 and had searched for its maker for years. The journey took him from Ghana, to Germany and Canada, where he finally pinned down the elusive musician. He released the album Obaa Sima with Ata Kak’s permission in 2014. It’s easy to see why he was hooked. Most songs follow the formula of a simple a drum roll followed by repetitive synth loops over which ATA Kak raps, sometimes almost with the speed of Busta Rhymes. It’s influences span dancehall, reggae, Ghanaian highlife and hip-hop. His unpolished voice is almost childlike on the sped-up recording. He ‘owhs’ like Michael Jackson. It’s joyous, it’s bizarre, and it’s catchy as hell.

Think of this as a music nerd’s novelty record. The sound snob’s Macarena. But Ata Kak doesn’t have the dead-behind-the-eyes look of a used up, one hit wonder popstar gripping onto fame. He’s riding the wave of stardom that has seen him perform at festivals including London’s Field Day and is relishing every second. “We’re just having fun!” he declares on stage as he shuffles to the music.

Listening to the record, it’s hard to see how Ata Kak’s music will translate in front of an audience. Part of Obaa Sima’s charm is the musician’s air of mystery and the graininess of the sound. How could it work on stage? With the help of a slightly awkward-looking but tight backing group, who at times have faces like they’re supporting their embarrassing dad, Ata Kak effortlessly brings the frenetic happiness that makes his album great to the London crowd like a seasoned star.

The experience is head-scratching in a wonderful sort of way. The crowd happily bops along to the music as Ata Kak speeds through his repetitive lyrics, and it’s unclear how he’s being received until the songs end and they erupt into rapturous applause and cheering.

The more melodic songs like Daa Nyinaa and Adagya prompt them to sing along - although it’s safe to assume the majority don’t speak Ghanaian and have no idea what they’re actually saying - while less distinguishable tracks like Moma Yendodo and Medofo fall a little flat.

The song the audience is here for, though, is the title track of his album, Obaa Sima. This is one of those brilliant musical flukes, where the elements aren’t so dissimilar to an artist’s other songs but gel together in a way that makes it an hypnotic, ear worm.

“I love you! I love you!” he shouts back at the crowd when they’re at their most enthusiastic.

The show lasts only around an hour, there’s no encore because they’re aren’t any more songs to perform, and it’s unlikely many will know who Ata Kak is in a decade. But tonight, no one - from the singer himself to the elated people dancing and singing Obaa Sima at the train station outside the venue after the show - seem to care.