quarantine hospital

                         VelvetDragon’s Betta splendens Care Sheet    

What are bettas? 

  • Species
  • Scientific Name
  • Lifespan
  • Description
  • Size


  • Betta Aggression
  • Tank Mates

Housing and Environment

  • Size
  • Tank Type
  • Tank Cover
  • Substrate
  • Decor
  • Live Plants, Rocks, Driftwood


  • Water
  • Temperature
  • pH
  • Hardness

Quarantine and Acclimation

  • Quarantine Tank/Hospital Tank
  • Your New Fish

Cleaning and Maintenance

  • Cycled Tank
  • Water Chemistry
  • Partial Water Changes
  • Uncycled Tank
  • Water Change Schedule
  • 100% Water Changes


  • Pellets
  • Frozen Food
  • Live Food


  • Bubblenests
  • Tank Patrolling
  • Flaring
  • Tail-Biting
  • Fighting

Illness and Diseases

  • Cautions
  • Causes
  • Symptoms
  • Treatment

Since UB has gone down one too many times, I moved and updated my care sheet (9/2015). As always, it is forever under construction, because with animal husbandry, there is always more to learn, as we always learn more and grow in our care.

                   Read the full care sheet here!    

*bloop bloop*

Scattered Memories (Part 4)

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Character Ship: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 1143

Summary: Once at the hospital the identity of your assailant is finally revealed but that does not mean the case is close to being closed.

Warnings: PTSD, language, mention of suicide (not exactly pertinent to the story though. Literally just one line about it.”

Author’s note: No more scary flashbacks, yea (flashbacks still happening, just not of the act..)!! This request was sent to me and is a part of the story now, don’t read request until after for spoilers

Part 1, Part 3, Part 5 coming soon

Originally posted by dr-spencer-reid-though

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Of course.

Of course I’m quarantined in a hospital with him.

Just my freaking luck.

He took a step forward with pleading eyes as I continued to shoot daggers at him. If looks could kill.


I rolled my eyes as I began to turn in the opposite direction. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Y/N, wait–”

“Nurse Y/N!” Dr. Cannerts interrupted. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see him. “Your assistance is needed in the infected unit.” I knew what that meant. Cleanup. I nodded as I continued to make my way down the corridor.


I let out an exhausted breath as I made my way towards the showers after a long day of cleaning up pus and blood. Gross, I know. But hey, somebody’s gotta do it.

As I turned the corner, I ran into a hard, muscular chest.

“I’m sorry,” I began apologizing before looking up to see none other than Jake freaking Riley. Great.

I quickly sidestepped away from him before he could say anything. He mimicked my action in attempt trap me before taking a couple of steps towards me. I refused to step backwards because I refused to let him intimidate me. Even if I was panicking on the inside. He continued walking towards me cautiously, as if he was afraid I could escape any second. He stopped about a foot away before uttering the words that almost made me break.

“I miss you, Y/N.”


My eyebrows furrowed as a sarcastic look crossed my face.

“Really? Didn’t seem that way when you told me that what we had was nothing.”


I dropped the look and replaced it with a glare.“No, you don’t get to do that Jake! You don’t get to just break my heart and then tell me you miss me!”

“Y/N, if you’d just let me explain–”

I sidestepped him once more, and this time he didn’t stop me. “Look, you had your chance so just–”

“I love you.”

I silently cursed myself when I found myself frozen in place. He loves me? I snapped out of it before turning to him with a fierce look in my eye, ready to tell him off before freezing in my tracks once more when I noticed the vulnerable expression adorned on his face.

“I-I didn’t realize it before because I was afraid of commitment, afraid that I wasn’t good enough for you when I knew you deserved the world. So I pushed you away.”

“Jake,” I began as I took a couple steps forward, “why would you think that?”

“Because,” he put on a weak smile, “you’re too good for me.” I broke. It killed me that he felt that way about himself.

I closed the remaining distance between us before grasping his face in my hands. “The person you are today is the person that I fell in love with. And I wouldn’t want to change a damn thing about you.” He wrapped his arms around my waist before we both leaned in. I stopped before our lips met, remembering what we were in the hospital for in the first place.

“Jake, we can’t.” He sighed before reluctantly pulling away.

“I know.”

“But one kiss couldn’t hurt.” He returned my mischievous grin before pulling me flush against his chest and placing his lips on mine. His lips were softer than I remember. I felt him smile into the kiss before pulling away from my smiling face.

“I missed you so much.”


i’m on summer break so more imagines woo


anonymous asked:

There were scientists and doctors throughout the years who were tasked with working the Winter Soldier: their poking, slicing, and stabbing would be accompanied by no anesthesia, just droning lies from mouthless faces: "This won't hurt". Nowadays whenever he hears those words, Bucky flies off the handle.

“This is ridiculous,” Bucky griped, staring resolutely at the ceiling.  Wilson made a noncommittal hum.  He’d stopped giving real responses after the fifth time Bucky had voiced his grievances with his…situation.

“I’m injured.  Not incompetent.”  Sure, his right arm was pretty mangled, but his other arm was still in decent shape.  Just a bit on the glitchy side.

“Uh huh.”  The asshole didn’t even look up from his TIME magazine.

He sat up a bit, then slammed his metal fist onto the tray.  It was a bit sturdier than typical hospital equipment, only denting slightly; not as satisfying as he’d hoped.  

Wilson finally looked up and leveled a cool, even stare at him.  “You’ve been unconscious for four days, your fleshy arm looks like it’s been through a sausage grinder, and you’ve somehow still managed to almost kill at least two doctors and scared the living shit out of three nurses.  Do you know how hard it is to scare nurses?”  Bucky looked away at that.  He only vaguely remembered the incident itself but he’d seen the security footage.  It was a wonder Steve managed to talk SHIELD out of a more…efficient solution.

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Captive differences
  • Fossorial snake:

I like to dig and bury myself. You may not see me using my hideboxes; I might prefer to just remain buried in the substrate. I should never be kept on substrate that doesn’t allow ‘digging’, unless I am in a quarantine or hospital cage. If I am hungry, looking for a mate, or unhappy, I will climb over and around the obstacles in my enclosure in search of food, a mate, or a better microclimate. Normally you will find me under rocks or other cover.

  • Terrestrial snake:

I like to move along the surface of my enclosure, but I will climb in my enclosure if it is offered. I will probably use my hideboxes, but I may curl up anywhere if there is enough cover. I would like to have substrate that offers tunnelling, as I will frequently use it after meals or when in shed - two circumstances in which I feel very vulnerable. Normally you will not find me sitting in a tree for days on end, but I will go anywhere to hunt.

  • Arboreal snake:

I like to sit on branches or vines or platforms. I will climb readily and ably between branches, but I will also sit for hours on an aerial ambushing platform, ready to hunt any birds that fly into my enclosure. I am not likely to tunnel through my substrate but you may find that a particulate substrate helps with humidity requirements (I am more likely to need higher humidity, depending on my species). I should be given opportunities to hide, but you may want to use cover rather than hideboxes (or both! both is good!). Normally you will find me crawling through the trees, or set up in a quiet position to ambush my dinner.

The Witch Village - Zombie Shelter

Because no proper town should be considered complete without one.

I’m considering a compound-type idea loosely based upon the prison from The Walking Dead, the city design of Minas Tirith, and an idea put forth by some friends of mine for their retirement home. And the best bit is…it can double as a tourist attraction, a working facility, and a source of community income while things are good.

What I have in mind is a castle complex similar to Vilnius Castle in Lithuania.

External image

External image

The basic idea is to have the complex built on a small island with arable land and ready access to fresh water, preferably a spring. There would be gardens and small orchards and yards for livestock and poultry, and any number of buildings inside for whatever purpose we might need. (Basics of course would include a hospital with quarantine, a forge, a tannery, storage silos, barns, living quarters, and several armories.)

The entire complex would be enclosed by a wall with watchtowers. No bulding, inside or out, would have a window less than six feet off the ground. There would be tiered walls inside (there’s the Minas Tirith design) with heavy doors so that if an outer wall was ever breached, people could retreat to safety and pick off the ghouls from the tops of the walls.

There would be one or two major gates, protected by drawbridge, double portcullis, and murder holes; and perhaps a few smaller points of egress, for example, something leading to a dock or a pier. These smaller entrances would be no less secure, with fast-drop portcullises and heavy doors barred with metal.

Inside, we’d have gardens for food and medicine, the aforementioned livestock yards, and plenty of room for a sizable number of people to live. We would have weekly drills visiting various scenarios so everyone would know what to do in case of a wall breach, from the dead or the living. With any luck, we could be self-sufficient enough to only have to venture outside the walls very rarely.

So…who’s in?

The Iconic Cleric - Brother Andrew

Name: Brother Andrew

Age: 56

Race: Human

Alignment: Lawful Good.  Personally devoted to God’s law above man’s, and committed that man’s law should be for man’s good.

History: Andrew was born the middle child of the waning noble house of Bjil.  It was understood early in life that what little influence and wealth his parents still possessed would go to ensure a political office for his elder brother Victor and for a dowry to attract a favorable match for his sister Rachel.  But rather than become bitter, Andrew watched the expectations, demands, and attention heaped upon his siblings and was grateful to escape it.  He mostly kept to his books and to himself as they were groomed for one responsibility or another.

By the time his brother had begun his political career, Andrew had an established love of the mystical and demonstrated a proficiency in the arcane.  He wanted to be a wizard, but he could not secure a position with any of the Wizards, and so he joined himself to a monastery.  While he might not be able to study the arcane, he could still copy sacred texts and continue his passion for learning in that manner.

Andrew spent many years in this simplicity.  His order was known for copying ancient tomes for the city’s wealthier citizens.  They would take the money they made and used it to help feed the poor and destitute.  Andrew spent many years happy with his books and happy with the small but meaningful difference he was making.

Then one day, a plague began sweeping through the city.  His order ministered as best they could to the multitude of victims, putting themselves in harm’s way of the highly contagious disease and offering up their cloister has a hospital and quarantine.  But then Rachel and her husband were brought to the hospital, feverish and close to death.  Andrew prayed and fasted many days and nights for them, until the night he had his vision.  In his vision, a voice from heaven commended him for his humility and faithfulness, and pledged to empower Andrew so long as he continued to serve others.  The following day, Andrew found himself able to cure his sister, her husband, and many others in the hospital.  While he could not save everyone, he exhausted himself everyday doing everything he could to alleviate the suffering of others with his new-found abilities.

Eventually, it was revealed that the disease was mystic in origin.  An investigation was held and Brother Andrew was heavily involved for his protection against the ailment.  After much searching, it was revealed that a group of corrupt officials had concocted the outbreak as a means of increasing their power and control over the city.  In the search Andrew discovered that his own brother Victor was part of the scheme, attempting to restore their household to its former prominence in order to give his sons a more noble inheritance.  The two fought: Andrew imbued with a holy fervor while his brother channeled dark forces and mocked him for his weakness.  Andrew was overcome with fury at the death toll enacted in his own family’s name, bringing even his sister near to death, and as their mystic powers seemed at a stalemate, Andrew struck his brother down with his walking staff.

As Victor breathed his last on the floor, he pointed out the irony that Andrew was now Lord of the house of Bjil; the son from whom nothing was expected was now given everything that was left.  Victor’s wife was arrested with the rest of his co-conspirators, and Andrew could not bare to face their children that he made orphans.  The law may have left the house of Bjil to him, but his vow of poverty forbade him from accepting it.  He arranged for Rachel and her husband to care for Victor’s children until they were old enough to take over the estate, said goodbye to her, and left the city.  

He does not know how he will ever be able to atone for taking his brother’s life, he doesn’t even know if he is supposed to, but he does know that his nephews and nieces need to know that the house of Bjil can mean more than an obsession with power.

Domains: Good & Healing

Signature Equipment: A wooden staff, with his family’s crest clumsily carved in the center.

Appearance: A plain, coarse hooded cloak,

moriart-ish-deactivated20170305  asked:

Hey! Woah, its been a while since I wrote to you! I was wondering if you would like to write a little fic where E is smol, and Grantaire is 6.4, so Eny just cant believe he has a such big and great boyfriend? And also: happy vacations! ❤

“Jehan, are you sure this is a good idea?” Enjolras asked, tone disapproving.

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped and started inching backwards away from the looming, black doorway until he bumped against Grantaire’s chest who then had the nerve to grab his shoulders and shout “Boo!” as loudly as he could in his ear.  Scowling, Enjolras shoved at him, pushing him back in so much as you could push back someone who was damn near a foot taller than yourself.  

Grantaire just prodded him towards the door and laughed, “Scared?  I thought you lived and breathed this city, Enj.  Shouldn’t you want to explore every miserable, grimy inch of it?”

Okay, so maybe his tone had been less “disapproving” and more bordering the realm of “terrified” but he’d be damned if he’d admit it.

“No,” he snapped.  “It’s just… probably not safe.  Isn’t it condemned? And it’s illegal, this is trespassing, right?”

“Right, ‘cause we’ve never done anything illegal before,” Courfeyrac smirked, strolling past Enjolras to leap up the sagging wooden steps onto the wide, heavily shadowed porch.

“Don’t worry, Enjolras,” Jehan added, peaking their head back out through the doorway, “I’ve been in here a bunch already, it’s stable enough so long as we stay off the third floor.”

Enjolras peered up – and up and up – at the towering, ancient house.  With tall, narrow windows, moss clinging to every inch of the delicate scrollwork, and steepled little towers and chimneys rising up into the black night, the building looked like it had crawled out of the darkest corners of a ghost story, waiting to gobble them up as they stepped inside past the rotting door that slumped on its hinges and the cracked plywood that had been a half-hearted attempt to board it up.

Of course it was the ghost story aspect that had brought them out here in the first place.  At the moment Jehan was incredibly keen on what they called urban exploring – finding the forgotten places surrounded by a sea of people, or something else vaguely poetic and sinister sounding – and made frequent treks about the city and into the suburbs with Bahorel or Grantaire or Courfeyrac or whoever else they could convince to climb around graffitied buildings and crumbling woodwork for a couple hours.  They’d come to their last meeting out of breath with excitement, insisting that they had felt a presence in this one old house – a house which, Combeferre informed them after looking it up, had been the house of the hospital directory for an old tuberculous hospital that had been fashioned during an old epidemic that had swept the city.  While the hospital itself had been torn down decades ago the house itself had lingered.  Since then though it had been abandoned to the elements and was now condemned, and Jehan was certain that it had spirits clinging to it – perhaps poor souls who had been quarantined to the old hospital and never left, or the director himself, his soul tortured and trapped after all the suffering under his command.

Enjolras, of course, thought it was complete nonsense.  Combeferre, on the other hand, was nearly as giddy as Jehan at the prospect, and insisted they visit the next night to see if they couldn’t “detect” anything else.  Recognizing it for the foolishness it was, Enjolras politely declined when Combeferre suggested he join them.  He even resisted when Courfeyrac got wind of it and immediately after signing himself onto the expedition started turning his indomitable will on Enjolras, insisting, cajoling, and begging Enjolras join them.  Courf grinned the entire time, his begging coloured with a teasing bite – he had grown up with Enjolras and knew exactly how bad he was with horror movies, the little shit.  Enjolras refused.  But then Grantaire had turned up at the meeting, just let off from a late shift, and Enjolras realized Courfeyrac’s plan seconds before he’d managed to call Grantaire over.  Tackling Courf did no good though, because he squirmed under Enjolras’ body until he was gasping but free enough to invite a baffled Grantaire to join the ghost hunt. From that point on, there was no hope for Enjolras.  Both he and Grantaire were kept business enough with schoolwork and club work and work-work that time that could be spent together was precious, and as soon as Grantaire started wheedling at Enjolras, trying to convince him to join them – it’d be fine, just a bit of wandering around some old bloke’s house, no big deal, it’ll be fun – Enjolras knew he was doomed.

And that was why he could now feel his heart beating a painful staccato against his ribs as he ducked under the plywood and entered the ancient entryway.


It was eery, to say the least.  Thick dust covered and greyed a rug that ran the length of the hall, and though Courfeyrac gave the old light switch on the wall an experimental flick the ornate bulbs stayed clouded and lifeless.  The hall ran in either three directions from the front door.  At either end, visible only when the flashlights Jehan had brought were cast down their depths, was a door, one firmly shut and the other cracked – Enjolras tried to resist shying away from that one and whatever might be waiting inside.

“I started looking around in there,” Jehan whispered.  “It’s an old parlour.  Ferre, just wait until you feel the energy in there!”

The third route was a pitch black stairwell that curved upward into the blackness of the ceiling, it’s posts crumbling apart and old steps littered with debris.  At the moment it was all Enjolar could do not to run back out the front door – nothing on this earth would get him to touch those stairs.  Even with Jehan’s reassurance that they were sturdy, it looked like a deathtrap waiting to happen.  No sooner had he inched away from the stairs though, towards where Jehan, Combeferre, and Grantaire stood with the flashlights, then the very house seemed to moan at him, as if sensing his fear.  Of course it was the wind streaming in through the boarded up windows and down the strange halls, but it was so much like a pitiful voice trapped in the houses depths, like cold fingers trailing up Enjolras spine, that he couldn’t help but shudder away, towards Combeferre when the wind seemed to solidify, wrapping its cold talons around his wrist and pulling

Grantaire gave Enjolras’s wrist a playful shake as he swallowed his yelp and said, “Shivers, Enjolras?  You sensing some ghosts in here?”

Enjolras pulled his wrist from Grantaire’s hand and scowled at him.  “All I’m sensing is dicks.”  Lurching away from Grantaire, Enjolras marched further along the hall, to where Ferre and Jehan were in conference with each other.

“Hey,” Grantaire called after him, “you know you’re welcome to sense my dick all you–”

“Keep it PG, kids!” Courfeyrac shouted from open room at the end of the hall, where he had promptly ducked into after pilfering Jehan’s flashlight.  “You never know, these spirits could be minors!”

Combeferre and Jehan laughed, slipping past the door to join Courfeyrac, but Enjolras stood stock still, staring down at the dark void that was the open door, lit only by the occasional darting paths of flashlight beams.  He knew his friends were in there, it was crowded and safe with their voices, but stepping inside…

“Aw, don’t look like that,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a nudge. “Let’s catch up with the others.  You can hold my hand if you like,” he added with a wink.

For a moment Enjolras considered it.  It might almost be nice, despite his rabbiting heart and already frayed nerves.  Enjolras was short enough that he tucked nearly perfectly under Grantaire’s arm, and the idea of walking around the creepy old house, cocooned in Grantaire’s warmth, hand in hand was almost appealing.  But then came the thought of the amount of teasing and preening he’d have to put up with every time he jumped at a creaking roof or stray gust of wind.  He did not believe in ghosts, he did not, but… well, there was nothing wrong with a healthy dose of fear. Grantaire was the one always saying he didn’t have a strong enough survival instinct.  What would he say now that he saw his fearless leader – his boyfriend – trembling in his boots over make-believe monsters and shadows  In that moment he felt himself steeled and stepped stubbornly away from Grantaire, snatching the flashlight from him.

You go join the others,” he huffed.  “I’ll look over here.”  He gestured the beam of light vaguely in the other direction, towards the door past the stairs and down the opposite end of the hall.

“What, all by yourself?” said Grantaire.  “Won’t it get spooky?”

“No, it won’t, because this is ridiculous and there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Enjolras snapped.  “The sooner we establish that, the sooner we can leave.”

Grantaire held his hands up defensively, though he still looked amused enough that Enjolras could feel his hackles rising.  “Alright, whatever you say.  And you call me a skeptic, Combeferre would be so disappointed in you.  We’ll meet up with you before we head upstairs, I guess.  Or, y'know, if you need a pair of warm, strong arms to protect you, you know where I’ll be.”

Cackling, Grantaire ducked to avoid the wood chip Enjolras snatched off the lopsided table in the hall and hucked at his head, before waving goodbye and slipping away into the now dark room that the others had gone into.  Leaving Enjolras in a small pool of light in an otherwise dark hall.  Alone.

What had he been thinking?

Well, mostly he’d been thinking that he would get to retain an ounce of dignity by marching high-headed and confident into that room at the other end of the hall and have Grantaire trail behind him.  He hadn’t actually thought Grantaire would leave him alone, god knew Enjolras could never convince him to when they had exams to study for.  But the thought of turning tail now and running immediately back to Grantaire’s side – oh, Grantaire would happily do exactly as he’d said and wrap Enjolras in his arms, tuck his head under his chin, but what it would cost in mockery made Enjolras grit his teeth.  Darn it, he was a grown man, he could walk into a dark room by himself.  He’d give the room a cursory glance around, then walk back to the others at his own pace. It was fine.  Totally fine.  This wasn’t a horror movie and there were no mass murderers or malevolent hell-beasts lurking around that door.

…This was much easier to tell himself than to believe, especially since every step he took down the hall seemed to make the entire house groan under his feet.  If there were any spirits in here – not that there were – they’d know exactly where Enjolras was and where he was going.

With that cheery thought in mind, Enjolras held out his flashlight like the beam was a weapon and, rallying himself, pushed the door open.

And pushed.

And briefly considered turning around with the excuse that the door was jammed, such a shame, oh well, before bracing himself and slamming his shoulder against the door.

It gave with a painfully melancholic cry and a shower of woodchips, but the door swung inward and let Enjolras stumble in, tripping over the high lip of the old door.  Swinging his flashlight around, not sure what would be worse, something hiding in the dark or finding something hiding in the dark, Enjolras steadied himself against the door jam and tried to regain his breath – which promptly escaped from him again with a wheeze when he saw something skitter through his light.  A rat.  It was just a rat.  But it was also a rat. Lurching away from the wall, as if they could be teaming with the sharp, furry, fanged creatures, Enjolras tucked his arms into his body continued to bounce the light around the room.  He was suddenly very, very grateful for his tall boots, but the thought of those tiny, cold, claws clambering up his pantleg, biting and infecting him with some horrible, fatal disease… he groaned and shuddered. Nothing else moved in the silent, dead room though except for the dust in his flashlight’s beam, so he cautiously worked up the nerve to creep further in.

It stank, was one of the first things Enjolras was able to register once his fear of things creeping in the corners had abated somewhat.  One of the windows was shattered and though it was bordered up now it had made the room all the more exposed to the elements; that entire corner was a thicket of soggy moss and black decay, and filled the room with the moist, suffocating smell of rot, not helped by what Enjolras could only imagine were long rotten jars and boxes stacked along the room’s shelves.  It was a kitchen, he realized, as his light slid past the shelves to an old, oily stove and looming refrigerator that looked like the newest thing in the entire room and even that was outdated by some fifty years.  Tentatively Enjolras stepped further into the room if for no other reason than he didn’t want the gaping, dark doorway at his back, ready for any reaching, grasping things to snatch him up.  Instead of thinking about every squeaking moan of the floorboards as he stepped, Enjolras tried to focus on cataloging everything his light unearthed.  Scraps of curtain hung in the windows, worn thinner now than the cobwebs that were draped from every corner, wallpaper that was spotted with moisture clung pitifully to the walls, and jars of fruit preserves glistened sickly, lumps suspended in greying liquids, too ancient and organic to look at for long.  There was what looked like a trapdoor of sorts built into the floor with a heavy ring for a handle set into the old, moss-coated planks, but Enjolras had no intentions of touching it, not on his own – hopefully Jehan wouldn’t notice it either because the thought of being forced to explore a basement…  The thought of dusty skeletons and forgotten demons gave Enjolras more than enough motivation to step gingerly around the door.  On the other wall was a sink lined with mildew, and a pantry that was partially open but let of such a stench and was so filled with flies that Enjolras sharply avoided it.  Cutlery was spread over the counters and Enjolras tried not to think of anything nefarious about the knives, old china glinted dully under the light, and thick layers of dust grew everywhere.

Enjolras had just about decided he’d spent enough time in this room to prove to Grantaire that he was no coward, when an ear-splitting shriek rang out, like metal on metal.  Or claws on a sealed door, or broken teeth on bone, or…  Heart pounding, fear thick in his throat, Enjolras stumbled back, the beam of light swinging wildly – he nearly screamed as faces jutted out at him in the dark, he only saved his pride by realizing seconds after that they were harmless, smudges on the wallpaper, an old, dull photo tacked to the wall, the cracks in the window – when the thump came.  The entire room rattled, it could be anything, dropped chains, falling bodies, murderers slipping in from the high, narrow windows – and Enjolras couldn’t help it, he jumped back with a scream in his throat.

His jump carried him back hard though, and something grabbed his foot – no, it was that ring in the floor catching on his shoe – and then he was stumbling on the old trapdoor, softened with decay, and the floor gave a creak, a moan, and finally a pitiful wail as the old planks gave and Enjolras was falling, falling, and down.


Enjolras had to press his hands to his mouth to keep from shrieking.  He wasn’t sure if it was to maintain some semblance of dignity or because of the bone deep certainty that something would hear.  Instead he remained lying on his back, aching, and willing his heart to calm and his sense to come back to him.  He wasn’t hurt, not really.  The fall hadn’t been far, more sudden; the worst damage was a sore ankle that he’d landed badly on before flopping down onto his back.

He was trapped he was trapped he was trapped in the basement of a haunted house.

It was going to be alright.

Carefully, biting his lip as his back twinged, Enjolras sat up and scrambled for his flashlight,  gasping with relief when his fumbling hands clasped around the light.  At least it wasn’t dead.  On the other hand he wasn’t so thrilled by what he saw.  He was in a… cellar, or sorts. There was a gaping rectangle of blacker darkness where the trapdoor had given way and a pile of crumbling planks below him to mark the descent.  The room wasn’t really all that much bigger than that.  It had a dark, low ceiling that made the entire thing very claustrophobic and the walls were lined with sagging, wooden shelves filled with more foggy jars.  At least it was small enough that Enjolras knew he was only thing in it besides a handful of spiders among the shelves.

The problem was though that despite the tiny cellar was, the ceiling still towered well out of Enjolras’s reach and if there ever was a ladder then it had either been removed or had long since broken apart.

Heart pounding so heavily in his throat he could hardly breathe past it, Enjolras scrambled to the edge of the little cellar and flung himself upwards at the ledge – if only, if he could just…

His fingers didn’t come close to the edge, they grasped at  air

Again. He jumped again, and again, until he fell heavily against the wall, gasping, shuddering.

Trapped. He was trapped down here.  He couldn’t get out.  And it wasn’t like any of them had thought to bring ropes… if he wanted to get out, he’d have to wait for them to leave and come back with something to rescue him with, they’d have to leave him alone down here in the dark…

Grantaire,” he tried to call but it came out as more of a hoarse croak, barely enough to make the dust stir in the air never mind be heard in the rest of the house.

Looking around, he scrambled for a crate tucked against the far wall and heaved it towards the opening.  Its faded apple brand was still legible and Enjolras prayed that meant it hadn’t been as eaten away as the trapdoor.  It held steady as he heaved himself onto it but as he jumped – fingers just brushing the edge, jarring his nails and still not far enough, too high, still trapped, but as he dropped back down he hit the crate hard enough for the wood to splinter under his feet and send him tumbling back down, sore ankle complaining under the assault.

“Did you hear that?”

“You think it’s a ghost thumping around in there?  Probably Enjolras trying to kill a spider.”

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras called out desperately.


There was a thumping of feet that made dust shake loose over head, and then Enjolras was squinting up into twin beams of light as Courfeyrac and Grantaire peered over the sides of what was once the cellar door.

“How the hell’d you get down there?” Grantaire called, eyebrows in his hairline, clearly shocked at Enjolras’s daring for exploring the cellar.  How soon he would be disappointed.

“I fell,” Enjolras said, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “The floor gave way.  I– there’s no ladder, I can’t get out.”

Shit, are you okay?” Courfeyrac called down as Grantaire swore next to him, craning to look further into the hole, trying to ensure that Enjolras was whole and well.

“I’m okay,” Enjolras said.  He was, he was, he would be fine, even if he was left alone in this dark house, in this hole, he would be fine… “My ankle’s twisted but that’s it.  But there’s no way out.  You– someone will have to go and get a rope, or, or something.”

“Is Enjolras in there?” he heard Jehan call from somewhere in the distance, followed by more thumping and then Courfeyrac’s head disappeared to call over Jehan and Combeferre.

“You’re okay?” Grantaire asked again, gently.

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras found himself saying, to his embarrassment.

Then Grantaire’s head disappeared and Enjolras nearly choked on his fear again as the room seemed to become all the more darker, even with his little flashlight – was this another prank?  Or would Grantaire just leave him like this to go talk to Jehan?  Or was he finding a way to get Enjolras out?

But the second had hardly passed before Grantaire’s head was replaced with his worn sneakers, and Enjolras couldn’t even get a warning out before Grantaire had dropped heavily into the pit next to him.

“You idiot,” Enjolras cried, slapping Grantaire back before he was even able to straighten. “What’s the point of both of us being stuck?”  


You’re the strongest, the others are going to need you if they get a rope to pull me out with, what were you thinking–”

Enjolras. It’s fine.”

And Grantaire stood.  And kept standing.  And… and, oh.  Grantaire would actually need to be careful not to bump his head on the far end of the cellar where the ceiling sloped.  He raised a brow at Enjolras, gesturing grandly to himself, and smirked as Enjolras went red.  Without further adieu he hauled Enjolras up around the waist and carried him over to the lip of the hole, which Enjolras was now able to easily heave his arms over and, with Courfeyrac and Jehan’s help, was able to pull himself back onto the sturdy, kitchen floor. Combeferre was patting his back reassuringly as Grantaire leapt at the hole with a huff and pulled himself easily up over the edge.

“I hate you,” Enjolras grumbled as Grantaire knelt down next to him and pulled him into a hug.

“So, what, that means you and your poor, twisted ankle don’t want to be carried?”

Enjolras huffed but immediately looped his arms around Grantaire’s neck and his legs around his waist, and clung to him as he straightened up. Without a word, Grantaire’s arms were looped around him, holding him securely in place, and Enjolras pressed his head against the crook of Grantaire’s neck, deep into his hoodie and breathed with relief a smell that wasn’t tinged with dust and mildew.

“Should I take this to mean you’re ready to head home?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras grunted his agreement.

“…I seriously can’t believe how short you are, Enjolras,” Grantaire added, earning himself a sharp kick in the side.  “But it does mean I get to play the dashing hero, so I’m not complaining.

“I really hate you,” Enjolras amended, but Grantaire’s laughter was a reassuring rumble against his chest, and okay, there were definite perks to being short and those included being carried and cuddled like you weighed as much as a teddy bear, and Enjolras wasn’t ever going to complain about that.  Especially if it meant being carried promptly out of this awful house, down the street, and preferably straight into his warm bed.

Creepypasta #651: Kosciuko, Texas

Story length: Very long

There are some places in Texas I advise you to go to: San Antonio. Austin. Poteet. Dallas. La Vernia. Just to name a few if you want to experience real Texas in a breathtaking way.

And then there’s Kosciusko, Texas, a place that I would never bring up in normal conversation. It’s a place you don’t go to. It’s a place you drive far away from when nighttime falls. It’s a place where your car stops and stalls and you feel sweat beading down your neck as you try to jiggle the keys in fear.

You don’t go to Kosciusko. Ever.

Pull up Google maps and try to find the town–here’s a hint. You won’t. You’ll go immediately to a marker labeled “Kosciusko Meat Market” but no indicator that there’s a town anywhere. There’s no street name called Kosciusko Street or Avenue. Just “Kosciusko Meat Market”.

It’s really more or less an abandoned town. Only about ten people reside there and country separates them all in between. There’s a meat market, like I said, and an old dance hall that people used to go to back in the 1970s. There used to be a school who resided there but they merged with Poth ISD way back in the 1970s.

Even the history of Kosciusko is lackluster: a simple Polish town that was established as a rural trading point for settlers as they headed to San Antonio. No battles were fought there. No historical significance.

Except, technically, one.

The story of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a fabricated story based on Ed Gein, who murdered and sewed skin of women together. Urban legend steadfast hold onto the belief that the real incident of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre happened in Poth, Texas.

This isn’t true because in reality, it was Kosciusko where the legend began. Poth got attached to it because Kosciusko lived and died with a very difficult sounding name. When the movie came out, the locals murmured and whispered among themselves that Kosciusko’s secret and dark past had been taken by Hollywood and transformed into a slasher film, complete with a cannibal family and bloody corpses that lined the grounds.

It’s a coincidence. The film had nothing to do with the town. But have you ever seen something that was so eerily coincidental and similar that you couldn’t help but feel a connection? Even the lonely, isolated feeling of the landscape felt like the harsh, hard ground of the ghost town.

Kosciusko is home to a violent clan of inbred cannibals that live in the countryside, kidnapping and raping victims before eating them alive. If the victims didn’t already will themselves to die by that time, anyway. Nobody exactly knows where they came from but rumor is that they were simply “left” behind when people started to move away. It’s agreed that they’re Polish descent and otherwise unintelligent humans, but that’s all anyone can say.

Right before Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out, a young, naked, and bloody man drove his car into a streetpost in Poth, Texas, and got out, screaming wildly in the dark of the night. The police and ambulance came, bringing him to a hospital center in Floresville.

After sedating him enough to clean him, the nurses and doctors found irregularities. He was bruised and bloodied and his flesh had been stripped on his thighs and buttocks, like a knife had been skinning him. He had no tongue and was unable to speak. His wrists were hanging off the joint, as if it had been bound so tightly that it was essentially severing them clean off. His ankles were shattered and broken and it seemed like it was pure will and luck that he even made it that far to Poth, in a car nonetheless.

The police detectives gave him a pen and paper and asked him what happened. The only thing he wrote was Kosciusko and died a day later from injuries and infections.

Keep reading

Old MacDonald had a Farm| 1975 | Lary

Lily didn’t get the chance to go to Ireland very often, so when Mary invited her down to her Granddad’s farm, she jumped at the opportunity. The plan was for Lily to fly there, Mary would meet her at the airport, and then in a week, her mum would fly in as well and they would go and visit Lily’s paternal grandparents, who lived more north. They were doing everything the muggle way because it made Lily’s mum feel better about everything, and Mary’s granddad didn’t know any other way. 

The girls, despite being very different people, seemed to grow only closer over the years. Ever since they were quarantined in the hospital wing with the chicken pox, they had been friends. Lily spent copious amounts of time in Mary’s dorm room, annoying her other roommates, and Mary sometimes got on Marlene’s nerves because she would borrow her things, claiming that she thought it was Lily’s. They saw each other nearly every day aside from winter break, and a month into the summer holidays, Lily found herself missing Mary very much. 

Her flight was fairly short, just over an hour. And when she got to the airport, it didn’t take her that long at all to spot her friend in the crowed. 


anonymous asked:

can you explain ebola more? like maybe its structure and how its transmitted? and how you think the US will handle it???

Of course! Long post up ahead! 

Oh, and disclaimer: I am not a virologist, so everything I know regarding Ebola comes from The Hot Zone by Richard Preston, and my own curious research. 

  • Let me start off by saying that this current variant of Ebola being spread can not be transmitted through the air, like the flu virus. In order to become infected, you have to come in close contact with body fluids (blood, tears, saliva, semen, vaginal discharge, etc) from an infected, and symptomatic person. 
    • So if none of your close family members or friends are infected, and you’re not touching their bodily fluids, you have 0% chance of being getting the virus. It can also be transmitted from the feces of infected animals… but unless you’re frolicking through caves in central Africa, that won’t be an issue. 
  • Symptoms of an infected individual include: an awful headache that won’t go away, a super high fever, aches in joints and muscles, and chills. These initial symptoms last 2 - 7 days. Then, as the infection progresses, symptoms will evolve to confusion, vomiting and diarrhea (which will contain blood), red eyes, lack of response to touch (we’ll get to the reason why in a bit), bruising, and bleeding from every orifice of the body. 
  • Risk factors of getting the disease include: recent travel to Ebola-infected areas such as certain parts of Africa, and close contact with infected and symptomatic patients. 
  • Now let’s get down to the fun part: the intriguing virus itself. The Ebola virus is a spaghetti-shaped and carries just one single strand of RNA as its genetic code. It contains only 7 proteins—3 of which are vaguely understood, 4 of which are completely unknown as far as their purpose. Some scientists suggest the Ebola virus was one of the most primitive living organisms, and quite possible just as old as the earth itself. It originates somewhere from the rainforests of central Africa, and is quite possibly carried by bats. 
  • Just like HIV, Ebola first goes straight for the immune system, but does so with a bigger bang. It then infiltrates your blood like an army and you have 10 days to live. [KINDA GRAPHIC UP AHEAD] Ebola attacks every single organ in your body except skeletal muscle and bone, and does so by digesting every cell into slime. Blood clots start to form, and they are so numerous they actually block neurons from communicating with each other. This is why patients can’t feel any pain. The virus also loves attacking collagen, the structural protein that gives your skin its “firmness”. Your face sags. The skin blisters into something akin to tapioca pudding. Your internal tissues start to slough off, like your tongue, your throat, your intestines… For some reasons testicles and the labia swell and turn blue. Your heart basically bleeds into itself, and your brain becomes clogged with dead cells. This causes seizures near the end of life, and this uncontrollable shaking splatters blood around and contributes to the virus finding a new host. Every drop of fluid from the body is teeming with viruses–everything from blood to tears. And lastly, a cadaver of an Ebola patient is basically nothing but a bag of liquid—dead cells chewed up by the virus.
  • So! Is there a cure? Not yet. There’s an experimental treatment (ZMapp) that was in its phases of testing when it was given to the American doctors who were infected with the current virus from Africa. It’s apparently working quite well, but a) long term effects have yet to be recorded and reviewed and b) the lab that was making them has run out. 
  • Is there a vaccine? Not yet. This virus is so dangerous only a few labs in the world are equipped to work with it, hence the slow research process. However, scientists are working very hard to create a vaccine that targets one of the viruses’s 7 proteins. 
  • So how do we treat infected patients? First we quarantine them in hospitals to minimize spread of the virus, and then we issue them fluids and electrolytes, oxygen if needed, and treatments for any secondary infections. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
  •  I have no doubt the US will be able to contain the virus, and widespread infection will not happen. We have the infrastructure and educational programs that central Africa lacks. We can put patients in their own rooms, with proper ventilation and clean fluid delivery. We can put our doctors and nurses in biohazard suits that minimize viral transmission. We can spend the billions of dollars if needed to thoroughly screen every airline passenger. We have the means and literacy rates to educate everyone on the virus and prevention strategies.
  • Now that brings up my next point: A cure and a vaccine would be great for central Africa, but so would advances in infrastructure and education. When dealing with global health, one has to think beyond the science in order to make a lasting impact. 
  • There’s a interesting theory at the end of The Hot Zone I’d like to finish with. Richard Preston brings up a provocative thought: 
  • “In a sense, the earth is mounting an immune response against the human species. It is beginning to react to the human parasite, the flooding infection of people, the dead spots of concrete all over the planet, the cancerous rot-outs in Europe, Japan, and the United States, thick with replicating primates, the colonies enlarging and spreading and threatening to shock the biosphere with mass extinctions. Perhaps the biosphere does not “like” the idea of five billion humans. Or it could also be said that the extreme amplification of the human race, which has occurred only in the past hundred years or so, has suddenly produced a very large quantity of meat, which is sitting everywhere in the biosphere and may not be able to defend itself against a life form that might want to consume it. Nature has interesting ways of balancing itself. The rain forest has its own defenses. The earth’s immune system, so to speak, has recognized the presence of the human species and is starting to kick in. The earth is attempting to rid itself of an infection by the human parasite.”

If you’d like to learn more about Ebola, I recommend checking out these websites/articles: 

Please let me know if you have any further questions, and I will do my best to answer them :)

Once again, I apologize if I got a fact or 2 incorrect. 

So Hôpital Notre-Dame is up the street from me and has been designated as the quarantine hospital for any potential Ebola victims in Montreal. Consequently, I feel awful today and have come to the conclusion that I have contracted Ebola and am dying.

oh my god but can you imagine disaster movie!joan though. Like if something went a bit wrong and the bad guys actually were planning a bioterrorist outbreak and the NYPD got there too late.

Half of Brooklyn under quarantine, hospitals overloaded, Joan, Marcus and Sherlock trying to stop the outbreak from spreading and trying to find out where the anthrax is.

Joan going into surgeon mode and helping every sick person hey come across, everyone who couldn’t get help, Sherlock worrying himself sick that Joan might get infected. Joan comforts and provides support, checks temperatures, pulses, blood samples, making contacts and allies along the way.

At least for the first 48 hours. Then the bodies start piling up.

Joan losing patients by the hour and she’s silently tearing herself apart for it until Sherlock pulls her aside, says to her you and I both know that you cannot save everyone, Watson

Sherlock distracting Joan with the case, the two of them hunting down the anthrax, Joan forgoing sleep again, as if she’s trying to make for the patients she didn’t save, couldn’t save. And it’s dumb, she knows, this is bioterrorism, this is out of her hands, but that irrational survivor’s guilt in the back of her throat won’t go away.

Then it’s a race against time, Joan and Sherlock and Marcus hunting down leads across the city, maybe even chasing it out of the city so it doesn’t spread across the country, until they finally find it and destroy the virus and save the world.

Joan coming to terms while falling asleep on the car back to the Brownstone that no, she can’t save everyone. Sherlock realising that Joan’s gonna try any way.

god, just.

Disaster movie!Joan.

MERS Update: June 4

And I’m back with a daily update post on what’s going on with MERS in South Korea as of June 4. If I get anything new after this post, I’ll just add it in a re-blog.

A doctor specializing in infectious diseases said today that MERS can be controlled through quarantine, and it shouldn’t be difficult for Korea to keep things under control now that quarantine efforts have been stepped up. So now that authorities have increased the circle of those isolated, the spread of MERS should slow down. He added that MERS is not airborne and can only be contracted through direct contact with an infected patient or medical staff who have treated infected patients. A simple measure to stop slow the spread is to isolate infected patients, people who are suspected of having MERS, and people who came in contact with MERS patients. Which is what is currently going on. (And should have been all along, if you ask me. >.<)

Everyone who has been confirmed with the virus up to this point is now at hospitals designated by the state specifically to treat MERS patients in isolation from other patients.

So, if you have not come in contact with someone who is infected with MERS or a doctor or nurse who just recently treated someone with MERS, you will not get MERS. Everyone with it is now in quarantine, and they are continuing to put more in quarantine just in case. There are likely to be more confirmed cases, however it will probably come from people who are already quarantined, which means it’s limited how far they may have spread it outside quarantine. Also, while the number of those quarantined is going up, there are also a lot of people who are being released because they tested negative and have shown no symptoms for at least 14 days.

Also, doctors said the virus poses no risk to people who are healthy because their immune systems are strong enough to fight it off. If you are healthy and do not have a weakened or compromised immune system, you do not have to worry about MERS.

There are currently 35 confirmed cases of MERS. Two of the five new cases announced today are medical staff who were treating patients. So far, only two patients have died – the two reported last week in Suwon. There are over 1,300 currently in quarantine. These are all people who came in contact with someone who has been diagnosed with MERS, as there have been about four cases of tertiary transmission.

Last night it was reported that a Korean Air Force officer in Osan was suspected of having MERS after it was discovered he had been in a hospital that received MERS patients while recovering from a fracture. He and 80 other soldiers are now in quarantine at military hospitals while awaiting the CDC to confirm whether they are infected or not. The U.S. Air Force base in Osan is now also taking its own measure to prevent an outbreak and has set up procedures for its on-base hospital in case anyone should become infected. 

As of now, it looks like things are finally starting to get under control now that the quarantine measures have been stepped up. The outbreak is not as scary as some have made it out to be. If you are healthy and have been no where near a person who is infected with MERS or a hospital that treated MERS patients, you are fine and the possibility of you contracting MERS is very, very slim.

Also, those who died already had serious pre-existing medical conditions. Most patients seem to be fighting it off normally like any other flu or cold virus, for the most part.

My last word is a warning to be careful about what information you share on the internet specifically about MERS in South Korea that has come from social media. The NPA arrested two men today for spreading “false rumors” on social media about MERS as they said it stoked unnecessary panic. The men basically named two hospitals in Seoul and Busan that had had MERS infections, saying one shut down their ICU. Turns out those hospitals had not had any MERS patients after all. So, just be careful with unverified reports coming from anywhere. The NPA is working with health ministry officials and still investigating false claims and reports going around on social media.

This is all that remains of the chapel on North Brother Island.  When Riverside Hospital was rebuilt at the beginning of the 20th Century, a new chapel was erected where various denominations held services; unlike most of the buildings on the island, it was constructed of wood, and in over 50 years of abandonment, has all but completely collapsed.  One wall still stands, next to a pile of wood and overgrowth.  In the distance, one of the smokestacks from the power plant is visible.

A door rots away in the remaining tunnels running under the foundations of demolished buildings at the Boston Chronic Disease Hospital, on Long Island in the Boston harbor.  Why we chose the coldest day of the year to make it out to this remote facility on foot I’ll never know…