slope field

Concept: Al and Winry laying in the sloping green fields of Resembool nearby the Rockbell home. It hasn’t been long since he tried to bring back his mother and Ed is still on bed rest. He’s only 10 years old and is still struggling to make sense of everything that’s happened: the pain his brother is going through; the permanent loss of their mother, now unassuaged by hope; the memories of the transmutation he can’t recall; and the differentness of this new form, so much more powerful and deadly than he ever should have been in life, and terrifyingly less human.

He doesn’t say any of this to Winry, partly because he doesn’t want to worry her, and partly because a 10 year old’s vocabulary does not lend itself to thoughtful processing of emotion. They lay there, underneath the warm sun and among flowers and distant fields, as they’ve done their entire childhood. It’s almost like nothing has changed, except for the burning knowledge that everything has.

Winry sits up. “You remember when we used to make daisy chains as kids?” she asks, as if they’re not still kids.

Al nods because he can remember Winry trying to put a flower crown on the head of a six year old Ed before he tore it off in indignation at something “girly”. Both boys ended up spending the rest of the afternoon learning how to make them in order to appease her. It had been fun.

Winry starts collecting the flowers around her and Al helps, in quiet distraction. They start linking them and laughing and remembering that time five years ago. Winry’s eleven years in the world have also weighed on her more heavily than most, but it’s easy to forget now, when it’s sunny and green and springtime and Al has placed a chain of daisies in her hair.

She wraps the long chain of daisies she’s been forming around his armor and finds herself sticking the rest of the flowers every which way into the cracks and crevices of his armor, until this form, this false body he’s been cursed with, has become a monument to life.

“It looks beautiful,” she says. He agrees, and laughs a little. It looks beautiful.

Three Little Words

“Meet my family” Those three small words had thrown your mind into a tizzy, their implications huge, knowing how much Tommy valued his family and their privacy. You sat nervously in the back of the car, fussing with the hem of your dress, a light chiffon day dress, perfect for the informal picnic that Ada had no doubt planned for the group. Your mind continued to race, thinking back to the moment he’d said those three words, his crystalline eyes showing a speck of vulnerability, a chink in his armour, the crack in his ever composed exterior. This was it, this was his way of saying I love you without uttering those three impossibly heavy words.

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Good Morning from Scotland

Loch Tay Dawn by Angus Clyne
Via Flickr:
Nice bit of sky this morning…

Sometimes Rain Falls

A BTS Fanfiction

Type: AU/Alternative Universe

Summary: Sometimes a normal life is a good one to lead; its nice…its easy…
But sometimes, normal isn’t the way that things were meant to be. And when you’re chosen as a possible candidate for one of the kingdom’s 7 princes, life isn’t as nice and easy as you always presumed it to be…especially when you catch the eye of more than one of them…


Part 1 Part 2

Part 3

You’re excitedly bouncing in place next to Hoseok half an hour later, having changed clothes as quickly as you could, before running back to meet him in exactly the same place, frowning in confusion when you realise he’d already changed, but smiling at him none the less when he reaches his hand out for you to hold, before beginning to pull you down the gravel path that, when taken to the right, lead to the stables.

As soon as you catch sight of the first glistening black stallion you feel your breath escape your lungs, your astonishment bringing Hoseok to a stand still, and you can see in your peripheral vision the way he feels you slow; turning to see what was wrong and widening his eyes worriedly before he sees your expression of wonder.

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ he asks, smiling fondly at you and chuckling when you nod dumbfoundedly.

‘Which one would you like to ride?’ he asks, gesturing around to the stables set out in a sort of hexagon, a number of horses stood outside being tended to. But its only when you see the beautiful dapple black mare shuffling agitatedly to one corner of the stables, trying to get the attention of one of the hands helping out with another horse, that you know exactly which one was perfect for you.

‘Am I allowed to ride that one?’ you ask Hoseok quietly, gesturing to the horse, and looking up at him to see him squinting his eyes slightly, almost as if he was judging your choice in a bad way, before he looks back at you and leans down suddenly to drop a kiss to the edge of your mouth- the move seeming as though he’d changed his mind at the last minute- having originally been aiming for your mouth.

‘If that’s the one you want-‘

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eburninesonatina  asked:

For the prompt, maybe davenchurch/32 or taako/40?

This is, by far, the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.


There are moments where Davenport has no doubts about the importance of this mission, when he looks at his aged and lonesome crew and sees the best that his world’s humanity had to offer up to the stars. There are times where scribbled and meticulous ink stored away provides precious information, when tinkering hands and curious eyes present him something beyond worth as they unlock the magic beneath the mechanics. The bravery and impulse and studious diligence awe him equally, so tremendously different but so incredible to see. Along with the hazel eyes he came to love, the rough and dirt-caked hands that gently care and inspire every heart they touch, when Davenport loses hope there are times he can look to his crew and find it again, in the best of the best.

This was the opposite of one of those moments.

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This Poem Is Called Autistic Rage (All My Poems Are Called Autistic Rage) 2.12.16

never been in the scene, any scene
never been much one for being seen,
never kept a rhythm and i never caught a beat,
never saw much brighter than the light off the screen.
check the shine on those stars that youre stuck in between -
don’t fight it, keep quiet, be grateful
you wouldn’t get hate if you dint wear the label
girls like you hardly count as disabled
you’re lucky girl cus you pretty much pass,
lucky girl you get to be top of the class,
almost normal, so intelligent
can barely even tell that you’re out of your element
you couldn’t be a retard and be this eloquent
its evident that where we’re at is not exactly heaven
or the resident devil living in the seventh level:
its limbo, a settlement in the centre,
purgatory tenements: you’ll be here forever
enter stage left, exeunt right never
always sick, never dying
always floating, never flying
always tripping, never falling
hearing voices, no one’s calling

we won our rights in ‘95
the right to be told that work is life,
the right to be told to look you in the eye,
the right to diluted, long-disputed, weak and muted legislation  
well i guess let’s have a party cus we’ve fixed discrimination
30% of our families living in deprivation,
got certification that we’re living in a nation
that’s eleven points deep in human rights violation
underfunded hospitals, daily degradation,
and piss-poor fuckall media representation:
keep your Rain Man Oscar-gimmick Paralympic skys-the-limit bullshit:
we’re ‘such an inspiration’
but you still aint gonna take your kids to get their vaccinations
you don’t know shit about it but you know you gotta fear it
you say you want awareness, take one day out the year for it
and if we spell it out for you,
are you gonna hear it?
are you gonna see it?
are you gonna live it
are you gonna be it?
or have you got a puzzle
and you’ll try to fit me in it?

dont give a shit what the dog in the nighttime did
dont give a shit about your cousin’s neighbour’s girlfriend’s kid.
‘oh but he acts nothing like you’
well, obviously. he’s six fuckin years old.
what did you expect, we’d be birds of a feather?
that every one of us can be lumped together?
am i somewhere on the spectrum?
yeah, im fuckin riding it,
one day im yelling it,
one day im hiding it,
but ask me straight and i’d never deny it
another madhouse brit gliding lit around a lemniscate
a rainbow on a figure-eight,
not a neurotypical
not a fuckin innocent:
a full-colour kaleidoscope, my mental age is infinite

if im an epidemic i’ll get everyone infected,
a pathogenic in the system till it gives in and collapses
fuck the back-to-work interviews
the spare bedroom taxes,
the ‘mercy-killings’ in the news
the stairs-only access,
Damien Green and the DWP and Autism Speaks
and anyone who ever thought they’d speak for me
this slant and sloping playing field 
and Andrew fucking Wakefield

they built power on a mountain and if i never reach the peak ill be
another body on the path to mark the route you seek
a guiding-sign in blood defined, a kind of hope when times are bleak:
because all the things for which we fight,
solidarity and love and rights, equality and food and life,
is fought across the generations and not all of us survive
we can only start to lead the way
and hope our freedom comes with time.

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin, Germany

Also known as the Holocaust Memorial, this memorial features 2,711 concrete slabs arranged in a grid-like pattern on a sloping field. Eerily resembling a cemetery, the slabs are said to vary in height to depict the varying ages of those murdered during the holocaust - the shorter slabs representing the younger victims. There are, however, other interpretations to the memorial.

Sormik Week Day 1: Water (Healing/Passivity)

Also on AO3

Mikleo is sprawled across the grass outside when Sorey finds him. Although his first instinct is to flop down beside him and watch the small fluffy seeds float lazily by in the sunshine, Sorey forces himself to stay standing and lean over him instead, hands on his hips.

If he didn’t know better, Sorey would swear Mikleo had been sleeping. The smaller boy slowly opens one eye and then closes it again. “You’re blocking the sun,” he says, and Sorey grins.

“I have a question,” he says, his usual sparkling optimism momentarily undercut by a lack of confidence.

Mikleo opens both eyes now and sits up a little. “Sorey?” Sorey caves in and drops down next to him, legs crossed and hands pressed firmly to his ankles.

“When we armatize…” Sorey starts, and then shakes his head. “Do you ever notice that our healing, you and me, isn’t as powerful as it is when it’s me with Dezel, or me with Edna?”

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Sometimes, when we kiss, I keep my eyes open. I know it’s impolite. It started when i was in high school, the first boy - the one who tasted like peach vitamin water and sweat - he kissed me as though I was made of tears and he had never seen the sea before. I was scared he would look at me, scared that if he opened his eyes, I would turn into a pillar of salt, so I peeked of make sure he didn’t. First one eye and then the other, our mouths a tightrope, my eyes a set of cheeky clowns trying not to fall. I had never seen another person so up-close before. Things happen to God’s perfect aesthetic. Noses are mountain slopes, cheeks are fields, lips gape and pull, morph and stretch, we are no longer faces, we are landscapes. I was not kissing a boy, I was kissing America. And America tasted like peach vitamin water and sweat.
—  Sarah Kay - “Open”
Heart Crossed

@sai-shou *Slides gift box over next to you when you’re not looking before shamefully slinking away to hide underneath her kitchen table*

*When you notice the box, you see a note on top that says:

If you wish to purge this gift due to the writer being too creatively liberal, measures have already been taken. A match and lighter fluid are prepared to destroy all evidence of this tale. Or you may simply chuck it back at the writer’s head. She will understand.*

Summary: Years ago, before they were sealed away, monsters freely lived on the surface alongside humans. If one knew where to look, signs of their old settlements could still be found today. …In retrospect, it should have been obvious that there was something out there that could help them.

Word Count: almost 7K. So don’t feel rushed to read this.

Rating: A for I love Amelia too much. I don’t have a problem, you have a problem.


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Listener Martin Cook writes

“A few years ago, in art school, I learned of a semi-secret sculpture by the sculptor Richard Serra. The sculpture is Shift and is located just north of Toronto in unused farmland, which is rapidly being encroached upon by suburban housing. The sculpture itself is a series of cast concrete walls set into the sloping field, and yet there appears to be no plaque or identifying information regarding the site, so people who encounter the sculpture whilst out for a walk are liable to assume it is the ruined foundations of some forgotten building.”

Given that they almost always do interviews together, I ask if I can talk to them separately. I suggest a Mr & Mr interview where they are tested - informally, of course - on their relationship. I’m surprised by their relative enthusiasm. Barratt offers to go first; Fielding slopes off to make a phone call…

Julian, tell me five things about yourself, four of them true. I love jazz. I would have been a musician had I not got into comedy. My dad is a fisherman. I used to draw penises on my history books at school. I’ve never been scuba diving.

Tell me five things about Noel, four of them true. Noel is a girl. He can’t drive. He is an extremely good football player. His nose has been broken. He didn’t drink once for three years.

Who’s the funniest? Noel. Although I think he finds me quite funny. He likes to make people laugh; I do too, but I’m also quite happy to make people uncomfortable. I’ve done interviews in the past where apparently I didn’t give the journalist any eye contact. I’m a bit shy, yes. I’ve thought about refusing to do any press at all. All those questions you were asking us earlier… I felt slightly thwarted and crushed by this weight of having to be funny because I’m a comedian. Fielding does it much better; he rises to it.

Who’s the weirdest? [Laughs; pauses] We’ve both got pretty idiosyncratic taste. Noel’s gift is his ability to see his weirdness in the guise of a small child telling an adult a story. His weirdness has a friendly face.

Who’s the sexiest? Fielding.

Who’s the most rock'n'roll? Um… er… I suppose Fielding is flying that flag at the moment. I don’t know that I’ve ever really been rock'n'roll. I like the countryside. I like chopping wood. I’d like to be a carpenter…

Who is the most boring? I’ve got a lot of friends with whom I discuss jazz.

Who’s the most neurotic? Me. I can have a sleepless night worrying about a joke.

If you fight, does one or both of you sulk? We both sulk. We can get fired up quickly. Noel tends to say what’s on his mind; his subconscious is very close to the surface, which is part of his gift as a comedian. I bottle everything up and then explode. Most comedians are borderline psychotic. It’s what makes their work interesting.

—  “Mr & Mr Interview (Part 1 - Julian’s responses)” The Observer, Saturday 20 October 2007
Not Far from the Tree (WIP)

I should’ve known I wouldn’t get even a short thing done by the 31st, but as usual, efforts were made.  Have a slice of apple-picking.  No warnings, except for grossness.  Not the gore kind.  The sugar overdose kind (also suitable for Halloween amirite). 

Follows on “Ananta.”


“We passed an orchard,” said Hannibal.  "The other day, as we were driving.  I noticed the sign.“

On the way back from Reston, he meant.  Will glanced up from peeling carrots for the mirepoix.  They were making stock:  one ought to keep some always on hand, Hannibal said.  The last remaining can of Campbell’s broth in Will’s cupboard had quietly vanished.  

"Bauman’s, yeah,” said Will.

“Have you been?”

“Couple of times.”  Will thought back.  "It’s a nice place.  Tends to get overrun on weekends.  Families with kids.“  He stopped short, then looked again at Hannibal, whose eyes were bright with expectation.  "Is that my cue?  You want to go apple picking?”

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Sometimes, when we kiss, I keep my eyes open. I know it’s impolite.
It started when I was in high school, the first boy- the one who
tasted like peach vitamin water and sweat- he kissed me as though I
was made of tears and he had never seen the sea before. I as scared
he would look at me, scared that if he opened his eyes, I would turn
into a pillar of salt, so I peeked to make sure he didn’t. First one eye
and then the other, our mouths a tightrope, my eyes a set of cheeky
clowns trying not to fall. I had never seen another person so up-close before. Things happen to God’s perfect aesthetic. Nose are
mountain slopes, cheeks are fields, lips gape and pull, morph and
stretch, we are no longer faces, we are landscapes. I was not kissing
a boy, I was kissing America. And America tasted like peach vitamin
water and sweat.

Now it is a habit. Now, it is less about fear and more about curiosity.
Today I opened my eyes, and this man- the one who makes the bed
when I leave- his eyes were open too. I was embarrassed, and I was
furious! Nobody opens their eyes when they kiss! How dare he look
at me when I did not know! But when I puled away from him, he
was smiling; he had not blinked. He does not kiss me like an ocean.
His eyes do no turn me to salt. This is new terrain.

—  Open, Sarah Kay