smashed windscreen


2001 Greyhound Bus Attack

On the 3rd of October 2001, Damir Igric boarded the Greyhound bus which left Chicago and headed for Orlando. Whilst on route past Nashville, Tennessee, Igric lunged at the drive with a knife, slit his throat and grabbed the steering wheel. The bus carrying 39 people crashed and rolled over. Igric smashed through the windscreen and died instantly the driver survived but six people died in the collision.

During the trip Igric repeatedly approached the driver asking how long and asked a female passenger if he could have her seat.

The Croatian native had a history of mental health problems

BSD Novel: Dazai Osamu and the Dark Era (Chapter 4, Part 1)

Apologies for the delay on this. The week’s been really busy for me, so updates on these might be slower than I’d expected, but I wanted to get this chapter rolling first. Chapter 4 is slightly longer than the rest, so I’ll be estimating around 11 or 12 parts for this chapter.

Let me just take this moment to warn you for violence and general pain and suffering for the entire chapter, just in case you weren’t already aware what you were getting into. Without further ado.

Please thank @nakaharachuyaa @mlntyoonqi @bananasaurr!! Best proofreaders I could ask for.

Keep reading


Smashed across the windscreen of the sky / that’s all we’ve ever been
Lost amongst the fading stars / that’s all we’ve ever been
Stood aghast as all the light blinks out / that’s all we’ve ever been
Just dragging hidden chains of silence / all that’s ever been.

Creepypasta #477: Police Aware

‘Police Aware’, the fluorescent yellow sticker said.

The first time I saw one I thought nothing of it. Neither would you. It was just an overturned car sticking out of the bushes at the side of the road. It was a silver people carrier that was popular amongst school-runners. Practical. Sensible. Good mileage. Advertised by the flexibility of storage arrangements in the boot rather than speeding around city streets at night with a stubbly young professional smirking at the wheel. You know the type.

Still, a car is a car. A blown tyre is a blown tyre. No amount of ‘Baby on Board’ signs will prevent a swerve and a flip if mum is too busy texting home to get there safely. Now, all that flexible storage space rested upside down and half buried in the bushes of the embankment. I’d only noticed it because it was a new route home. An accident somewhere had deadlocked my normal route and I didn’t want to spend my evening in 1st gear, so I struck out on towards the backroads. I could still hear dear ol’ Dad’s voice in my ears; “Maps are for cowards and women. Just make sure you know what side the sun is meant to be on”. He… meant well.

With the sun firmly in the right part of the sky, I started winding my way through the back lanes and country roads that snaked and slithered amongst the industrial estates between me and home. I stumbled across ‘The Big Waitrose’ I’d heard so much about from the posh girl at work, and a McDonalds with a 24hr drive-thru (unsurprisingly absent from posh girl’s guide to local attractions).

In the joy of finding my own little path I hadn’t noticed my speed creeping up and a sharp corner took me by surprise. It was nothing a little heavy braking didn’t sort out. Then I saw the car half sticking out of the bushes opposite. Rear windscreen smashed in. ‘Police aware’ sticker half peeled and flapping in the summer breeze. Mud and mess smeared across the silver paintwork. Must have been going faster than I was.

As I said, I thought nothing of it. Neither would you.

The next day, the traffic was clear.

A few weeks later, after a long day to tail off a longer week I found the urge to treat myself to a fancy ready meal and decided to see whether I could retrace the route to The Big Waitrose. I came to the same sharp bend in the road.

A new car.

Same accident, same spot, different car.

This one was red. Slimmer. Faster looking. I’ll admit my knowledge of cars is lacking at best but I very much doubted that this one was sold on its safety rating. Stuck across the back was another fluorescent yellow ‘Police Aware’ sign. What are the odds? He must have been going too fast and missed the bend, I thought, amazing myself at how readily I assigned fault, method and gender to the driver based on nothing more than having a faster car than me. Dear ol’ dad in my ear again, describing my car’s 0-60 time as ‘eventually’.

A few more weeks passed.

By now we were firmly into Autumn. A wet afternoon had brought down a thin blanket of leaves and the evening air had a distinct chill to it. I’d been kept at work late for reasons that are still fuzzy to me. I think there had been a meeting. Or was I preparing for a meeting? I can’t remember. But I remember the leaves. And I remember the chill. I remember the chill especially because I remember the plunging ache in my jaws as it blew over my broken teeth.

When I left work it was dark. It must have been because I remember the way my headlights flashed against the yellow diversion sign that blocked my normal route home. Here is where I wish I could tell you in detail what happened but I can’t. I wish I could tell you more about the…thing. The thing from the bushes. But I can’t. My head injury smashed most of my memories along with my teeth.

All I have left are flashes. Something on the bonnet of the car. The sound of screeching brakes. The smell of burning rubber. The gritty, metallic crunchiness of a mouthful of blood and shattered teeth. The skipping CD playing the same three notes of that Biffy Clyro track. The pounding throb in my ear as I was held upside down by my seatbelt. Dear ol’ Dad’s voice in my head again- “Make sure you always wear a seatbelt – after all, what was the last thing that went through Lady Di’s head? That’s right son, the dashboard”.

But I do have one crystal clear memory. I remember the only good look I got at it. Hanging there, prone and limp trying to figure out which way was up as Diet Coke dripped on me from somewhere. I heard something crawl above me. Or under me. Around me. The scratching noise, like twigs scraping down broken pipes, seemed to come from everywhere.

I wrenched my head around to look out of my back window and what I saw made me bellow an absurd laugh that sent flecks of frothy blood and tooth against the back seat.

It was the same corner.

Same accident.

And then I saw them. The long fingers. Rough, almost bark-like, clutching around the edges of the broken rear window. They delicately tapped and grabbed and stroked like a nervous pianist against the inside roof. As they slowly, surely, gained purchase on the soft felt lining, they gripped and pulled. Then, the scraggly, leafy hairs of the head some unknown creature came into view.

It pulled and nudged and advanced until I could see it’s whole face. Gaunt and drawn, his mouth fell impossibly low and revealed nothing but inky void. His eyes were absences. His skin wrought with deep wrinkles that followed every curve of his elongated face. I was somehow reminded of old 3D puzzles I use to make with Dear ol’ Dad where each layer was made of flat cardboard pieces stacked up to make a 3D shape.

Now, having gained a firm grip on the back window, the thing thrust a barky hand towards my face. Mere millimetres out of reach, I tossed and wrenched to get away from the scratchy, earthy fingers that plied at my face and grabbed into the broken bleeding mess of my teeth. At that moment, another car came around the corner. It’s headlights seemed to bore through the creature’s head, illuminating his eyes and mouth as though he were translucent. The beams seemed to drive a kind of ethereal scream from the creature, as though light passed through him like air over vocal chords. Then, with none of the slow, clutching trepidation with which he’d pulled towards me, he was gone. Somewhere, in the distance, brakes squealed.

Some faint, fading, heavenly voice… “Fuckin shit mate Jesus… Can you hear me? You alright in there? I’m calling an ambulance just hol….” And then sweet nothingness.

In the hospital, they found nothing. Smears of dirt here or there. Nothing to lend credence to the idea of a leafy monster in the bushes. The car was a write off, but it was insured. I replaced it with a brand new, ‘highest safety rating in its class’ 4x4. Dear ol’ Dad in my ear – ‘You lose half the value just driving off the forecourt’.

Fuck off, Dad.

Months later, there was a blown gas pipe near my work and I had to drive the same road back. Like clockwork, there it was. Sticking out of the bushes. An Audi A3. I paid it attention that time. And so should you.

“Police Aware”

No they’re not.

Credits to: Skarjo


Gut-wrenching photos show the violent clash between Neo-Nazis and pro-refugee protesters

On Saturday, a group of fascist nationalists were waiting for anti-fascist protesters at a service station in Maidstone, United Kingdom. The neo-Nazi group allegedly started attacking the protesters’ coaches, throwing objects and punches, smashing one of the windscreens and even reportedly drawing a swastika in blood on one of the busses. Their salute captured in several photos was deeply disturbing.

The boat house on Llyn Ogwen with a snow capped Tryfan.

This picture definitely has a bitter sweet aspect to it. I drove to Snowdonia with the hope of a few night shots of the planet alignment and some of the wintery sunrise. However after only taking a couple of photos I had to go back to my car to get something, only to find someone had smashed my rear windscreen. I then had to drive 3 hours back home in the freezing cold night with no rear window. 


Paul Garcia, les paysages que vos yeux peuvent toucher (the landscapes your eyes can touch)

(FR) Oubliez tout ce que vous avez déjà vu sur l’Islande, ses paysages à couper le souffle, si envoutants qu’on en oublie presque d’avoir un point de vue. Paul Garcia revient d’Islande et c’est différent. Il a fait entrer l’Islande dans ses obsessions. La rencontre du territoire volcanique et de son approche sensorielle fait des étincelles. Sa série privilégie les lignes abstraites et la lumière blanche (comme on dit bruit blanc) d’un monde pourtant profondément physique, sans opposer la nature et les matériaux moins nobles. Ce sont des paysages et des détails, parfaitement observés, mais en aucun cas des cartes postales. Ses images donnent une vision très particulière du territoire et en ce sens on est sûr de partager une expérience authentique.

(EN) Forget everything you saw about Iceland, its breathtaking landscapes, so captivating that you almost forget to have a point of view. Paul Garcia has returned from Iceland and it looks different. Iceland fits into his process. The meeting between this volcanic land and his sensory approach makes sparks fly. His series favours the abstract lines and white light (as in white noise) of a world that is, nevertheless, profoundly physical, without pitting nature against less noble materials. These are landscapes and details, perfectly observed, but never postcards. They offer a very particular vision of the territory and in this sense you are sure that you are sharing a genuine experience.

Voici comment il parle de son voyage dans un mail du 19 juillet (en anglais seulement) / Here’s how he talks about his journey in an email dated July 19:

My girlfriend and I only spent two weeks in Iceland. We hired an off-roader and drove all the way around the island - sleeping on a mattress in the back and cooking eccentrically on two little stoves. We did 1800 miles. Cost us more in petrol than our return flights. We both came back with sixteen films to develop and scan. We had a great time. Initially I was disappointed with the photographs, but i’m starting to warm to some of them… For some reason when I go on holiday I think I’m going to suddenly and miraculously change into Ansel Adams and take beautiful landscapes from the top of my car. Of course, the reality is that I am not a landscape photographer with a darkroom, but am still shooting with the same rangefinder and getting shitty scans made at a high street store. It is strange how I write so much about photography and the principles; how we see what we need to see and work hard to refine this necessity, and how it is all about patience and connection with the narrative - but still get tripped up by two weeks away. For the rest of the time I live on a small farm outside of Liverpool, and most of my work is just spent walking the fields around my house. It is the routine / familiarity that I always thought made my work interesting - that you can start to build up the layers of understanding and describe these magical little moments in even the dullest landscapes. I have no idea why I put this pressure on myself to justify the distance flown and the money spent. It still takes me a while to realise that even in the most beautiful landscape, I still default to what I recognise. Taking pictures of Jökulsárlón was the tipping point. Jostling with a beach-full of digital photographers perched over every iceberg with their expensive tripods looking for the perfect slow exposure of waves crashing. I felt a responsibility to be more than a tourist - but my pictures of ice weren’t that special, and conveyed nothing of the magic of the spectacle. I think sometimes we are all guilty of using the camera as a surrogate for the memory. We become distracted by, or dictated too, by this small device in our hand. The irony is for years I’ve written about only being present in the space, and letting the camera become no more than a mirror to the subject - yet the abbreviated nature of a holiday makes us panic and start worrying about what the picture will look like. The reality is that I would probably need a month on the beach to understand the light, the ice, the subtleties of both - and thirty minutes on a crowded beach left me feeling sick and slightly lost. Anyway, I dropped the tourist maps in the bin and quickly drew a line under those kinds of shots. Sure enough on the way back to the car I took a beautiful shot of a puddle in the mud. From this point we just drove all the dead-end roads and explored the quiet towns; the factories, industrial estates and workshops. it is not like the UK where we are constantly followed by security cameras and guards and questioned about our reasons for being there - these places are just empty, and if you happen across someone, they just smile. One day we pulled off the road into a junk yard - a thousand cars rotting in a field backdropped by snow capped mountains - the owner let us walk around for the afternoon, open doors, crawl inside. I found it ironic that I didn’t get a decent shot of any icebergs, but the smashed windscreens made a beautiful alternative. The working Icelanders also appear to enjoy arranging their materials and I became fascinated by this ordered kind of random; things stacked on pallet boards or resting against walls. People familiar with my work know I enjoy finding patterns/logic in what appears chaotic, so it became interesting to try and find an overlap in something that had been clearly, albeit subconsciously, designed by some else - like trying to write a poem from a conversation you’d overheard.“

Paul Garcia

“You learn from your mistakes”

Well, thanks to 250 episodes of Greys Anatomy, here are a few mistakes you don’t have to learn from because you watched the surgeons over at Seattle Grace/Seattle Grace Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial make them for you.

1. Don’t say “I’m just a girl in a bar”.

If you’re getting drunk with a guy, find out if he’s your boss and if he is married to a redheaded goddess. If no to both these questions, you’ll save yourself a lot of heart ache.

2. Don’t be going around cutting LVAD wires.

Especially if you don’t even know what one is. Even if it’s to save your dying fiancee- just don’t. As we have discovered, the recipient could still die.

3. Don’t judge snarky, sarcastic people by their covers.

Case in point: Mertina. That snarky, sarcastic person could be YOUR person and if you end up killing someone, you’re going to need that person to help you drag that body across that floor.

4. If you’re helping survivors of a ferry crash, don’t be THAT person who falls into the water.

And if you are, at least try to swim.

5. Don’t ever let Mama Burke near your eyebrows.

Especially on your wedding day.

6. Don’t let a crazy sit on your sofa.

She’ll end up peeing on it.

7. If you start seeing your dead fiancee, assume something is up…

Don’t have ghost sex with him, talk to him, fall in love with him all over again, think it’s cool… You probably have a brain tumour.

8. Don’t take your seat belt off.

Not even for a second. You could end up smashed through a windscreen and in a weird hallucination where surgeons communicate through song.

9. Don’t be go getting on any planes Shonda is in control of.

There will be a fault, there will be a crash, there will be at least one death, there will be tears.

10. Don’t trust Shane Ross.

He’ll send you to find Webber and you’ll end up dying. (A minute silence is kept here for my beloved Mousey)

11. Don’t judge a person’s height.

Height doesn’t matter when it comes to winning. And Bailey will win every time. Don’t go against her for chief resident, don’t go against her for a board seat, and certainly not for chief of surgery.

12. Don’t give a woman an ultimatum.

She doesn’t like them. She’ll do what she needs to do and then insist on being your wife. And you won’t be able to just sit and enjoy your burrito.

13. Don’t play softball against your boyfriend’s ex.

Especially if you’re shacking up with Mark. You’ll end up with a sore boob. (Go on Lexie!)

14. Don’t answer the phone.

Especially during a three point turn when you’re in the middle of the road. General car safety basically.

15. Just give any directions.

If someone is creepily asking you for directions to an office, your stock answer should be: up the stairs, first left, follow it down to the end and it’s on your right. Then walk away.

16. Don’t ever think you can’t.

If Meredith can do it, you can. She has been through more shit than you for sure, so just suck it up and do it.

17. Don’t miss an episode of Greys Anatomy.

You never know what you might learn…

Is One Normal Day Too Much To Ask?

***You’re Jordan Parrish’s cousin and you’re staying for a few weeks during the holidays. You’re a werewolf and you just want to have a normal Summer. Yeah, like that’s going to happen***

Different from what I normally do. Open to feedback

Okay, this is fine. it’s good to get away from the pack for a little while. I’m doing something normal. Maybe I could get a summer job. Or flirt with someone. That’d be great, no supernatural stuff. You thought. After the ordeal back in your hometown with the vamps trying to take over the place, the alpha said it’d be good for you to get away. Like “Oh, yeah you were captured and fed on by vamps for a while, you deserve a holiday”. Damn, right you do. 

You’re on your way to give Jordan his lunch when your car is hit from the side. The impact sends your car spiraling towards the woods. Glass is shattering and slicing, not only through the air, but through your face too. Goddamn it. As your car is still spiraling, your body is trying to heal but the cuts that fade are quickly replaced by new ones. You’ve hit your head multiple times already and you can feel the blackness edging around your eyesight. The car only stops when it’s hit a tree. You’re a little lightheaded from blood loss. The adrenaline is starting to fade and you become more aware of your more pressing injuries, like the branch through your stomach; for example. You laugh humorlessly. Of course. The branch in your stomach had smashed through both your windscreen and you. Parrish is going to kill me. 

“Scotty, it’s down here.” You faintly hear. Everything seems kind of silenced. A face pops up right near your window. “Oh my god, you have a stick through your stomach.” The boy says, paling slightly at the sight of you.

“You’re tell me.” You chuckle lightly. Another boy shows up and stands next to the other. He smells strangely familiar, but in your state you can’t quite figure it out.

“Stiles, move out of the way. I’ll cut her out, but then we have to go.” He warns, claws sliding out of his finger tips. You groan.

“Oh, god. You’re a werewolf.” You manage as he swipes through the branch. The comment startles him and he also cuts through your leg. Unfazed, and still with a branch in your stomach, you pop open the door and slide out. Then, you grab hold of the part of tree that’s sticking out of you and glide it out. You grimace at the pain. When you look up you’re met with the looks of two very confused teenaged boys.

“Oh, please god tell me you aren’t running away for anything.” You plead.

Stiles turns to Scott. “Oh, right,” He says. “We were in the middle of running away.”

You look over their shoulder to see a man with no mouth. 

“Can’t a girl get away from supernatural drama for one day?” You groan preparing for another fight.