soul searching in the early morning

twohungryblackbirds  asked:

Are you still taking fluffy prompts???? I'd sell my soul for some good old fashioned 00Q early morning domestic fluff. Waking up to the sound of rain, morning coffee, the whole shebang. Whadaya say???

For you? Anything <3


Q woke from the dip in the bed and the swift, short rush of cool air that followed. All of the lights were off, and no light filtered in through the blinds. Still early, then–too early.

Then he remembered: James was only just back from abroad. He was jet lagged, no doubt.

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New CYOA fic (teaser)

So I’m working on a choose-your-own-adventure Sherlock fic. It’s taking me forever and unfortunately, I can’t really post it as I go. Here’s a teaser, though, just to prove I haven’t fallen off the fanfic planet:

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Sherlock Holmes, John decided, was a dick. This wasn’t new information - everyone had been telling him variations on the same theme ever since he agreed to be Sherlock’s flatmate - but Sherlock’s latest actions confirmed it. The git was standing there in the kitchen, wearing John’s cooking apron over his pajamas and robe. Two-hundred-pound protective gear covering his ears (John had found the receipt the day after Sherlock had stuck him with a hefty cab fare claiming he had no cash.) And looking totally befuddled as to why John might be furious at him.


“It’s not like it damaged anything structural,” Sherlock argued, pulling the reinforced headset and apron off. “I did the maths first.”


“Did your maths account for the fact that it’s two in the bloody morning and I was sleeping not three yards above where you set that thing off?” John looked pointedly upward. Sure enough, there were scorch marks on the ceiling from where Sherlock’s improvised explosive had left a distinctive char pattern. “It may not have broken anything down here but my hearing is worth not damaging, you arse.”


“But if I gave you warning,” Sherlock said, as if he was explaining to a small child, “I would have had to wake you up anyway. And this is extremely time sensitive - it’s for a case. A new one. Lestrade texted me an hour ago but you were sleeping.”


Of course it bloody would be. “Let’s hear it, then.” John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock his best I fucking hate you right now glare. It was no more effective than usual, but giving up on the premise of annoyance would mean he’d have to do some soul-searching as to exactly why he let Sherlock walk all over him and John wasn’t ready for that. “Before Mrs. Hudson comes up to yell at you, too.”


“She won’t.” Sherlock looked offended that John even considered questioning Mrs. Hudson’s loyalty. Or willingness to put up with Sherlock’s shit, more like. “This one’s an eight, though! Ophthalmologist up and disappeared two nights ago. His wife, who was the co-owner of the practice, received a ransom note early yesterday morning demanding thirty million pounds - way more than any reasonable kidnapper could have expected her to come up with. They were well-off, but not that rich. Then she showed up at her office like normal yesterday and narrowly missed being blown up by one of these.” He waved toward the detritus still on the table. “Stronger, of course, but a similar chemical signature. I’d have been able to do more if Lestrade had called me earlier, but he insisted on letting the fire crews demolish the evidence before he even let me know the case existed.”


“So you decided the best way to pursue this new case was not to drag me to the scene, but to build an IED in our kitchen.”


“Now that you’re awake, we can go.” Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Problem?”


IF JOHN BITES HIS TONGUE AND LETS SHERLOCK DRAG HIM INTO THE CASE, GO TO CHAPTER 3.

IF JOHN IS SICK OF SHERLOCK’S TOTAL DISREGARD FOR OTHER PEOPLE AND ISN’T GOING TO LET THIS GO, GO TO CHAPTER 4.

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So yeah, that’s how it starts :-P I have NO idea what to use for a title, so suggestions are welcome!

Thou art God of the early mornings, the God of the late at nights, the God of the mountain peaks, and the God of the sea; but, my God, my soul has further horizons than the early mornings, deeper darkness than the nights of the earth, higher peaks than any mountain peaks, greater depths than any sea in nature– thou who art the God of all these, be my God. I cannot reach to the heights or to the depths; there are motives I cannot trace, dreams I cannot get at– my God, search me out.
—  Oswald Chambers, par. Psalm 139
O Lord, You are the God of the early mornings, the God of the late nights, the God of the mountain peaks, and the God of the sea. But, my God, my soul has horizons further away than those of early mornings, deeper darkness than the nights of earth, higher peaks than any mountain peaks, greater depths than any sea in nature. You who are the God of all these, be my God. I cannot reach to the heights or to the depths; there are motives I cannot discover, dreams I cannot realize. My God, search me.
—  Oswald Chambers

anonymous asked:

And what made Press fall in love with Tobin ? And Tobin with Press ?

Christen fell in love with the way Tobin’s smile and the way she grinned every time she saw Christen. She fell in the love with Tobin’s soft prayers before a match, and the way she looked at home with a ball in between her feet. She fell in love with Tobin early in the morning, hair damp from surfing, wetsuit clinging to her in all the right places. She fell in love with Tobin in sweats and a snapback and the way she would kiss Christen like it was the first time every time she kissed her.

Tobin fell in love with Christen’s eyes and the way they seemed to search her soul. She fell in love with Christen’s gentleness and the way everything was organised because it gave calmness to her own life. She fell in love with how good and how pure Christen was and how she showed love to everyone around her. She fell in love with the way Christen would try and sneakily borrow her clothes, and she fell in love with the way Christen looked, first thing in the morning, in one of Tobin’s old nike t shirts, lightly falling down her tan legs. She fell in love with Christen in a thousand ways and she fell in love with her a thousand new ways every day.

6

Hassle-Blad, my Blad….etc: A Tale of Photogluttony 

I have a problem. I take too many pictures with too many cameras. The greatest, some of the greatest photographers that ever shot, shot often with one maybe two cameras. Then there are those of us who take as much pleasure in the pornography of diversity. Shutters that slap, others that click, focusing on ground glass, rangefinding with a split image, cameras with backs, cameras you can pocket….et al. 

I should be editing right now. Really. My film, on which I have slaved many months, editing to all hours, even reshooting a scene late last night, is due next week. For real, I have to be done editing. But I’m writing this. I’m writing  this about shooting those…those test shots up there. After years of being Hasselblad free, I  basically reinstated my entire kit in one fell swoop in a feverish intoxicating binge on ebay the other night. 

I have plenty of cameras which shoot 120, that shoot 6x9, 6x7, that shoot polaroid….but oh I guess strictly speaking I have no working camera that shoots square. Or was it that I simply missed a very fertile period during which I owned that Blad and lived in DUMBO, Brooklyn a few years back? 

Or was I, am I,  simply trying to fill the infinite chasm that is my wretched wanting soul. I’d prefer not to think the latter. 

I had a dream. Not a dream that one day the races would be united or that  world hunger  would be abolished with the funds being used to arm the country or being used to search for  the missing Malaysian aircraft. But I had a dream last night or early this morning that my Hasselblad arrived nicked and tattered, in absolutely terrible shape. I woke fast and cold but self-mollified: “He’s the best, most trustworthy seller on ebay.” It’s true I bought my last kit from him, he’s great, generous, communicative, his merchandise as described,  and always in great shape. 

The dogs are barking. The USPS carrier must be here. It’s 10:50 am, I’m still in bed, was editing until 4:30am…I’ll just let him leave the package. We have a deal that even if signatures are required for priority mail he’ll just leave it for me. 

But I get a twinge, a pang. That package isn’t there is it? I go outside, slippers, pajamas, glasses….NO! A  PINK STICKER! A GODDAMN PINK STICKER! I dread those thing, the post office always  ALWAYS has a hard time finding my stuff when it goes back to them. 

Fuck it, I’m gonna find him. Or her. Yeah, it can’t be my regular guy. There’s this other one. I don’t have a deal with her. BUT i left two notes last night with my signature: “Please leave all packages for Adam Goldberg.” I grab my keys, head out into blinding daylight in my sleep outfit wearing my too strong for sunny days thick prescription glasses and start scouring my neighborhood. Which way would she go? Almost immediately I find not her, but a carrier who says he thinks she’s up in the hills, so i go into a sprawling hilly neighborhood by my house, find another guy who’s sure she’s up there, that Richard (my regular guy) is always up there around this time, and  still another carrier says my guy isn’t working today, and she described the young lady taking Richard’s shift. I drive around for an hour. 

The dogs are probably shitting themselves – literally. I’m starving. After as much detective work I can muster, I give up. But as I’m about to hang a right on Los Feliz Bl. I spy a square white truck in my periphery; I turn. A USPS truck is parked more or less at an outlet that would dump you off  from the hilly neighborhood purported to be my carrier’s beat. 

I ask her if she delivers to my address. She does. And I sign for my stuff.  I’m a winner. I mean, come on. I’m a winner. 

Then spend most of the day decidedly not editing, really pissing (what’s left of) my future  the toilet. I’m unpacking and testing all the components of this very modular photographic system. I’m shooting this, trying that, inspecting this, double exposing that… I told a friend that in spite of the details one must remember to track – don’t take the lens off unless it’s wound or it will jam the lens shutter (did that once today already) and a myriad  of others technicalities –  I am reminded also that there is something about the system that feels like the very essence of picture taking boiled down somehow. Perhaps not quite as cogently as a view camera, but in that vein. 

But oh, like many of my dreams – both good and bad – last night’s came true, though not quite as heinously. The rubber focus grip on the 80mm is cracked and slips.  But that’s what you get…when you get…and get….and get….

ag