spilled wiring

Don’t you dare be surprised that your government spies..Lies and uses your TV and phone to burglarize and supervise..All of our lives, all of our most intimate actions and imagination..Our gadgets are just another agent using entertainment as a tool for enslavement
—  Born Free #therealbornfree
Wires & Stars

There are wires in his heart, but he doesn’t notice them so much anymore. He lives at the top of a very tall tower with a high sloping roof, so tall that the stars that fall so frequently in that part of the world come shrieking down just above the shingles; and sometimes the young stars, the runts of the celestial litters, too small to keep up with all their elder siblings, slip out of their orbits entirely and come straight in through the open windows, skidding across the floor and fetching up against the opposite wall in a heap. Young stars are hairless, eyeless, mewling things, all covered in mucus and slime that sizzles where it spatters on the floor, and they must be handled with very thick gloves, as the silvery scar tissue all up and down their host’s arms testifies. He picks them up and places them inside the many baskets and buckets and cat carriers hanging from the ceiling, and he gives them mashed parsnips to eat, and fills their bowls with distilled sunlight. Gradually the growing heat of their bodies burns the stars’ slime away, and their hair dries out and stands up very straight, their skin hardening to translucent crystal, with eyes that burn like amber trapped just beneath the surface. Eventually, when they are strong enough, they leave him, shouting cheerful goodbyes in high-pitched voices as they kick off from his windowsill to resume their long fall around the world. He smiles and waves back, but as he watches them go, these creatures grown up so hard and bright, his heart breaks in his chest, over and over again. And each time his heart breaks, a jolt of electricity runs through the wires, up through the cord that runs from the back of his robes up into the ceiling, and then down again, down the walls and down and down to the base of the tower, where there is a door, and a key in the keyhole, and a cunning mechanism that turns the key a fraction further with each fresh jolt. Once it turns far enough the door will spring open and the man in the tower will be free, and in truth his is a little afraid of this eventuality, and has privately resolved not to let his heart break in the future, so as to remain at his work in the tower forever. It is a hopeless resolution, of course. No one has ever managed to avoid having their heart broken when saying goodbye to a star.


She wasn’t someone
Who was easily described
But rather
She was a collection of leftover words
From some poem she heard
Many years ago
Maybe she wrote it
She couldn’t be sure
But she was always
Carried away
By the wind
And romantic haziness
Clouding her judgement
Just a dash of harsh reality
Blurring her vision
Carried away
Drifting on the breeze
And the moments of life
That she couldn’t write down
Or remember in all their glory
Like the impossibility
Of describing how good it feels
To have the windows open
On an early summer day
When the sun is shining
And the air is perfect
Some things couldn’t be described
And maybe
She was just
One of those things.

Original Work: KH 2/24/15

I love the details you get to see with screencaps and gifs and noticed a few things throughout this scene.

1. They didn’t move anything off the table to start eating at it, just plopped the pizza box on top of some piece of technology. It looks like one of the portable devices that’s built into a suitcase-type container, so they didn’t even bother to close it before putting the box on it either. More Holtz/Abby lab practices to make everyone nervous. You know those girls had soup-spill-on-electrical-wiring-related fires at least once a month.

2. Throughout that first camera shot, Holtz is always leaned back a little bit, while the other three are leaned forward on the table. She’s engaged, certainly, if quiet, but keeping her personal space bubble. Just more evidence for introvert!holtzmann in my book. Reminds me of when I’m enjoying my evening out with friends but starting to reach the point of social overload.

3. How many slices of half-eaten pizza are in front of Holtzmann? I’m guessing she’s the type to grab more food than she can eat while she’s really hungry, then run out of steam. But the second plate in front of her has different toppings and Patty doesn’t have a plate, so now I’m convinced despite being full, when Patty was done, Holtz took her plate to get to try the other type of pizza. So now I absolutely headcanon Holtz just taking the others’ leftovers and finishing them herself.

4. I’ll call slight BS over them having ordered Papa John’s pizza but nobody is using the garlic sauce. That’s the best part! Did they have a hard time deciding how to split it, because you know Holtz doesn’t think twice about dipping into the communal sauce container after having already taken a bite out of something? Is it already used up and gone? Are they a group who actually all hate the extra garlic?

…I may be too far down this rabbit hole. I just love casual team dynamics and random set design details.

I need FAHC Michael who toils at Quantico, who starts out with the crew as an undercover fed, whose whole life has been about bringing criminals to justice–but who more and more sees the appeal of crime life. Who more and more falls in love with Geoff–who takes care of Michael, who loves Michael like no one has ever loved him. Who less and less checks in with his superiors, ignoring voicemails, missing meet ups.

Who more and more realizes that these people are his family–Gavin, his best friend. Ray, his confidant. Jack, the parent he always needed but never had. Ryan, the big brother who has taught him everything, who has killed for him.

I need Michael who can’t live like this any more, who doesn’t want to meet with his superiors ever again, who wants to vomit when he thinks about the times we wore a wire, who spills it all out to Geoff, the unlikely love of his goddamn life. Michael who holds the barrel of Geoff’s gun to his forehead, crying fat tears as he confesses all of his sins–because he’d rather die now than see Geoff or any one of them put away for life, who knows he’s shit–lower than shit, worse than a cop–for what he’s done, for his double life.

Michael, who by all rights should have his blood and brains painting the walls of Geoff’s penthouse by now. Michael, whose pained sobbing turns to relief as Geoff takes the glock from him gently, cards through his hair and says he’s known about Michael’s life as a fed since day one. Michael, who can’t believe his boss as the man calmly explains that they’d taken a vote, that each member of the Fake AH Crew had seen Michael’s potential, had wanted him alive.

Give me the Michael who knows now beyond a doubt that he is loved, that he’s found his real family unlike any bound by heritage, who sees that here in Los Santos (with a trail of chaos and blood running behind him like a wake in water) is where he has belonged all along.

Like a single blade of green after a blaze
A ray of sun after a storm
I began to feel
Weight slowly rose from my shoulders
Hope returned, it was no longer just a dream

This soul is alive and ready to thrive

—  I will not go back to before // this is a life that will be lived (c.f)
All I wanted was someone who could hear me out. But where were you during my darkest hour? Where were you when the demons I locked away in my sleep kept knocking? It’s okay, though. I don’t blame you for not putting someone else first above yourself, because truth be told I would have done the same. It just sucks because if it had been my choice, if I had been the one standing on your shoes, in your place, I’d have done all I could to make sure you found comfort in someone else. That I was there for you when things didn’t seem so easy to deal with on your own.
—  Keen Malasarte, Doubts.

Razor’s edge
High wire act
Tiptoe down
Slip through the cracks
Chasing the gold ring
Never to win
Head spinning
Give in to sin.
Taste of the fire
Breathe it down deep
Voices and laughter
Where no one can see.
Dance to the earthquake
Groan in the wind
Come see her chaos
Let’s begin.
Fly it up higher
Spread it with ease
Up through the netting
Destroy her, the tease.
Drink of the poison
Found on her lips
Lick it off gladly
Then watch as she strips
Layer for layer
Her mask and her eyes
See how she’s frightened
By what lies inside.
Faster she’s careening
Out of control
The one woman circus,
A game she can’t win
It was rigged from the start
Waiting to blow
Watch how she struggles,
Enjoy the show.

© Courtney Turley 2016

Creepypasta #917: In The Basement

Image credits

Length: Short

Where am I? That’s always the first question.

I tell them: 1822 Westly Avenue. In the basement — although that part they could figure out on their own. It’s dark. A single bulb dangling by a wire spills a little light on damp floorboards. The stairs are well out of reach, given the leg clamps, but the door at the top is double bolted all the same. The walls are exposed brick, bare except for the thick metal rings binding us to them.

What happened?

I can’t know for sure, but I have a pretty good idea. I say: you were kidnapped — that’s one thing I know with certainty — by one Mary Smith, housewife of 52. She brought you down here while you were unconscious from the ether. She caught you alone somewhere. And now you’re all clamped up, just like me.

Why? What’s going to happen to me?

This one I do know. I’ve had to break this news countless times over the years — I find its best to just let them know, straight up. It makes them a little frantic, sure, but I prefer not to lie. Weighs easier on my conscience that way.

I say: you’re here for a couple of reasons. The first is that my mother still thinks she can change me. She thinks that having me speak to you like this — as I have for all the others that have come before you — might change the way I am. After all these years, she still doesn’t understand that it’s not a choice for me. Nobody would choose to live this way.

The second is that for all my flaws, my mother loves me dearly. She knows what I crave. And she knows I need to have it fresh.

Credits to: ParaphysRevLett

Captain Captured!

So, I wrote the fic.


They’re coming back to the Ghost, tired but triumphant, laughing and teasing each other. Kanan’s reaching for his comlink, about to tell Hera to prep for the rendezvous with Zeb. They reach the crest of the hill and he never finishes the thought.

The Ghost’s gangway is already down. Chopper lies at the bottom. In two pieces. The little astromech’s orange ‘head’ has been ripped from the rest of his chassis, torn wires spilling from both parts. His frame is blackened with blaster bolts.

Ezra and Sabine fall abruptly silent. “Hera,” Kanan says, or at least his lips shape the word—he’s not sure he’s capable of speech, he doesn’t seem to actually be breathing. He’s already reaching out for her through the Force, for that bright, welcoming presence that he leans on so often.

She’s not here. She’s not here or else she’s—

Kanan forces a breath, centers himself, and drops into a state of pure awareness. Time slows. His own fear and desperation recede; the emotions are still there, but they belong to his limited and ego-oriented self, and his consciousness now is aligned to the vaster, deeper rhythms of the Force.

Things become clearer. He sees what must be done. Enemies have come to the Ghost: the first priority is to determine if any remain, and to look for any sign of Hera.

He unholsters his blaster and strides forward. When he reaches the gangway he jerks his chin at the disassembled Chopper. “Spectre-5. See what you can do. Specter-6, we’ll sweep the ship.”

They murmur their assent. Kanan senses his padawan struggling to master his own anxiety: this is evoking memories for Ezra, memories of the day he came home and found his home destroyed. He’s doing well, considering. He falls into place just behind Kanan and to his right, his lightsaber drawn but not activated.

They move swiftly and silently through the levels of the ship. Kanan takes ladders in one or two jumps, and Ezra manages to more or less keep up. They spare no more than a glance for each of the empty cabins. There’s nothing here, no signs of struggle, nothing out of place.

No bodies.

Keep reading

Barbed wire serves the purpose to protect, so I wrapped up my heart with it. Partly to stop you from breaking and entering and partly because I never wanted you to leave. Both ways, it was my heart that was pierced with the barbed wire.
—  VoicelessConfessions