thrown from a moving car


Not Star Wars related. Kitten spam! I must have done something good, because two orphan calico kittens just arrived at my place for fosterage.

They’re about 5-6 weeks old, found on the road near the village. One has injuries consistent with being thrown from a moving car or having ridden on the engine of a moving car. Two littermates, sadly, died on the road.

My adult foster, River, is none too pleased with the newcomers, but I think she’ll warm to them.

Drunk-(Stiles Stilinski)

Originally posted by viciousam

Characters: Scott McCall, Liam Dunbar, Derek Hale, Isaac Lahey, Stiles Stilinski and (Y/N)

Word Count: 698

Warnings: alcohol?

Pairing: Stiles x Reader

Summary: you help a drunk Stiles(based on a request)

(A/N) I want to apologize in advance, I may not be posting as regularly as I do for a while, I am going through a rough patch right now.

Keep reading

There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension.  What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point.  For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night.  I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too.  We know it because we feel it.  The baby frets.  The maid sulks.  I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air.  To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.

I recall being told, when I first moved to Los Angeles and was living on an isolated beach, that the Indians would throw themselves into the sea when the bad wind blew.  I could see why.   The Pacific turned ominously glossy during a Santa Ana period, and one woke in the night troubled not only by the peacocks screaming in the olive trees but by the eerie absence of surf.  The heat was surreal.  The sky had a yellow cast, the kind of light sometimes called “earthquake weather.”  My only neighbor would not come out of her house for days, and there were no lights at night, and her husband roamed the place with a machete.  One day he would tell me that he had heard a trespasser, the next a rattlesnake.

“On nights like that,” Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, “every booze party ends in a fight.  Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks.  Anything can happen.”  That was the kind of wind it was.  I did not know then that there was any basis for the effect it had on all of us, but it turns out to be another of those cases in which science bears out folk wisdom.  The Santa Ana, which is named for one of the canyons it rushers through, is foehn wind, like the foehn of Austria and Switzerland and the hamsin of Israel.  There are a number of persistent malevolent winds, perhaps the best know of which are the mistral of France and the Mediterranean sirocco, but a foehn wind has distinct characteristics:  it occurs on the leeward slope of a mountain range and, although the air begins as a cold mass, it is warmed as it comes down the mountain and appears finally as a hot dry wind.  Whenever and wherever foehn blows, doctors hear about headaches and nausea and allergies, about “nervousness,” about “depression.”

In Los Angeles some teachers do not attempt to conduct formal classes during a Santa Ana, because the children become unmanageable.  In Switzerland the suicide rate goes up during the foehn, and in the courts of some Swiss cantons the wind is considered a mitigating circumstance for crime.  Surgeons are said to watch the wind, because blood does not clot normally during a foehn.  A few years ago an Israeli physicist discovered that not only during such winds, but for the ten or twelve hours which precede them, the air carries an unusually high ratio of positive to negative ions.  No one seems to know exactly why that should be; some talk about friction and others suggest solar disturbances.  In any case the positive ions are there, and what an excess of positive ions does, in the simplest terms, is make people unhappy.  One cannot get much more mechanistic than that.

Easterners commonly complain that there is no “weather” at all in Southern California, that the days and the seasons slip by relentlessly, numbingly bland.  That is quite misleading.  In fact the climate is characterized by infrequent but violent extremes:  two periods of torrential subtropical rains which continue for weeks and wash out the hills and send subdivisions sliding toward the sea; about twenty scattered days a year of the Santa Ana, which, with its incendiary dryness, invariably means fire.  At the first prediction of a Santa Ana, the Forest Service flies men and equipment from northern California into the southern forests, and the Los Angeles Fire Department cancels its ordinary non-firefighting routines.  The Santa Ana caused Malibu to burn as it did in 1956, and Bel Air in 1961, and Santa Barbara in 1964.  In the winter of 1966-67 eleven men were killed fighting a Santa Ana fire that spread through the San Gabriel Mountains.

Just to watch the front-page news out of Los Angeles during a Santa Ana is to get very close to what it is about the place.  The longest single Santa Ana period in recent years was in 1957, and it lasted not the usual three or four days but fourteen days, from November 21 until December 4.  On the first day 25,000 acres of the San Gabriel Mountains were burning, with gusts reaching 100 miles an hour.  In town, the wind reached Force 12, or hurricane force, on the Beaufort Scale; oil derricks were toppled and people ordered off the downtown streets to avoid injury from flying objects.  On November 22 the fire in the San Gabriels was out of control.  On November 24 six people were killed in automobile accidents, and by the end of the week the Los Angeles Times was keeping a box score of traffic deaths.  On November 26 a prominent Pasadena attorney, depressed about money, shot and killed his wife, their two sons and himself.  On November 27 a South Gate divorcée, twenty-two, was murdered and thrown from a moving car.  On November 30 the San Gabriel fire was still out of control, and the wind in town was blowing eighty miles an hour.  On the first day of December four people died violently, and on the third the wind began to break.

It is hard for people who have not lived in Los Angeles to realize how radically the Santa Ana figures in the local imagination.  The city burning is Los Angeles’s deepest image of itself.  Nathaniel West perceived that, in The Day of the Locust, and at the time of the 1965 Watts riots what struck the imagination most indelibly were the fires.  For days one could drive the Harbor Freeway and see the city on fire, just as we had always known it would be in the end.  Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability.  The winds shows us how close to the edge we are.

–Joan Didion, “The Santa Ana” (The Saturday Evening Post, 1965), from her essay “Los Angeles Notebook”

rest your soul away [fuckpig verse] - 2.2k - character study of heather garland, daniel’s mother. (for @homo-pink. love u 4ever♥)

Heather Garland doesn’t look like much.

Sure, she’s beautiful. And in a town like this, that’s pretty rare. But beauty don’t mean that people take her seriously. It usually means the opposite. Beauty makes people crazy. Makes people forget things like rules and laws and boundaries and things their mama taught them. Beauty makes drunk stepdaddies get their hands between 12-year-old legs and talk about cherries while mama’s in the shower and it makes high school boyfriends think they own her and ex-husbands want to kill her because they don’t anymore.

Beauty means Heather’s been fucked over and fucked, been beaten and thrown from moving cars, been held at gunpoint and even been shot. Twice.

It’s the bulletholes that make her the maddest. One on her left shoulder and one just above her right hip. She’d rubbed aloe into them like a new religion, but they’d still scarred. Goddamn bastards.

(continue on ao3.)

soulja boy is capable of using his godlike power to rotate an entire cityscape 45 degrees as evidenced by the reflection visible in his sunglasses. moving cars are thrown from roads, skyscrapers topple, thousands are dead because of soulja boy


I got my first foster kitty today. She’s incredibly sweet, but she breaks my heart. Today, she was thrown from a moving car. Her mouth’s a little roughed up, and one of her teeth are broken, but she’s fine besides that.

Thinking about what kind of person could do that to a kitten makes me sick.

She’s only about 6 or 7 weeks, and she fits in my hands if I cup them together. 

Hopefully, she’ll be able to eat regular food as soon as her mouth stops swelling.

Goodbye Southern, What exactly happened

     I’ve been painting the pavement in Statesboro, around the campus of Georgia Southern University for several years now.  For almost a decade I’ve dedicated my time and being to learning how to turn chalk and dirty sidewalks into something greater.  Unfortunately I find it all coming to an end.  

     This past Thursday, the 13th, I was sitting on my normal pitch by Retrievers.  It was a little after 2am, very cold.  I was out a little later than normal because I had decided to do a more complex piece than usual and wasn’t ready to quit yet.  The street was quiet since most of the bar traffic had gone home.

     I heard something and looked up.  I see a young black guy in a red sweatshirt running toward me rubbing his hands together.  "Damn it’s cold" he said, I chuckled a bit and said “Yeah….” as he ran past me, scooped up my tip hat, which had deep sentimental value to me, and kept on running.  Before I could process what had happened he had rounded the corner towards Eagle Village and was gone.

      I called the police and filed a report, but I know I’ll never see that hat or its contents again.  

     Later that night on Yik Yak(local social media) Someone asked “What happened to chalk guy?”  One of the responses was, “Me and my homies robbed that hobo bitch.”

     This semester I’ve been robbed twice, in almost the exact same fashion, a run by snatch and grab.  It may have been the same person, sadly I never got a good look either time.  I’ve also had a full tallboy of cheap beer thrown at me from a moving car passing along Georgia Ave.  This is what has become of Statesboro and sadly I can no longer be a part of this towns culture.  

     I’ve had fun painting this town.  It was good while it lasted.  I’ve been shown great generosity and support by many of the students at Southern and am thankful to have met those students.  I’ve always been open to talk to a passing student about anything they wished.  I simply wanted to bring joy to this small town but thanks to a few predatory children I can no longer do it.   When I paint the sidewalk I reach a zen like state of peace and relaxation.  But no more, I cannot be relaxed when I am constantly looking over my shoulder for the next attack.

     I don’t know if I’ll ever return to the sidewalk here but I doubt it.  There will come a time when I leave this town and move on to another. When that time comes I will find a new town with new sidewalks to paint and hopefully I’ll not have to fear the actions of random passers by as I have had to here in Statesboro.

     I’m sorry to have to stop, but I cannot continue when I know what horrible people lay in wait in the night to prey upon me for no reason.  The era of “The Chalk Guy” has ended.   Stay Classy GS.

resplendeo  asked:

these modern shitty bananas- Bucky, still an assassin, still not hanging around with steve, recently got all his memories back - breaking into someone's house in the middle of the night and interrogating them as to where all the bananas went so he can send a bunch of them to steve. the chase is then still on.

Jasper Sitwell regrets many things in his life, but most of all at this current moment he regrets being thrown from a moving car and then spending a lengthy period in hospital with every SHIELD agent (and in that particular hospital, they were legion) giving him dirty looks.

It’s like no-one’s ever heard of the concept of double agent before.

In any case, he’s glad to be home. That first night, he sinks gratefully into his bed, turns off the light, puts his glasses on his nightstand-

And feels, rather than sees, a shadowy shape enters the room.

“Bananas.” the shape growls, and Sitwell, to his credit, does not instantly deposit a large brick into his pyjama bottoms.

“I- Winter Soldier?”

“Bucky Barnes.” This isn’t real. This can’t be. He hit his head pretty hard on the highway, he should tell the hospital-

“Bananas, Sitwell.”

“I don’t understand-”

There’s a creak as the figure- the Soldier, oh God, it’s the Soldier, it’s definitely him- sits on his bed and takes out a knife. 

“The bananas. They’re different.”

“They are?” Sitwell isn’t a praying man, but he decides to start anyway and see where it takes him. Goddamnit why did he let the investigation take all his guns-

“Yes.” The Soldier leans forward. “I want to know where the good bananas are.”

“I- er-” It takes every ounce of Sitwell’s training to keep his mind working instead of simply shutting down from fear. “f- f- farmer’s market? Maybe?” His brain, jangling with adrenaline, returns a result. ‘There’s one a few blocks from here. Open Wednesdays.“

"Thank you." 

The weight on his bed lifts. The window slides open. Sitwell, drenched in sweat, closes his eyes.

"Sorry about throwing you from that car.”

Sitwell, just about, manages to find his voice.

“It’s no big deal." What’s some cracked ribs among ex-HYDRA agents? "Don’t worry about it.”

And then, thank God, he’s gone.

Jasper Sitwell regrets many things in his life.

Not knowing a thing about bananas is now one of them.