time-tell-tales

4

i just started reading part 4 and im deep into josuyasu hell

do you ever wonder if any of the kids that went to some of Percy’s older schools were demigods as well?

Imagine one of them coming to camp and meeting Percy again, and suddenly all those strange events that happened around him, the stories of mysterious occurrences that happened to this random kid, all make perfect sense.

The Trap

In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.

She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.

When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery, three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to the starving people.

And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply “This is the last one I am sending you today.”

Original Author: Unknown

The Trap

In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk, and the man asked her for a favor: could she deliver a letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.

She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.

When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery. Three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to starving people.

And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply, “This is the last one I am sending you today.”

Nathan had slipped away from his seat before the lights came back on, he wasn’t about to be cornered by the journalists watching the show to question why he was there. Heading backstage through all the bustling people, most people ignored him and was too busy organising the last few tasks that needed to be done. But he noted the heads that turned as he walked through the crowds, keeping his head down as he did. As far as fashion shows went, it was alright. He was never massively entertained but he always went to support Lacey. Finally seeing Lacey through the crowds pretending to have a good time, to tell tale signs that she really wasn’t blatantly obvious to him. Though his friends didn’t seem to notice. It had been a long couple of shows, lots of watching shows, followed by him filling in the chat when Lacey got tired of pretending to be ok. And avoiding all kinds of questions being thrown at them from all different directions and generally just not going on the internet. The rumours were going insane, they’d been on the front of several magazine in the last weeks. A tonne of different stories circulating about them being together, not together, that their whole breakup was a publicity stunt. And that was only the one’s that Nate had seen. Approaching Lacey he plastered a smile on his face slipping his hand easily around her waist. “Hey,” He said his eyes catching hers, “you did great.” He said softly to her before biting down on his bottom lip.

@laceyxrivas

4

in case ur interested in what bliss looks like.
photo creds 2: moodypeaches

                 She’s nestled comfortably around the kotatsu, legs tucked beneath the thick fabric, quietly absorbing the heat. Small, dainty hands are wrapped firmly around her mug, ceramic pulled close & her gaze is fixed on spot adorning the table. She’s been silent for a quite some time now; a tell-tale sign that something is on the young girl’s mind. Allowing the silence to linger for only seconds longer, endless onyx hues cast in the direction of her companion, lips parting as Valerie finally chooses to speak.                   There’s something I need to tell you.  

@caveteumbras / starter call.

Steve’s always loved to draw. When he was little, he would sit in a corner of the hospital - too sick to stay home, he was always too sick - and one of the nurses would give him old records to scribble across, an old pencil stub tugged like magic from behind a doctor’s ear.

He could always find a pencil, or a bit of charcoal - sat by the stove on cold winter nights and sketched summer onto their pitted, wood floors. Bucky kept hinting about art school (picked up the habit from Sarah Rogers, both of them talking like Steve might live past twenty five), but Steve had different dreams.

It took awhile, after the serum, to relearn how to hold a pencil in his suddenly thick hands, but Steve needed to be able to write Bucky letters, to promise that he was okay and hadn’t done anything too stupid. (Bucky never got them, pointless reassurances to a man trapped in hell; and Steve hadn’t seen them again until 2013 in the back rooms of a museum that echoed like a tomb.) Steve drew pin-up girls for the Commandos, bomber planes and city streets when they felt nostalgic for home. He drew the sharpening lines of Bucky’s face, the uneven beginnings of a beard on his cheek, all the wreckage of Bucky’s scars that promised he was wounded but still alive.

Steve didn’t start working in color until after the ice. Pepper - trying to be helpful - forced Tony to teach Steve how to take still pictures from old movies (classic films, spotted and unspooling and fresh in Steve’s mind from the cinema three years before), compiled an enormous folder filled with pictures of Brooklyn, of tenements and trolleys and boys playing ball in an abandoned yard. They were all in shades of gray, washed out and frozen in time.

He taped them to his walls, laid the city out as best he could - streets and homes and the church where he had taken First Communion, where the priest had prayed over Sarah Rogers’s cold body and ashen face - and stared at them for hours from his bed. When he finally fell asleep (finally woke up home, Brooklyn like it was meant to be), Mrs. Santorini smiled at him, her teeth white and her red lipstick a slash of gray, the puff of her hair white without the yellow tinge she claimed came from eating lemons as a girl.

The first time Fury broke into Steve’s apartment, he slipped on the layers of Brooklyn - red brick and wood painted blue and green and yellow, pink sandstone and brown streets and boys with flushed cheeks and dirt smudged over their nose, caked into the palms of their grubby hands - and nearly hit his knees on the hardwood floors.

“What the hell is this?” Fury grumbled, flourishing a handful of drawings in Steve’s face (careful not to crumple them, Steve startled to find a SHIELD tech at his doorstep a week later, machine in hand to colorize old photographs, to scan drawings and sharpen them until they looked like a movie still of the world Steve had lost).

“Brooklyn,” Steve answered, and smoothed a hand across the wrinkled edges of Bucky’s face, blue and brown and pink and tan and streaks of Irish red in his hair. When he went to sleep that night, Bucky smiled at him, teeth white, stubble shaded in patches of black against pale, colorless eyes, the ashen flush on his cheeks, the wreckage of his scars in shades of gray.

DAY  2980

Sopaan, New Delhi              May 28/29,  2016               Sat/Sun  12:56 am



Pictures at times tell many tales .. you may not see them the way you do, but they do all the same .. they are finite, we are not .. they are speedy shadow, we learning to exist .. if there is no being there can never be any shadow .. create then a being that glows with shadows .. that smiles and tides over the exigencies of life ; its hardships, it struggles, its victories and its cycle to be back again ..

When you watch a series game here in Mumbai , one needs first to purchase some samosas and the eats and the drinks .. their business concept is extremely high .. especially in the special cinemas .. in time of course all the cinemas shall shed their singularity and come booming out as multiple theatres, but till then they exist and confirm their presence by continuous seeking their value and their clamouring for those species and those women of power because you were and still instead of `I be i be’ .. this of course from the out come of the programme just concluded .. on ‘beti bachao beti padhao’

I am hallucinating and driven by the hallucinations of fear and drama ..many among the rest of the drama, create the required , and its far too sleep, oriented with joys of travel tomorrow to bring them along  ..

Hobnobbing with the stadia, or mic fixation .. for the event tomorrow … not the one that just got over .. another trial tomorrow ..

It thunders outside and all be inside, but a relief of being within you leaves us drenched in the train of rain that follows ..

love all of you ..


Amitabh Bachchan

Courtyard || Open

[Since the ‘Snape Incident’, the usually exuberant, boisterous and loud James Potter had been reduced to a mere shadow of the lively person Hogwarts knew him as. He was morose and subdued and though he put a brave face on for Remus and Peter, firing off jokes for their benefit whenever they came to him, he had begun to spend an increasing amount of time by himself - a tell-tale sign that he really wasn’t doing okay. On this particular afternoon, he’d bunked off Transfiguration and was smoking by himself in a secluded corner of a courtyard - glaring sullenly at the wall opposite. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and stared at the person intruding upon his solitude, firing off in a surly tone]

“Yeah?”