wax coating

I. Icarus is a lonely boy sitting in a cafe, with ink blistered wings tattooed into his sunburnt skin. He falls into beds like they’re seas and loves suns who don’t give a damn. Wax coats his fingers and he laughs, not knowing why.

II. Cassandra lives in a room made of four windows. Strangers kiss her in dreams as she screams. She sees all, and none believe. “Unstable.” “Wicked.” “Tragic.” They whisper, protected behind planes of broken glass.

III. Achilles offers triumphant smiles as he holds up bloody knuckles. He fights wars on street corners and shares his victory with his beloved. He runs in the moonlight, until his feet ache and his legs collapse. He knows the world is meant to be his, and he will conquer it all.

IV. Pandora listens to the universe from the back of a philosophy class. She inhales chaos and exhales despair. Sweaters cover scarred wrists and misery clings to chapped lips. She worships with hollow, faithless eyes. They call her hopeless as she smiles, dried skin cracking. They know nothing.

V. Orpheus plays his music in cigarette haze filled bars. He swallows pills and wine and never dies. He sees shadows flicker when he looks over his shoulder, consuming him. He forgets.

—  Myths and heroes, they adapt too part one | p.d

In 1976, the production crew of the Six Million Dollar Man had something of an unpleasant surprise. Whilst filming the episode the Carnival of Spies, one of the prop guys attempted to move what he assumed as a dummy hanging from a gallows in the Pike amusement park in Long Beach, California.

The arm fell off.

It was not a dummy.

Turns out that it was in fact the mummified corpse of outlaw Elmer McCurdy, who died in a shoot out in 1911 following a crime which newspapers at the time called “one of the smallest in the smallest in the history of train robbery“. Netting only $46, two demijohns of whiskey, an automatic revolver, a coat and the train conductor’s watch, this is opposed to the $400,000 he and his gang thought would be on the time at the train.

As was the style at the time, McCurdy’s body was put on display at a nearby funeral home, as was the style at the time. The body was then claimed by a man who said he was Elmer’s brother… but he most likely wasn’t as the body began circulating the sideshow circuit as an attraction shortly aftewards.

After a tour around the US which included being used as a prop in the 1967 film She Freak, Elmer, now assumed to be a “gruesome“ waxwork that wasn’t realistic enough for display, was eventually sold to part-owner of the Pike,  Ed Liersch, who had the body hung in the Laff in the Dark funhouse exhibition.

The coroner would later conclude that the body was indeed both real and that of Elmer, having being mummified by a combination of the original undertaker’s arsenic-based embalming method, a coating of wax, and layers of phosphorus paint.

In 1977, Elmber was buried at the Summit View Cemetery in Guthrie, Oklahoma. His coffin was coated in a two-foot-thick layer of concrete to prevent further attempts at grave-robbery.

In 1978, the Jonah Hex story The Last Bounty Hunter evokes the fate of McCurdy by DC’s Western antihero getting gunned down, dressed in a parody cowboy outfit and put on display for years afterwards.

In a later story, Hex ends up being an exhibit in Booster Gold’s restaurant… which is horrifying. Not least due to the timetravelling superhero eventually befriending Hex in later stories.

THE BIG SWITCH - photography: Richard Powers - text: Celia Barbour - production: Robert Rubino - location: Hudson River hamlet, Snedens Landing, New York, USA - Elle Decor June 2017

  • “In the living room of designer Ernest de la Torre and Kris Haberman’s home in Snedens Landing, New York, the custome sofa is upholstered in a Toyine Sellers fabric, the 19th-century Belgian cabinet was found at an auction in London, the bronze pendant light is by Hervé Van der Straeten, and the Georgian fireplace is attributed to Robert Adam; the walls are coated in waxed plaster, the flooring is Indian sandstone, the silk rug is by Fort Street Studio, and the painting over the mantel is by Ross Bleckner.”
Never Been Better

Jacob Black imagine requested by anon! “Hello !! :) Can I have a request where you meet Jacob for the first time and he imprints on you? I wouldn’t mind if it’s a short one !! :)) Thank you so much x” Hope you like it!

There was nothing immobile in Forks that wasn’t sheathed in some form of plant life; every pebble, every fallen trunk, even the occasional marker on the side of their near-abandoned highway… all of it was swaddled in soggy, water-laden flora. The sky was blocked-out by emerald leaves, barely visible through the abundance of nature on either side of the road, slowly creeping in on the asphalt with every passing year. The leaves held the immense burden of stagnant rainwater, dipping to pour their contents when the weight became too much. Your eyes were glued to the passenger window, your vision switching focus between the world beyond the glass and the droplets clinging to your mother’s dying coat of wax. You followed each stream until they fell from view, contributing to the sheen of the pavement beneath your slow-rolling car. Highway or not, there were no other cars to match speed to, and each sign you passed that could have held an answer to how fast you were expected to be driving was too faded to be read or too immersed in nature to pull from the trees.

Your situation was a strange one, that much was a given. There was no reason to move to Forks, no business that could have beckoned to your mother, luring her into the woods or tempting her with promises of high pay and extensive property. There was no grand prize you were racing towards besides the promise of having to surgically install an air filter into your lungs to keep the algae from infecting your respiratory system. It was all about the nature, the raw nature, some of the last “relatively untouched” land left on the face of the Earth. The lumber industry was booming, but years of deforestation couldn’t make a dent in the resilient wood. Every now and then, you spotted a stump among the thriving trees, but each time you saw a fallen trunk, you saw fertilizer for new life. Nothing immobile could escape the creeping moss or the advancing line of ferns. It was as if the lumberjacks had simply given up their battle with the forest, acknowledging a downhill fight when they saw one. Nothing could reign this forest in. For that reason, your mother thought it best to nestle into the shrubbery and set up camp. Permanently.

“Well, as permanently as we’ll ever see,” she’d mumbled, her eyes scanning the road for signs of wildlife, her camera shuddering against the cup-holder between your seats, her fingertips fluttering around her rather expensive lens. She spent more on that camera than she did on your Christmas presents. Collectively. “There’s so much to explore, Y/n. These woods stretch for miles. We could punch out portfolios faster than Banksy here, and that’s saying something,” her eyes widened slightly with disdain. She, like almost every other photographer, was not a fan of anyone who vandalized picture-perfect structures. “I mean, honey, I know there isn’t much in the way of… I don’t know, metropolitan stuff, but look around you. There aren’t a lot of people who can say they live in the middle of all this beauty.” Her voice took on that dream-like lilt, her gaze shifting from the silvery pavement to the admittedly impressive view on either side of the thinning highway.

“Mom. Road,” you reminded her, your voice too stiff to be polite, mostly disgruntled nerve at having been uprooted (no nature pun intended) from your somewhat cushy life in Seattle. The rain, you were used to. Maybe not this much, but you were well-adjusted to the thought of minimal sunshine and constant cloud cover. It was the green that felt so foreign. Was excess ever seen as beautiful? It seemed a bit like overkill, but who were you to tell the forest what to do?

“Sorry, but it’s just so easy to get distracted in a place like this. You know, people retire to places like this so they can die surrounded by nature. Dust to dust, dirt to dirt, all that jazz. But think, we’re going to bask in this stuff for years before we even think about our expiration dates.” It was a wonder how she made a topic as morbid as the human expiration date sound like her words were petals floating down a lazy stream, sunbeams striking through the water to the fine-grained sands below.

“Really, Mom? We’re gonna bask in the rain?” She opened her mouth to counter, but you held your hand up, silencing her unvoiced argument. “I’m not against Forks, Mom; it’s just not my first choice. "Places like this” aren’t my first choice. I don’t know anybody here, and you’re dragging me along so you can take pictures of moss on boulders, maybe some trees, the beach? I’m not against it, but if you had asked my opinion on the matter, I would have said no.“ Your voice drifted to a whisper, your cheek returning to the cool smoothness of the window, watching your mother’s lips purse in your peripheral. You continued down the winding highway for another twenty minutes in stiff, uncomfortable quiet, the pattering rain striking the roof of your mother’s car throwing the absent voices into the light.

Thankfully, your silent ride was short-lived. Your mother turned onto the town’s main street, the forest’s claustrophobia presence hiding, for the first time, behind the old brick exteriors of small businesses. Having your view obstructed never caused such relief. Though the rain remained, there seemed to be more sky than branches now that the forest was mostly out of sight. After a short driving spell down the center of town, your mother turned onto a remote side-road. The pavement beneath the wheels of your mother’s car became less stable, less smooth, as you advanced towards the quiet suburbia you now called home (if reluctantly). Your car crept along the narrow road, your mother hunching over the steering wheel as she drove, her eyes reading numbers as you passed homes so engulfed by the forest that they barely presented as houses at all. Suddenly, the car turned into the driveway of a small, unassuming gray colonial. There was nothing impressive and nothing to cause alarm… it just… was. Like everything in Forks, it held no value, but it did nothing to drive its inhabitants away. The car stopped with a hollow shift, and you stepped from the interior to the damp expanse of your new front yard. As expected, it was all grass and mossy patches, the cracked cement stepping stones leading to the front door were slowly losing a war against the onslaught of shamrocks and dandelions. You heaved a sigh of exhaustion, stretching your stiffened joints to a symphony of crackling, your muscles extending sorely as you bent this way and that, attempting to shake the hours of stagnant travel from your weary frame. The area was sweet, for a small town. There were electrical lines. There was probably internet, maybe a house phone. Maybe a cord on the house phone. It was a little dated, but it wasn’t a log cabin, so you were relatively content. You were dreading the rustic qualities of such a small town, especially one so reliant on lumber. As you analyzed the exterior of your new home, you heard the telltale suction of someone’s feet sinking into their lawn as they crept to your car. You turned, watching as a man in a world-worn police jacket (conveniently rain-resistant) approached your driveway, a smile hidden by a dark mustache crinkling his eyes.

“Hey, you must be our new neighbor. Welcome to Forks,” he grumbled, his voice low and honest. He extended a hand towards your mother, who was in the process of draping her camera around her neck by the thin nylon cord. “I’m Charlie Swan, white house just by the edge of the woods,” he turned to address you, his brows raising before he spoke. “If you’re having any trouble, just call around our place or ring the police station. One of us will pick up. You need any help with anything else, just let me know.” You mother perked-up, fiddling with the lens of her camera, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Actually, I was wondering if you knew which road would take us to the closest coast? I’m a photographer, and I was hoping to catch some shots of the sunset if there’s water within driving distance.” Charlie Swan grinned, gesturing back towards his home once more, his eyes sparkling beneath his brows.

“You know, I was just heading down to La Push. First Beach is beautiful when the sun sets, and my daughter could show yours around. Name’s Bella, she knows a few of the kids down there, son of my friend and all that. They look around the same age, she could introduce her to some of the local kids,” he suggested, clearly good-natured. You could only hope you weren’t unintentionally locking this poor girl into a night of awkward introductions and stiffened, short-ended conversation. You would have hated to intrude. Luckily, when you’d finished unloading what few boxes were travelling with you (the moving van had yet to arrive, and likely wouldn’t be showing its face until the next beginning of a business week), you found the officer’s daughter was warmer than you expected. She’d offered you her hand, just as her father did your mother, and asked if you wanted a ride in her truck, seeing as your only other option was the barred backseat of a cruiser. You climbed into the passenger seat of her almost impressively prehistoric truck, wondering how on Earth she’d managed to keep the thing kicking. Your confusion was only intensified when the engine revved. She smiled sympathetically, apologizing for the startling roar with a soft gaze.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was made in the fifties. Not the smoothest ride, but it works just fine. You don’t have to worry about the brakes failing or anything. I’ve got a good mechanic.” She backed out of her narrow driveway, following her father further down the road, her eyes trailing the woods. You supposed the wonder never really faded. Her car didn’t waver, despite her wandering eye. It must have been a familiar route. “I can introduce you to my friend Jacob, if you want. He’s the one who kept the truck alive. His dad, Billy, is Charlie’s best friend. They’re good people.” She turned, following road signs counting down the miles to La Push. “I think I heard your mom mention you lived in Seattle?” She asked, though her inquiry wasn’t invasive. She had a gentleness about her that eliminated any shred of nosiness from her questions. She was merely trying to fill the time with conversation.

“Yeah, the city was getting a little heavy on the crime side. We thought it would be best if we moved somewhere… more remote. Not a fan of killers, you know?” You joked, recalling the endless stream of newspaper headlines estimating how many bodies the supposed serial killer had taken. Of course, the police force was clueless. It was always a shock to find another charred body hanging out of a dumpster. They had no leads, and your mom wanted out. Bella, however, mustn’t have caught your humour, or perhaps the topic made her uneasy, her lips pressing together when you murmured your last words.

You reached the reservation as the sun was sinking over the water, a mere five minute walk from the little red house Bella’d parked in front of. She assured you that her friends were likely at the beach, hanging by some notorious hunk of driftwood. You followed her simple gait, watching the soggy earth slowly transition to rain-dampened sand underfoot as you closed-in on First Beach. The sky was painted in vibrant oranges and misty blues as the sun clung to its last dying embers, sinking slowly into the waves. Your mother was setting her tripod by the dunes, clicking away as the ball of fire slowly dipped below the salted surface of the sea. The rain was letting up, though Bella promised the drizzle would linger. You continued on further, your path leading to the edge of the forest, where a trio of half-naked boys emerged, slapping each other’s shoulders, their laughter ricocheting from the surrounding cedars. their torsos gleamed in the fading rays of light, each of them a hardened russet tone, their bodies bulging with bands of muscle. Bella grinned in your peripheral vision, clearly recognizing the antics of her friends. You wondered which of the three was the infamous mechanic. As you drew nearer, the boys’ focus raised to your faces. The tallest of the three, walking between his two friends, stopped as if he’d been shot, his face (now close enough to distinguish his features) blanking save the expression of shock clouding his eyes. Bella stumbled to a stop at your side, her eyes widening in fear. The boy in the center’s jaw dropped, and, as if slowed by a thickness in the air, he fell to his knees. He moved as if he were submerged, his hand clutching the sand at his side to steady his fall. His eyes were locked on her face.

“Jacob!” Bella cried, rushing to close the last few yards that remained between the two groups, her hands grasping his shoulders. The two boys at his side didn’t seem as concerned as she was; in fact, one of them was grinning, his brow raised in surprise. The other, though, was scrutinizing your face. You followed Bella’s path to the injured boy, your pulse hammering in your ear. “Jake, what is it? Embry, what happened to him? Embry?” The serious boy didn’t answer, lowering his eyes from your face to shoot Bella a rather severe look. Her face turned to the other boy, her hands smoothing over Jacob’s back, a comforting gesture. “Quil, lose the grin. Is he okay?” She shifted, and you saw, for the first time, the injured boy’s eyes. They weren’t clouded, as you’d assumed from a further distance. They were clear, deep, warm, and trained on your face. He swallowed, which appeared to be a struggle, licking his lips before speaking, his voice breaking from apparent lack of use.

“I will be,” he whispered, rising to his feet, his eyes boring into your own with an intensity foreign to so early an acquaintance. He stepped forward, brushing sand from his knees, drawing nearer to you. “My name is Jacob Black. I… I’m very happy to meet you…?” He left his words trailing in the air, his eyes glimmering in the very last beams of sunlight, harvesting their flame before the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon.

“Y/n,” you whispered, your eyes locked on his. His stare was unbreakable, and not in an uncomfortable way, either. You didn’t want to look away. His eyes held a warmth you couldn’t explain. “Are you sure you’re alright?” You asked, watching, for the first time, his lips part over an infectious smile. He bit his lower lip, attempting to mask whatever caused his grin… joy, humour, you couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, I’m good. Never been better.”


For some reason, I associate Lotor with Dollar Tree stores.

When you first look at them, you think “Hey, it doesn’t seem too bad.” 

You start approaching them, you look at their features. The decals on the outside look generic and cheap. 

You start walking inside, and BAM.

That fake, cheap, chemical smell hits your nostrils. It overwhelms your nose so much that it feels like your nostrils are coated with wax.

Walk deeper, and you find some valuable characteristics. The majority of them are terrible. 

The smell gets too much for you so you run outside. Your nostrils get rid of that waxy feeling months later.

Lotor to me is quite an intriguing character. He looks like he actually has some emotions and isn’t a stony, robotic being, but the truth is. . .

He’s a Dollar Tree store.

A/N: I stumbled upon this at Zara Home yesterday and Sara was flailing over it with me so I thought this would be a nice birthday present :) Happy birthday to the amazing girl I have the honor of calling the Emma to my Ariel, thesassywitchofthenortheast! You know all too well how I haven’t written fluff in ages so consider yourself very special and enjoy all the Daddy!Killian <3

Baby on board

She tells him on a Tuesday night. She’s finally decided to actually get a new place and ask him to move in with her, and it may have been months since they started living at their quaint little house by the docks - which they chose mostly because it stays within a walking distance from where the Jolly is moored - but they are still celebrating their new home on a nightly basis. Not that there are many (or any, actually) surfaces left without being christened in the house, but that doesn’t mean they can’t repeat their preferred mode of celebration on their favourite spots.

Emma guides him to their sofa as soon as they walk through the door of their house by the docks and he is, as always, happy to follow wherever she leads him. The problem is, she’s never been very good with words, that’s always been his department, so he’ll have to excuse her for borrowing some of his.

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one gifset per chapter

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone - Chapter 3

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. 

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter “H”.


He woke up with a headache. Even before he opened his eyes he felt it like a knitting needle going right through his brain, from the forehead to the nape. With a groan he opened his eyes.

The ceiling was white. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the wall to his left was white. The wall to the right was white. The wall in front of him was white. He could only guess what color the wall behind him had. There was a window with a white curtain, dimming the light of the winter afternoon. Winter afternoon? Was it afternoon? He turned his head to see the small clock on his bedside table. But of course it wasn’t there. Because of course this wasn’t his bedroom at all. His bedroom wasn’t all white.

Confused he looked around. The first thing that caught his attention was the weird plant on the white metal pedestal. It was the only thing that wasn’t white. Huge green leaves shimmered like they were coated in wax, the petal (if it was a petal) was yellow and resembled the neck of a rooster. He couldn’t rely on a massive knowledge about potted plants but this thing looked prehistoric, like it was straight out of some dinosaur movie.

Update on Midnight in Moscow is here!

Read it on AO3 HERE

or fanfiction.net HERE


Medieval Modern (48 oz Beer Stein)

This handcrafted modern chalice holds 48 oz of delicious alcoholic nectar. The angle of the lip is perfected for no-spill drinking. Its heavy duty handle makes it easy to cheers with that satisfying wooden clunk.

Each stein is one of a kind and made with traditional hand tools.
The outside of the stein is treated with natural food safe wax. The inside is coated in an FDA approved food safe epoxy. The epoxy and wood do not effect the taste of your beer.

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