wooden stove

Such theoretical discussions about the magic drugs were supplemented by practical experiments. One such experiment, which served as a comparison between LSD and psilocybin, took place in the spring of 1962. The proper occasion for it presented itself at the home of the Jungers, in the former head forester’s house of Stauffenberg’s Castle in Wilflingen. My friends, the pharmacologist Professor Heribert Konzett and the Islamic scholar Dr. Rudolf Gelpke, also took part in this mushroom symposium.

The old chronicles described how the Aztecs drank chocolatl before they ate teonanacatl. Thus Mrs. Liselotte Junger likewide served us hot chocolate, to set the mood. Then she abandoned the four men to their fate.

We had gathered in a fashionable living room, with a dark wooden ceiling, white tile stove, period furniture, old French engravings on the walls, a gorgeous bouquet of tulips on the table. Ernst Junger wore a long, broad, dark blue striped kaftan-like garment that he had brought from Egypt; Heribert Konzett was resplendent in a brightly embroidered mandarin gown; Rudolf Gelpke and I had put on housecoats. The everyday reality should be laid aside, along with everyday clothing.

Shortly before sundown we took the drug, not the mushrooms, but rather their active principle, 20 mg psilocybin each. That corresponded to some twothirds of the very strong dose that was taken by the curandera Maria Sabina in the form of Psilocybe mushrooms.

After an hour I still noticed no effect, while my companions were already very deeply into the trip. I had come with the hope that in the mushroom inebriation I could manage to allow certain images from euphoric moments of my childhood, which remained in my memory as blissful experiences, to come alive: a meadow covered with chrysanthemums lightly stirred by the early summer wind; the rosebush in the evening light after a rain storm; the blue irises hanging over the vineyard wall. Instead of these bright images from my childhood home, strange scenery emerged, when the mushroom factor finally began to act. Half stupefied, I sank deeper, passed through totally deserted cities with a Mexican type of exotic, yet dead splendor. Terrified, I tried to detain myself on the surface, to concentrate alertly on the outer world, on the surroundings. For a time I succeeded. I then observed Ernst Junger, colossal in the room, pacing back and forth, a powerful, mighty magician. Heribert Konzett in the silky lustrous housecoat seemed to be a dangerous, Chinese clown. Even Rudolf Gelpke appeared sinister to me; long, thin, mysterious.

With the increasing depth of inebriation, everything became yet stranger. I even felt strange to myself. Weird, cold, foolish, deserted, in a dull light, were the places I traversed when I closed my eyes. Emptied of all meaning, the environment also seemed ghostlike to me whenever I opened my eyes and tried to cling to the outer world. The total emptiness threatened to drag me down into absolute nothingness. I remember how I seized Rudolf Gelpke’s arm as he passed by my chair, and held myself to him, in order not to sink into dark nothingness. Fear of death seized me, and illimitable longing to return to the living creation, to the reality of the world of men. After timeless fear I slowly returned to the room . I saw and heard the great magician lecturing uninterruptedly with a clear, loud voice, about Schopenhauer, Kant, Hegel, and speaking about the old Gaa, the beloved little mother. Heribert Konzett and Rudolf Gelpke were already completely on the earth again, while I could only regain my footing with great effort.

For me this entry into the mushroom world had been a test, a confrontation with a dead world and with the void. The experiment had developed differently from what I had expected. Nevertheless, the encounter with the void can also be appraised as a gain. Then the existence of the creation appears so much more wondrous.

Midnight had passed, as we sat together at the table that the mistress of the house had set in the upper story. We celebrated the return with an exquisite repast and with Mozart’s music. The conversation, during which we exchanged our experiences, lasted almost until morning.

—  Albert Hofmann, LSD, my problem child, 1979
It’s You

Originally posted by uchihaclan27

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Request:Hey doll❤ Would you do an imagine for me with Bucky where you were his wife back in the 40s but after he was taken by Hydra, you also end up there but he didn’t know. So after he joined the Avengers he still thinks you’re dead but then they get the Mission to save someone out of an Hydra Base, and it’s you. Buck fears you wont recognize him after they took you to the compound but after you woke up and see him you remember everything and then it’s all fluffy and cute and he helps you adjust ? :)

Word Count: 2510

She was in front of the little wooden stove of the apartment she owned with her husband. He was out with Steve doing god knows what; she knew this was going to be their final dinner before Bucky goes out and into the war. She didn’t like it but accepted her husband’s wishes, Y/n knew he would be able to take care of himself out there but what worried her most was Steve. He wanted to go too, never stopping to try and get cleared to go to war but they weren’t having it. They wanted all men to go and fight but not the ones who were scrawny like Steve, she knew he could do it; his will for helping others was something that she had yet to see in anyone else.

An hour passed before the two men arrived home, all three instantly digging into their food, chatting and laughing away, completely ignoring the fact that he would soon be gone by tomorrow morning. Steve was going to stay the night so he could instantly be there for when his best friend left for the war and for you when you’ll need his comfort. You didn’t think it would take a great toll on you but it did, it had felt like your heart was being ripped out when you had watched him wave towards you as the train went.

It was even worse when you had learned Steve had soon joined too. It was now just you in your little apartment with no one there, the silence slowly ate you away. Missing all the banter, the jokes and laughter that your two boys always made but after two years of them being gone; everything had changed.

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Calming Milk Potion

This is a potion that when drank, totally calms you and puts you in a peaceful and relaxing mood. Best used when fired up over a frusterating situation.

You will need the following items for this potion:

  • Milk (skim, 1%, 2%, whole, lactose free… Any will work) 
  • Brown sugar 
  • Honey (or banana) 
  • White sugar 
  • A pot 
  • A stove 
  • A wooden spoon 
  • A cup for afterwards

Set the pot on the stove and fill it with 1 & ½ cups of milk (you can use more or less, you’d just have to equal out the ingredients). Turn the stove on low, and let the milk start to just slightly bubble a little bit.

 Then you poor 1/3 of a cup of brown sugar into the pot and stir for about 15 seconds, Now pour ¼ cup of white sugar in and stir for another 15 seconds. Then you pour in some honey (however much you want or think you need)or if you don’t have honey, you can substitute for 1/3 of a banana (If you use the banana, make sure it’s mushed up and stirable, but still just a little chunky).

Let it sit for about a minute and then turn the stove off and let the potion cool. After it’s a little cooled off but still warm, pour it in a cup and say this spell before drinking:

 ’’Calm me down, safe and sound Bring me peace, so my mind’s at ease As I say so Mote it Be.“ 

Before taking a sip, be sure to thank the God and the Goddess. After you swallow, imagine pure peace flowing through your body. 

Goodbye & Hello - Winchesters x reader

Warnings: Sad, swearing, kinda cute ( if you squint)

Dean x reader , Sam x Reader

Before :

    The three of you were losing this fight. In all the years you’ve been with the boys, you’ve never been this terrified that all of you weren’t going to make it out of this battle . You try to pick yourself off the ground, but the deep Claw wounds down your side stop you. You watch as the boys are taking just as bad of a beating from this pack of wolves . There was only suppose to be 5, but the pack was larger , there were 15 of them and only three of you . The three of you managed to take down 10, the last five are the issue .

  You finally get up , pulling your backup gun from your ankle and shooting two of the 5 in the heart with the silver bullets . Sam takes down another , leaving two left . One is holding Deans arms back, while the other goes to claw out his heart . You use all your strength , launching yourself to tackle the one Infront of him to the ground . As you do, Dean breaks from the others hold , moving out of the way while Sam plunges his knife into it . The last monster stands , his hand flying to your neck and lifting you with him . You struggle to breath as he applies more pressure to his grip, squeezing your airway almost completely shut. He hears Dean approach him from behind, he drops you to go after Dean before he can stab him . You fall to your knees, gasping for air . The black spots disappear from your vision , making the sight In front of you scarily clear . There is  another wolf, one that must of been hiding until the perfect moment, appear behind dean; with one of the boys guns . You’re off the floor in a second , bolting towards Dean, pushing him out of the way . You hear the sound of the gun being fired 3 times , and felt three different bursts of pain jolt through your body .

Originally posted by skimmonsfiction

You hear another shot , looking up you see the wolfs body hit the ground . Your legs give out, sending you backward into sams arms . “ Y/n hold on , we are going to get you out of here!” Sam tries to reassure you . You look down, seeing blood soak through multiple spots on your shirt .

 You send him a lazy smile , “It’ll be okay Sammy.” You slur , the blood loss and pain hitting you like a train .

“ Y/n hold on or I swear to god .” dean threatens . You feel pressure being applied to your wounds, but you know it wont stop what’s going to happen . You slowly place your hands over Deans on you abdomen,

“ I wouldn’t do anything different. I love both of you.” You say quietly as you watch the tears fall From their eyes . Dean leans down , gently kissing you. You’ve waited years for this moment, and of course it would happen now.

Originally posted by yanasummer

 You let out a dry laugh, “ I waited years , and you do this now? Great timing Winchester.” You don’t get to hear his response , you slowly close your eyes , thinking it’ll be for a moment ; only it wasn’t . Your world faded out, and that was the last time you saw your boys ; well while you were alive at least .


  You stare across the table , locking eyes with you he grinning Winchester in front of you .

  “ See something you like Sweetheart?” You roll you eyes , kicking him under the table . He winces, giving you a ‘wtf’ look.

“ Behave yourself Dean . ” you warn .

  “ if you two are done , we’d like to eat our dinner without your gross , weird foreplay. ” Sam states , his infamous bitchface firmly set over his features .

Originally posted by sambitchfaces

  “ Sam let them be, just because you aren’t that cute with me doesn’t mean you have to rag on your brother.” Jess says as she follows you she follows your example , kicking Sam from her spot across from him. Thank Goodness for this girl . You let out a small giggle along with her , clinking your wine glass with hers .

Originally posted by timetraveldean

  “ you boys better treat your girls right , I raised you better than to do them wrong.” Their father warns , making both sons mumble in response . You watch as Mary enters the kitchen leaning down to kiss Johns cheek. Her long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders . These boys really got the best combination of genes .

After dinner you and Dean volunteer to do dishes; well you do, Dean groaned as the words left your mouth . You place the last dish into the washer, as get it closed a pair or arms encircle your waist .

“ well hello beautiful .” Rolling your eyes as Deans lame line , you decide to turn in his arms ,

“ your getting awfully lame Dean Winchester.” You taunt as you wrap your arms around his neck , right as your lips are about to touch his , a voice interrupts ,

  “ Y/n.” What the hell?

  You look over Deans shoulder , seeing The familiar face of Chuck Shirley .

Originally posted by lockes

“ Chuck? What are you -”

  “ I’m here to bring you home .” Your face scrunched in confusion

“I am home? ”

“ you’re in heaven Y/n . It’s time for you to come back down .” Dean is gone from your arms , the kitchen you were just in fades to black ; leaving you staring wide eyed at Chuck .

“ how the hell are you doing this ? A prophet can’t possibly do this!”

  “ that isn’t something to worry about right now, you’ll get an explanation soon .” This isn’t the same , shy, set doubting Chuck you met before ; he’s more confident now , oozing more power than before . In a blink of your eyes , you’re in an unfamiliar kitchen . It’s very plain , metal pots and pans hanging above a shabby wooden counter . A simple stove and slightly small kitchen table are also present in the room .

  “ chuck where the hell -” you stop when Chuck is no where in sight . Sighing you lean against the counter , dropping your face into your hands ; three minutes ago you were with the man you love , the family you adored in a perfect world .Now your sitting in a strange kitchen , confused and crying , wondering what the hell you were just placed into . You hear a door open the fall shut, and a pair of deep voices echoing down the hall .

Deans POV

   I rip the tapped note from the metal door , sending Sam a questioning look. I begin reading it out loud ,

I know I haven’t exactly Been around , but you two seem to have things under control . Well, as under control as you can manage . Hopefully this gift will help, and also make your days and faith in me a little brighter . - Chuck .

  “Does he think he can just pop in whenever he wants ?” I grumble , crumpling the note in my hands.

“ Dude, he’s God. I think he can do whatever the hell he wants” Sam says with a grinds he continues and walks in front of me .

  “ what kind of gift -” sams voice trails off & he stops dead in his tracks ; making me run right into his back .

“ warn me before you do that, your like a freaking brick wall.” I rub my forehead that smacked into his back, stepping around him only to have my eyes nearly pop out of by head . Both of us are staring at the girl in front of us ; the girl that we watched die years ago . Her beautiful long (y/c/h) is the same as I remember , falling around her in loose waves . Her eyes are glazed over, tears rolling down her pink cheeks . Her lip is caught between her teeth , and I can tell she is barely holding herself together . Sams speaks before I do, any and all words getting stuck in my throat .

“ y/n?”

Originally posted by steals-dreams

Originally posted by thesillybus

@katykyll @fallinglovewiththefandom @sun-setl @the-amaranthine @elenoranave @wolfkingsqueen @the-league-of-hot-assassins @sukanya99 @icantevendothemerengue @ohlookitsabi @skeletoresinthebasement @frickin-bats @foreverybodythatunderstands23 @netherqueen23 @thedyingrose16 @travelwithwords @everlasting9 @zuni21798 @marvelbase001 @hollycornish @chloeaacole @illtakeawinchesteranyday​ @lessons-of-red @mogaruke @baskinrobinsalwaysfindsout

You are eighteen
and you claim it and paint it across your face bold as brass and sharp as the tacks you have to get down to now because
everything is happening and you can’t fuck this up
this is your life

but you are eighteen
and that scares you
but you grab onto it because you fought so hard to get here
to understand yourself
and you finally think you might from where you are, you are
looking out the window at the hills you wish were golden in the sunlight
and it hits you that you can’t live here because you sure as hell don’t want to die here in the cold

and this is the catalyst that pushes you forward, catalyst like you learned about in chemistry
chemistry that you didn’t do very well in
you thought you’d like it
except your brain has its own chemistry
own electrons and neurons and protons bouncing around too fast and too much to keep anything straight moving from one thought to the next to the next to the next to the quantum and molecular and phasing like nothing matters and

you don’t like chemistry

but you liked her, in chemistry, that girl who never sang the blues because she was golden,
golden as the sun.
and you might have been a little bit in love with her because
this place where you don’t want to die is cold and
you never had the chance to learn for yourself
if friendship could keep you warm

little bird lost
little bird who was lost in the cold even before you knew snow
and you decided to keep the cold and be the cold and then maybe it wouldn’t matter
that you could see people with fires and light and laughter
by the old wooden stove where their hats were hung but there was never room for yours because they did not want you
because you were a little too off and a little too odd and and a little too this and a little too that and a little too much to


you understand nothing
you are eighteen and you understand nothing except that you are not wanted
you are eighteen and you claim it because you have nothing except it and this catalyst driving you forward
nothing except knowing this is a place where you can’t live
nothing except cold wings
still searching for the sun.

—  July 13

anonymous asked:

Billy dressing up as Black Canary at Halloween please?

Susan Romero rang her hands in the kitchen of the tiny apartment she shared with her husband and foster son. She’d fostered a lot of children over the last 15 years, after all that’s what a good Christian would do. She glanced at the small wooden cross over the stove, then at the white stone one by the door to the living room. Sometimes she thought her husband, Steve, resented the children but he understood it was their duty to Jesus to rise these kids right. 

Billy had been with them for a month now and he was, different. She and Steve had had their share of the difficult kids in the system lord knows. Before Billy she would have said she knew both the type and how to deal with them. Billy confounded her, he was nothing if not polite and cheerful. She’d just assumed he’d be a good boy. Soon though they’d found he was sneaking out at all hours. They’d had that problem before, locks on the doors, bars over the windows. Billy didn’t complain which she should have just known was trouble.

He was still getting out, somehow, the nanny cam in his room always seemed to be missing a few minutes. Attempts to confront him, or to get him to take interest in church or his salvation had been frustrating. Billy didn’t rage and spit the way some trouble makers did, he wasn’t sulky and difficult, but he seemed to go somewhere else when they were talking about anything he didn’t care about. 

The other night Steve who had drank a little too much had told her “If he doesn’t want to get saved the easy way, we gonna do it the hard way” She didn’t like to do it the hard way but some children, and God forgive her for saying so, needed a good beating. She’d been feeling Steve’s frustration with Billy growing for weeks now, and Susan was pretty sure that it would come to a head tonight. Billy had been vague about his Halloween plans. At first she’d been hopeful this meant he wouldn’t be going out on this morally questionable holiday. 

Now she knew he did plan to go out and she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like his costume. All day she’d spent wondering what horror movie monster her foster son was going to dress up as. Her worst nightmares (Harry Potter) hadn’t prepared her for what he was wearing when he rounded the corner out of his room. Her eyes went up and down his skinny frame 3 times. From the high heeled boots, to the fish net tights, up to the short shorts, the corset carefully stuffed, the woman’s biker jacket, the choker, the blonde wig on top of deep eye make up and red lip stick. Susan staggered back like she’d been slapped and reached on to the kitchen counter to steady herself.

“St-Steve!” she half screamed. “What! what is it?” He said stumbling into the kitchen from the living room summoned by the tone of her voice. He froze his face twisting through different emotions when he saw his foster son. “What are you wearing?” Steve asked his voice low and dangerous. Billy looked down at himself and back up “uh my Halloween costume?” He said the confusion clear on his face. “Go to your room and take that off right now” Steve’s voice was even more dangerous now. Billy looked at himself again and then back at his foster parents. His face shifted as he understood the problem. “No” he said.

Steve crossed the space between them in two steps and slapped Billy had across the face almost but not quite knocking him to the floor. Billy’s hand slowly rose to his face and touched a flow of blood from his split lip. He straightened up with controlled slowness. “You really shouldn’t have done that” He said in a flat voice. Steve laughed in a mean and slightly hysterical way. “Why? what you gonna do boy?” 

Billy seemed to really think about it. Susan didn’t like it, kids never reacted this way. “Me?” Billy said “nothing, but she’s going to kill you” Susan blinked in confusion, he couldn’t mean her. Then their front door exploded inward. “hey-ya short stuff!” a woman dressed in a 1950′s poodle skirt stood on top of the wreckage of the door. Before either of the Romeros could react she’d crossed the room, grabbed Steve by the arm and slammed him face first into the countertop. Susan let out a little scream Steve grunted in pain and shock.

“Hi!” the woman said in a high and cheerful voice. “I’m Doctor Harleen Quinzel, my friends call me Harley, you’re gonna call me Dr. Quinzel okay?” With this she twisted Steve’s arm up behind his head and he screamed. “I’d love to stay and talk about your anger issues and some better outlets for it then beating on your foster kids” and with and sick crack Steve’s wrist broke and he screamed again. “But my friend Billy here is meeting some friends, and god you’re lucky Mister because if his boyfriend had seen what you did he’d cut you up” fast as lightening Harley let go of his arm grabbed the back of his head and bounced it off the counter. Steve slide to the floor in a heap. Harley turned and looked at Susan over the top of heart shaped sun glasses.

“Hey sister” She said slowly crossing the room till she was nose to nose with Susan. “If I had more time I’d make you fucking eat every cross in this shitty little apartment, but like I said I don’t want to be late for the kid’s date, it’s really cute, isn’t it?” The question was loaded with threat and Susan nodded numbly. “Good! glad we agree!” Harley smiled like the sun coming out. “Come on sparky we got to dash” she held out one hand with a lacy glove and Billy ran to her and grabbed her hand. She half dragged him out of the apartment in a full run “come on! Damian’s waiting!” she yelled.

in the shattered mess of the kitchen Susan sank to her knees and started to cry hysterically. 

Where Children Sleep

“As a child, that’s your little space within the house," said James Mollison, a Kenyan-born, England-raised, Venice-based photographer whose 2011 photo book, Where Children Sleep draws attention to a child’s "material and cultural circumstances” and offers a remarkable view on class, poverty, and the diversity of children around the world.

“I hope the book gives a a glimpse into the lives some children are living in very diverse situations around the world; a chance to reflect on the inequality that exists, and realize just how lucky most of us in the developed world are," said Mollison.

Nine-year-old Dong shares a room with his parents, sister and grandfather in the province of Yunnan in southwest China. His family owns just enough land to grown their own rice and sugar cane.

Eight-year-old Alyssa lives in a small house in Kentucky, heated only by a wooden stove. Alyssa’s father works at Walmart and mother works at McDonald’s.

Unable to go to school, Alex spends his days begging on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and sleeping on whatever he can find at night — an empty bench, an old sofa, or the pavement.

Living with her parents in a small apartment in Tokyo, 4-year-old Kaya’s bedroom looks like every little girl’s dream room. All of Kaya’s dresses are made by her mother — who makes up to three a month — and she has 30 dresses, coats, pairs of shoes, sandals and boots, and multiple wigs.

Prena, a 14-year-old domestic worker in Kathmandu, Nepal works 13-hour days as a domestic worker, earns $6.50 a month, and sleeps in a tiny, cell-like space at the top of her employer’s house. She goes to school three times a week and dreams of one day becoming a doctor.

Living with 13 other women in a tea house in Kyoto, Japan, 15-year-old Risa is a ”maiko“ — an apprentice geisha. She sleeps with five other women in a room that doubles as a dining room and a tea room.

Living in a top-floor apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York, 9-year-old Jaime likes to play the cello, kickball, and study his finances on the Citibank website. His parents also own luxury homes in the Hamptons and Spain. 

An orphan and refugee from war in Liberia, this 9-year-old anonymous boy goes to school in Ivory Coast for ex-child soldiers and lives in a concrete shack with some of his classmates.

Often accompanying his father on hunts, 11-year-old Joey owns two shotguns and a cross bow and made his first kill, a deer, at age seven. He lives with his parents and older sister in Kentucky and "is hoping to use his crossbow during the next hunting season as he has become tired of using a gun.”

Living with her parents, brother and sister near Kathmandu in Nepal, 7-year-old Indira works at a local granite quarry where she has worked at since she was 3. She also attends school and shares a mattress with her siblings. Their house has one room, one bed and one mattress.

Four-year-old Jasmine (“Jazzy”) lives in a big house in Kentucky with her parents and three brothers. Her room is filled with crowns and sashes that she won in beauty pageants. Having entered more than 100 competitions so far, Jazzy enjoys being treated like a princess and would like to be a rock star when she grows up.

Ryuta is a champion sumo wrestler and has been competing for seven years. He lives in Tokyo with his parents and younger sister and is also a member of the boy scout movement.

This 4-year-old Romanian boy sleeps with his family on a mattress in a field on the outskirts of Rome. After begging for money to pay for tickets, his family came from Romania by bus. With no identity papers, his parents clean windscreens at traffic lights since they cannot obtain legal work. None of his family members have ever been to school.

Living in a favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 14-year-old Erlen is pregnant for the third time. She usually sleeps on the floor but her mother has swapped places and allowed her to sleep on the bed during the later stages of her pregnancy. Erlen was 12 and 13 years old during her previous pregnancies, but lost both babies shortly after their births. If her new baby survives, she will be a single parent and will have to drop out of school.

Six-year-old Bilal’s family are Bedouin Arabs living in a one-room shack they built themselves besides an Israeli settlement at Wadi Abu Hindi in the West Bank. Bilal does not go to school yet but helps take care of his family’s 15 goats. 

Nantio is a member of the Rendille tribe and lives with her two brothers and two sisters in a tent-like dome made from cattle hide and plastic, with little room to stand, in Lisamis, Kenya. She went to the village school for a few years but decided not to continue and is hoping a “moran” (warrior) will select her for marriage.

Eight-year-old Roathy’s home sits on a rubbish dump swarming with flies on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where he sleeps on a mattress made from old tires. At 6 a.m. every morning, Roathy and  hundreds of other children are given a shower and breakfast at a local charity center before he starts work — scavenging for plastic bottles and cans, which are then sold to a local recycling company. Breakfast is sometimes the only meal of the day.

Rhiannon lives with her parents and brother in a terraced house in Darel, Scotland, in an area plagued with heroin addiction and gang violence. She and her family have become used to abusive behavior from people in the neighborhood. Sporting a mohawk like her parents’ ever since she was six, Rhiannon and her family and friends are part of a punk subculture and have formed a community of support where they all look out for each other.

submitted by Josh Skaarup

External image

My somewhat traditionalist gear/medicine bag. Hunting, camping, wilderness survival, the old fashioned way.

Human/Spy AU based from a line in this list of prompts
Pairing: RusAme
Warnings: violence mention
Words: 1234

“Okay, in my defense,” said Alfred, “I thought it would go much more smoothly.”

“It would have,” Ivan growled, “had you not bludgeoned the asset. With a candlestick.”

“Agent Jones in the lounge with the candlestick,” Alfred mused, trying for a laugh.

He never got it, and his own smile fell as his shoulders slumped.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I messed up. I get it. But can you not be mad at me the whole time we’re here?”

“We’re in the middle of Podunk, Mississippi while Kirkland cleans up your mess. Again. Why he hasn’t just fired your ass by now is beyond me.”

“Hey, at least we get a free vacation.”

“I wouldn’t call who-knows-how-long in Podunk, Mississippi a vacation. I’d call it capital punishment.”

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flannelandsarcasm  asked:

#2? For the ask games? The one about the 5 senses!

pick one sight, smell, sound, feel, and taste to describe the aesthetic of your novel. 

Since I’m doing the sequel for Letter of Marque for NaNo, we’ll go with that one:

Ocean, endless and welcoming, blue as far as the eye can see. The blue of freedom, the white of stitched sails, the black of flags, the cloud of gunsmoke, but oh the blue, the blue, the blue. The only home there is for homeless men, the only freedom for the caged, and the only promise ever kept.

Home. The smell of smoke over a wooden stove. Food cooking slow and long, made with love and care. The salt from the ocean wafting through open windows, cotton curtains washed and dried in the high sun. Home that lingers in your nose long after you leave it, stretching so long until you return and it floods you all over again.

Whispers. The wind, a whisper in your ear. Your lover’s lips against your mouth. Eztli’s words a foreign tongue, shivers to start or comfort to sleep. Whispers of rumors that could lead to treasure, to death, to fortune, to failure. Whispers and gossip in taverns and brothels. Breathe quick, listen close–they are whispers on the wind.

Holding hands. Hands that have lasted years beside you, hands calloused and scarred but steadfast. Hands that have held swords and stitched sails and polished rails, hands that have spilled blood and mended wounds. Hands never more than an arms’ length away. Warm, familiar in every curve and dip, and always reaching back for you.

Salt and gunpowder. Everything is bitter, but bitter and familiar. It’s like coming home and going to war, bitter and sharp and fighting. It’s the iron of blood in your mouth, the iron of your blade, copper and steel.

thrill seeker.


Zyra was jolted from her sleep once again, a dream haunting her conscious. She sat up from the floor, an odd feeling spread over her. She was.. warm? She rubbed her eyes, the memories from the past day flooding over her. She smiled, looking back at the god in her bed. How natural he looked here, among the vines and dirt. She was happy he didn’t look like he was awake yet, she could take advantage of the day. 

The sun looked like it was just about to rise. Perfect. She stood up carefully, her body making little to no sound. She could make him breakfast and possibly get some rounds done this morning. She walked to the kitchen, her mind forgetting about the clothing. It wasn’t normal for her to wear it around the house. 

She started mixing stuff in a wooden bowl. Cinnamon, flax seeds, ginger, powder. Her slender fingers were quick in grabbing exactly what she needed, her time spent in the room giving her a thoughtless memory. She set a small wooden template over the stove and poured the mix in, pressing down the top. Immediately, the scent of gingerbread invaded her senses, making her smile. 

She started making the waffles, one by one. Carefully she set the first one down on a plate, satisfied with the brown color. She silently wondered how many he would want, or if he even liked sweets, but she supposed she’d find out.