mewiet:

retrogradeworks:

I love to see children who are so delicate and gentle with animals.  It warms my heart amidst a sea of brats pulling cats’ tails and getting whacked.

Also JESUS THAT’S A SNUGGLY CHICKEN.

I love how she reaches up on her tippy toes to snuggle into his shoulder.

(Source: hannahbowl, via elsodex)

persnicketous:

Favourite Mass Effect Characters:

Dr. Liara T’Soni

persnicketous:

Favourite Mass Effect Characters:

Dr. Liara T’Soni

(via elsodex)

agooddaytodie:

"On the shelves were the books bound in a cardboard-like material, pale, like tanned human skin, and the manuscripts were intact. In spite of the room’s having been shut up for many years, the air seemed fresher than in the rest of the house. Everything was so recent that several weeks later, when Úrsula went into the room with a pail of water and a brush to wash the floor, there was nothing for her to do. Aureliano Segundo was deep in the reading of a book. Although it had no cover and the title did not appear anywhere, the boy enjoyed the story of a woman who sat at a table and ate nothing but kernels of rice, which she picked up with a pin, and the story of the fisherman who borrowed a weight for his net from a neighbor and when he gave him a fish in payment later it had a diamond in its stomach, and the one about the lamp that fulfilled wishes and about flying carpets. Surprised, he asked Úrsula if all that was true and she answered him that it was, that many years ago the gypsies had brought magic lamps and flying mats to Macondo.
“What’s happening,” she sighed, “is that the world is slowly coming to an end and those things don’t come here any more.””
Good bye to Gabriel García Márquez, who died of pneumonia on April 17, 2014, aged 87…

agooddaytodie:

"On the shelves were the books bound in a cardboard-like material, pale, like tanned human skin, and the manuscripts were intact. In spite of the room’s having been shut up for many years, the air seemed fresher than in the rest of the house. Everything was so recent that several weeks later, when Úrsula went into the room with a pail of water and a brush to wash the floor, there was nothing for her to do. Aureliano Segundo was deep in the reading of a book. Although it had no cover and the title did not appear anywhere, the boy enjoyed the story of a woman who sat at a table and ate nothing but kernels of rice, which she picked up with a pin, and the story of the fisherman who borrowed a weight for his net from a neighbor and when he gave him a fish in payment later it had a diamond in its stomach, and the one about the lamp that fulfilled wishes and about flying carpets. Surprised, he asked Úrsula if all that was true and she answered him that it was, that many years ago the gypsies had brought magic lamps and flying mats to Macondo.

“What’s happening,” she sighed, “is that the world is slowly coming to an end and those things don’t come here any more.””

Good bye to Gabriel García Márquez, who died of pneumonia on April 17, 2014, aged 87…

(via elsodex)

kaylizle:

legitimatecacti:

commander shepard rattling off monologues from human scifi movies every time she has to make a speech and the humans in the team just snorting under their breath while the aliens are like “wow did she just make this up out of nowhere? this is amazing”

shep: “Today is our independence day” Ash: *dies of laughter* Vega: you can’t be serious. Is she serious? Joker: the brave heart one is the best. Her Mel Gibson is getting really good.

(via elsodex)

I really, seriously, honestly hate Fitz. Truly hate Fitz. 

Tags: scandal

stanley-tuccis:

biogeekgrrl:


like the title is ghost stories. why I read this while laying in the dark. ONE NEVER KNOWS.

it’s not that bad though, right? there are some dead people who are cool, and other dead people who need to be shown the door. much like party guests. 

i agree. although. like. i believe they’re around and there, but i also don’t want to open myself up to that because i literally am one of the most fearful humans. and i don’t do well with any of it.

but wait okay but let me tell you a couple quick stories. deemnfic feel free to get in on this shit.

in the apartment i lived in with my dad and my sister after my parents got divorced. it was an old industrial loft. and a lot of nights, i would wake up with the feeling that someone had their hands around my throat and i couldn’t breathe and i couldn’t move. my sister and i shared a room and she never had anything even sort of like that happen to her. but u kno.

THEN in my apartment in brooklyn, one night there was a lady sitting at the foot of my bed. all in black. and my heart is literally racing when i think about this. and she was like leaning forward, reaching for something in front of my face. just like arm extended, shaking, right there.

apparently, according to my sister, the only thing she found on the internet fitting said lady’s description was like a scary spirit that hangs out by the ringer. so. i don’t know.

help. me. 

i get that, i totally get that. there have been more than a few times i woke up from a dream where someone was assaulting me in my sleep to feel like someone was assaulting me in my bed, to waking up and realizing that i was along in my room. i don’t take that shit lightly. there are some dead people who are NOT COOL. but i feel like (at least in my culture) there’s this unspoken acknowledgement that if the dead come around, they best come with loving intentions, otherwise they are not welcome. 

so my pseudo in-laws, random fuckers, even my dad; they aren’t welcome. never. nowhere in my physical space, my mind, anywhere. but my papaw, my bubbeh, my friend davey, my niece and nephew; they can come say hi any time they want to. and they do, like friends dropping by to say hello, i miss you. they drop by every once in a while, and it’s sweet. 

you set the boundaries. you set the boundaries because you know you are sensitive to certain things. this is your home, your mind, and you set the invite list. YOU set it. 


like the title is ghost stories. why I read this while laying in the dark. ONE NEVER KNOWS.

it’s not that bad though, right? there are some dead people who are cool, and other dead people who need to be shown the door. much like party guests. 

deemnfic:

elsodex:

deemnfic:

image

biogeekgrrl replied to your post “Okay folks tell me what you know about Emma’s circle ring necklace…”

According to JMo, it has to do with swans & the connection btwn realms they embodied. Ip

image

youwantedtoseeyourqueen replied to your post “Okay folks tell me what you…

In universe, I’ve always chalked it up to one of those weird crazy coincidences that just sort of happen. Like when someone picks a name for their child and it randomly turns out to be the same as some great relative’s. 

I sort of think she just likes it, in that way you do. Something pretty that caught her eye.

If I were to go all social/psychological, it’s probably a subconscious effect of “taste”. Which is to say, it’s something she bought for herself on a whim once she was finally more or less secure. It has no practical purpose, no special meaning, it is literally something to have because she can. Something like that for the poor orphan ex-con is meaningful all on it’s own. Proof that she’s made it through the storm. Emma’s probably not thinking about all that, just “Hey that’s nice and I want it, and I can actually buy it so why the fuck shouldn’t I?”.

Now, we can make a case that there is also some sort of subconscious supernatural longing or whatever. Which is rather compelling and actually makes a weird sort of sense given Emma’s innate magic. Like she doesn’t know why she likes these things, why they somehow make her feel powerful or…right. But somewhere deep inside they do, she doesn’t think about it too much, because why dwell on something you can’t really put to words?

Emma doesn’t know what a torc is, but there is a piece of her that knows there is a weight meant to rest on her clavicle.

this. THIS. 

my personal headcanon is that emma is not a sorceress, like regina, who has to think and study and learn magic in order to create spells. emma is an inherently magical being. she is a prophesied true love baby and she was born with power, unlike regina and zelena who were born with aptitude, with power. she is the swan princess; she doesn’t control magic, she is magical. 

so when she sees a necklace that she can finally afford, that actually looks like something she would wear, and she can buy it — she doesn’t have to steal it, she buys it. she does, and she wears it every day. and somewhere deep in her psyche, something resonates about torcs and magic and symbolism, but it never reaches her conscious mind. 

regina mills is a sorceress, a creature of mind; she studies, she learns, she carefully constructs spells. emma swan is a magical being. she cannot study magic, she cannot learn, except to be in touch with her own inherent magic. 

i’m not sure if that makes sense per se, but i think the two of them are radically different magic users. 

ghost stories

for deemnfic

Let me preface this by explaining a thing about my specific culture; I can’t speak for all crazy White people who don’t know enough to leave a haunted house, but I can speak for my own crazy Irish by way of Appalachian family. 

We believe that the dead are all around us; every moment, every day. Like, you can’t swing a stick without some disembodied person wishing you would keep that damned thing out of their gut. They’re just there. 99% of the time you won’t even notice them, and of the times you do notice them point 8 to point 9 percent are times they just got a little excited and carried away. “Damn! Sam’s binge-watching Game of Thrones AND she’s got the good rye in the decanter upstairs! I like that girl, I wish I met her when I was alive.” A very few of them have unsettled business, and a tiny minority are just bad news. It’s pretty easy to tell the difference. 

That said, I promised stories. Papaw was a creature of habit; he woke up every morning before dawn, lit a fire in the fireplace, made coffee, and then sat in his favorite Lazy Boy recliner with the cracked green upholstery drinking coffee and having a chew. There was a credenza to the right of the chair, and just past that was the doorway to the kitchen. He could sit in his recliner, look to his right, and talk with Mamaw. It was all very cozy, very predictable. 

He passed away when xhellobastardsx and his cousin J were just babies. My sisters would dutifully sit both boys down for portraits on a regular basis, and send framed 8x10s to Mamaw. She would in turn place them on the credenza, angled far to the right so she could see them from the kitchen. But every time she left the house, went outside to garden, etc, the portraits would be angled to the left, facing Papaw’s recliner. Eventually she got the hint, and left them facing his chair; she figured she could walk past and look at them, but maybe it was harder for him to do that.  

//

my house was inherited through my wife, who inherited it from her previous partner — a lovely human who unfortunately died young. it was his childhood home and he purchased it from his parents. his mom was lovely, but his dad, though; his dad and his grandfather were fuckers. straight up fuckers. they were probably part of the reason he did die young. and the two of those fuckers hung around, in all their ill-tempered surly nature. wifey and i were able to ignore them for the most part, but when guests would stay at the house they would mention how creepy everything was. we had friends house sit when we traveled, and they always had stories to tell us afterwards. the wonder dog was very particular about where he’d hang out; if one of us wasn’t in the room, he wouldn’t be there. and in some rooms, even if we were there he couldn’t relax. basically, our house was regarded as he haunted house on the block. which, no thanks. who wants to have that house, right?

it came to a head this spring, and (without belaboring the topic) we literally went through every crack and crevice of our home, from upstairs to garage. it was good that we did so, because in our search we found a variety of objects — the family crest notes, history, a big old bowie knife, the family bible with all their history— that most likely gave the nasty dead access to our home. so we decided to get rid of all of it. then just to be sure, over the course of seven days, we walked those fuckers out of our home, farther and farther away, until we took them to a crossroads and left them. (naturally we returned home via a different route). 

the house feels completely different now; even the light in some of the rooms looks different. on top of that, we both used to have terrible insomnia and now we sleep like babies. and wonder dog? well he’s content in any room of the house. 

//

not saying anything is anything, just telling you some stories. ;)

Dear Fitz: 

I hate you man. I really fucking hate you.