bodhrancomedy

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Phineas and Ferb - Season Four - “My Sweet Ride”

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MY VOICE DROP, LISTEN.

That’s, like nine months. (Started in June)

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Costume. Chitons.

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MY VOICE DROP, LISTEN.

That’s, like nine months. (Started in June)

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NIGHT-RUN OPENING

The deluge pounded the prairie like an army of giants, its roar rivalling the rolling thunder above it. Forests of tallgrass were beaten and broken to half their heights, the soil beneath now oceans of silt and mire and sludge.

The last harpy shrieked its fury into the raging night, sensing the retreat of its sisters back to home. Electricity crackled painfully across its wings, each feather being pulled and fluffed by the storm, rain crashing into its body like arrows. What little cognitive power it possessed was screaming to follow the flock – get back to safety and shelter and warmth – before the elements tore it from the skies.

But to return empty-taloned was to forgo a reward. The harpy could feel the burst of intestines against its mouth, the gush of life-blood seeping down its throat. Chunks of carrion tossed into their enclosure were sufficient, but live prey was a rare and welcome indulgence.

Its master urged it on from the back of its mind, sharing the adrenaline and thrill and stress of the hunt. Live prey begot live prey.

Another blast of rain overturned it. Something like fear touched its gut. The storm was becoming too much. The harpy fought itself right-side up and scanned the unfurling plains below a final time.

Lightning ripped open the clouds. For a heartbeat, the floundering shape amidst the grass was illuminated as clearly as a torch in a cave.

The harpy dived. Wind and water whipped past it as it plummeted, preparing its weight to swing forward those talons and seize the target by whatever it could, snatching its quarry up to where there was no defense –

But the next flash of lightning was blinding and the harpy’s claws closed on empty air. Screeching with rage, the harpy climbed again into the storm-tossed night and wheeled around to join its flock, broadcasting the prey’s last position to its disappointed master.

Argo clawed himself free from the river of muck, open-mouthed panting with the strain. He’d felt the rush of wind above his head as he’d thrown himself down, the split-second shadow against the tempest’s light his only warning. His arms throbbed from where he’d jarred them as he’d dropped, his shoulders protesting taking his full weight just as strongly. But those were just more melodies among the symphony of agony that was his body.

A huge, sobbing breath tore out of Argo’s mouth as he forced himself to his feet, staggering forwards.

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“There’s only so many times you can return from a routine mission having survived by the skin of your teeth with a thirty percent loss of crew before I have to conclude that you’re not a genius tactician and are, in fact, just insane.”

- ??? Still figuring out character.

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Not ecstatic with these performances, but I’ve just finished a first full day of work for a while and it’s late and I’m tired.

Enjoy.

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I wanna write but I’m too tired. I’m just staring at a single looping gif which has nothing to do with the imagery I wanna use.

It’s the gif below it I want. 🪦

Forcing myself to do some prose writing like:

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Forcing myself to do some prose writing like:

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Not ecstatic with these performances, but I’ve just finished a first full day of work for a while and it’s late and I’m tired.

Enjoy.

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Yes, I - the OP - am a 4'11" actor man who has gotten to wield guns on TV. This is very specifically about adult characters under 5 foot.

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A recap for anyone who doesn’t know: my mum has a “pet” seagull named Steve who she’s been feeding (and has taught him to come when called) for the past six (?) years.

He was a baby seagull with a fucked up leg from netting that my mother fell in love with and personally ensures he gets a good meal.

Last two years he’s had a mate: Stephanie.

Well, Steve has returned for another year, but this year he has a baby.

Steve the bby has had a bby 😭

I’m pitching the name Steveling.

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Excuse my messy room please, I tore it apart looking for my hearing aids because I have work tomorrow.

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Least weasel/vessla in its white winter coat. Värmland, Sweden (February 12, 2023).

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