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PSRC 2020

A book that's published in 2020 - Darling Rose Gold - Stephanie Wrobel

A book by a trans or nonbinary author - All the Birds In the Sky - Charlie Jane Anders

A book with a great first line - Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury

A book about a book club - The Accidental Bookclub - Jennifer Scottt

A book set in a city that has hosted the Olympics - Angels and Demons - Dan Brown

A bildungsroman - Playlist for the Dead - Michelle Folkoff

The first book you touch on a shelf with your eyes closed - Fire Touched - Patricia Briggs

A book with an upside-down image on the cover - Verity - Colleen Hoover

A book with a map - Bone Crossed - Patricia Briggs

A book recommended by your favorite blog, vlog, podcast, or online book club - World War Z - Max Brooks

An anthology - Tiny Crimes - Various Authors

A book that passes the Bechdel test - Frost Burnes - Patricia Briggs

A book with the same title as a movie or TV show but is unrelated to it - The Passengers - John Marrs

A book by an author with flora or fauna in their name - My Lady’s Choosing - Kitty Curran and Larissa Zageris

A book about or involving social media - The Future of Us - Carolyn Mackler and Jay Asher

A book that has a book on the cover - Silver Borne - Patricia Briggs

A medical thriller - Post Mortem - Patricia Cornwell

A book with a made-up language - The Tales of Beetle the Bard - J.K. Rowling

A book set in a country beginning with "C" - The Incredible Journey - Sheila Burnford

A book you picked because the title caught your attention - The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes - Suzanne Collins

A book published the month of your birthday - Thin Air - Lisa Gray

A book about or by a woman in STEM -  Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World -Rachel Ignotofsy

A book that won an award in 2019 - Scrublands - Chris Hammern

A book on a subject you know nothing about -  Wide-Open World: How Volunteering Around the Globe Changed One Family's Lives Forever - John Marshall

A book with only words on the cover, no images or graphics - The Strain - Guillermo Del Toro and Chick Hogan

A book with a pun in the title - Crime Brulee - Nancy Fairbanks

A book featuring one of the seven deadly sins - The Lust Killer - Anne Rule

A book with a robot, cyborg, or AI character - SF 18 - Various Authors

A book with a bird on the cover - Beastkeeper - Cat Hellison

A fiction or nonfiction book about a world leader - THe Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett

A book with "gold," "silver," or "bronze" in the title - Heart of Gold - Robin Lee Hatchen

A book by a WOC - Silver Sparrow - Tayari JOnes

A book with at least a four-star rating on Goodreads - I am Legend - RIchard Matheson

A book you meant to read in 2019 - The Photo Ark - Joel Sartore

A book with a three-word title -One Word Kill - Mark Lawrence

A book with a pink cover - Girl on a Plane - Miriam Moss

A Western - Silver Lining - Maggie Osbourne

A book by or about a journalist - The Imperfectionists - Tom Rachman

Read a banned book during Banned Books Week - The Giver - Louis Lowry

Your favorite prompt from a past POPSUGAR Reading Challenge - The Heist - Janet Evanovich

Advanced

A book written by an author in their 20s -Vicious - V.E.Schwab

A book with "20" or "twenty" in the title - 24/7 - Jim Brown

A book with a character with a vision impairment or enhancement (a nod to 20/20 vision) - Tangerine - Edward Bloom

A book set in the 1920s - Death Scene - Jane A. Adams

A book set in Japan, host of the 2020 Olympics - Tokyo Heist - Dianna Renn

A book by an author who has written more than 20 books - The Fall - Chuck Hogan

A book with more than 20 letters in its title - Quidditch through the ages by Kennilworthy Whisp / J.K. Rowling

A book published in the 20th century - The Phantom Tollbooth - Norton Juster

A book from a series with more than 20 books - Night Broken - Patricia Briggs

A book with a main character in their 20s - Howl’s Moving Castle - Dianna Wynne Jones

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When the whole party is down but your bard is up

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The Thing Poster Set - Created by Patrick Connan

Prints available for sale at Vice Press. You can follow the artist on Instagram and Twitter.

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i know this will make me sound old and boring but once i’m home for the night i’m home. i don’t like upsetting my plans even when i don’t have any. yes it’s only 8pm but i spent the whole evening believing i’m not going anywhere, i cannot perceive or be perceived right now, try again later

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Imagine all the wild stuff you could do with this song playing in the background 🥵😏

I’ve got a couple of ideas😉😏😈

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It’s ok to be tired.  

It’s ok to step away from the news.  

It’s ok to take a break from the discourse. 

It doesn’t mean you care any less about what’s happening in the world.  

Take care of yourself so you can continue to. 

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Because I express my love through bad jokes, it seems. 

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Some Harry Potter headcanon/Fix-It/who even knows

Harry Potter does not go straight into Auror training after the Battle of Hogwarts. In fact, he doesn’t do much at all. 

Harry finds himself at a loss after the death of Voldemort, and he stops speaking to everyone he knew before the war - Ron and Hermione included. It just wasn’t the same for them when Voldemort’s body hit the ground, and the world changed. They couldn’t understand. 

The summer of 1998 passes fitfully, and lonesomely. He hangs out near Godric’s Hollow, often in a tea shop or a library. A group called the Spice Girls hits number one some time around his birthday. Harry’s pretty sure he likes them. He’s more sure of that than anything.

He turns eighteen at the foot of his parent’s memorial. He rests a hand on Lily’s grave, and then James’s. “You should have had more of these,” he whispers, and a warm summer breeze envelops him in a way he hasn’t felt since he released the Resurrection Stone on the forest floor.

“Did you know that I was technically The Master of Death?” Harry asks weakly, his back to his father’s marker, staring out at the gate that separates the dead from the living. He thinks about Sirius. Cedric. Moody. Tonks and Lupin. And Florence and Dobby, and Lavender, and Colin, and Dumble– “It’s probably more fitting than The Boy Who Lived.”

A boy who became a man too quickly weeps at the graves of parents who who were barely two years older than he is now when they sacrificed everything for him (not for the world - for him. It’s the most important distinction he could possibly make). The beams from a passing car cross into the graveyard momentarily, illuminating the tapetum lucidum of a cat with most peculiar markings.

He walks out of the inn where he’s been staying the next morning, and startles when he recognizes the shape sitting most primly upon a stone wall across from the front door. She’s absent the pointed hat he had grown familiar with over the last seven years, and she’s traded out emerald robes for a crisp white shirt tucked into grey trousers, but he’d recognize those stern frames and thin mouth anywhere.

“Good morning, Professor,” Harry calls out warily. She gracefully stands and gestures for him to follow her. Harry does because he’s exhausted, and angry, but he’s not rude. Not to her. Never to her.

They settle in a tea shop, and with a wave of her wand, a bubble of privacy descends over them, one unnoticed by the Muggles rushing about on the first of August. 

She asks him how he’s been, and Harry writhes under her knowing gaze. He mutters something about needing time away from it all and the wizarding world doesn’t really need him right now - and Minerva McGonagall stares at him the whole time, not bothering to hide her disbelief. “Potter,” she says in a voice as crisp as her outfit while she pours them both a cup of tea. “That is the greatest load of bullshit anyone’s ever tried to give me.” He stares at her now as she scoots a cup made just how he likes it (two lumps of sugar, no cream) towards him. “And I taught your father and Sirius Black.” She takes a luxurious sip of her own cup, and when Harry doesn’t move to lift his off the saucer, she lifts a single eyebrow at him, and he hastens to change that.

Truth be told, Harry doesn’t think the world needs him anymore. He’s served it as best he could. Died for it. Let other people die for it. He’s still not sure why Dumbledore had to punish him one last time by pushing him to come back.

He’s still not sure what to do with his anger for being raised to die. 

Minerva McGonagall does not waste breath on I never knew what he intended or I am so sorry, my dear boy, you have no idea. She doesn’t waste time on words that will fall on tired ears. Instead, she sets a small pouch on the table and opens the drawstring delicately. Withered hands vanish from sight for a moment, and she pulls out a small cake. “Hagrid baked this,” she says calmly, setting it on the table between them. 

Happee Birthdae, Harry! the chocolate cake proclaims in a painful echo that reverberates somewhere behind his heart. 

“Most likely inedible,” McGonagall says, sniffing with distaste. “But no point in letting it go to waste.” She procures a knife from seemingly nowhere - looking up briefly with unmasked concern when Harry flinches at the sight - and Banishes it the second she’s cut two hearty slices. “I’ve bought him recipe books,” the professor says conversationally after they’ve both taken a wince-inducing bite. “But you can lead a thestral to water.” Harry nods and doesn’t tell her that the cake, crumbling like dirt and tasting much the same, is the best thing he’s eaten since he said goodbye to his parents in the forest.

“Before I forget,” she says, as if she could forget anything. “Filius sent you this.” A beautiful Snitch lifts from the bag next - I open at the close, Harry desperately tries not to think - and is passed across the table. The Snitch sits warm and familiar in his hand. “It’s enchanted to send messages,” McGonagall says, her hand back in the bag. “Pardon me, Potter, when I mentioned I was coming to visit you, I was suddenly overwhelmed by people in my office who wanted to me to bring…” 

She trails off at that, and next comes a strange green amulet. “Slughorn,” she says by way of explanation, her nose wrinkled. “Says it belonged to the former president of the banking guild.” Her eyebrows are still raised when she brings out a bag of homemade toffee. “Molly Weasley sends her love,” McGonagall says. Harry takes it and stares at it while McGonagall continues to rummage.

Broomstick polish from Madam Hooch. His favorite Honeyduke’s chocolate from Professor Sprout. A box with a picture of a grey and black rectangle on the outside. 

“The girl said it was called an Mp3 player,” McGonagall says doubtfully. “Muggles put music on it, I believe.”

A half dozen letters in Hermione’s careful lettering. No less than twenty five letters with Ron’s scrawl on the envelope. 

The emptied bag is placed next to Harry’s saucer, and he stares at the pile in front of him with the ghost of guilt still burning at his eyes. Last is a letter, addressed to Mr. H. Potter at the Road Less Traveled Inn, Godric’s Hollow. “There was no official address,” McGonagall says, the letter suspended between them for a moment, and then it stays with Harry. “And I wanted to deliver this by hand.”

Harry knows an invitation to Hogwarts when he sees one. 

“It does not matter if it takes you a month, or a year, or a decade,” McGonagall says, her hand covering Harry’s briefly. “Hogwarts will always be there for you. As will the people who love you.” She squeezes gently, lifts her hand to wipe the tear that’s fallen from bottle-green eyes, and stands. “And we won’t ask you to do a bloody thing besides learn, Potter.” With that, she sweeps from the tea shop, leaving Harry to cry in front of the pile of evidence that there are adults, friends, family in this world who love him and who have only ever wanted the best for him.

It hurts to let go of his anger - and some of it he keeps, tucked safe and warm under his heart, well into old age - but he does. 

On September 1st, 1998, a boy with a single suitcase to his name walks into King’s Cross. He blinks up at platform 9, and then number 10 through eyes unburdened by glasses. He made the switch to contacts sometime over the summer, thinking them less bulky, less recognizable, one less thing to worry about breaking when so much had already been broken. He looks at the platform, and then he sees them.

A boy with flaming red hair is tucking a flyaway curl behind the ear of a girl jabbing her finger at a book and talking a mile a minute. Harry watches the boy laugh at something she said, watches her swat him affectionately, and he walks up to them.

They look up at the same time, and their faces light up with matching grins. “Took you long enough,” Ron chortles, his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Ginny’s been looking for you on the platform. I thought we were gonna have to steal another car, mate.” 

“Oh, leave him be, Ronald,” Hermione says, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. She throws her arms around him, and Harry rests his chin on her dark, wild curls. “It’s going to be a good year,” she says firmly, wetly. Another pair of arms wrap around Harry, and the trio stands for a moment, swaying from the weight of their embrace between the platforms. 

“Let’s go home,” Harry says, and Ron laughs, punches his arm lightly, and then grabs his suitcase and Hermione’s. “What did you pack in here, woman?” Ron moans, dragging her suitcase with exaggerated effect.  “Did you pack an entire library?” He disappears through the dividing wall.

“Well…” Hermione says, smiling at Harry over her shoulder. “Now that you mention it.” She, too, vanishes from sight, leaving Harry to stare at the brick wall for a moment longer.

Behind this wall is a mess of loss and pain and suffering. Behind this wall are the memories he had buried himself in all summer. When he crosses through, the distance he built up over the last few months will be gone - he’ll confront the forest, the place where Fred fell, the site of his last struggle with Tom Riddle. Harry will see faces he remembers-and suffocate from the weight of the faces he won’t see. He can turn around still. Or.

“Let’s go home,” he whispers to himself, his feet carrying him forward once more.

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These are so beautiful!

Animated posters ❀ MCU locations

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This is beautiful 😍😍😍

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The Revenant

At some point in recent years, you suffered what felt to you like a 'death', whether creative, social, emotional, spiritual or even literal, and you've been reborn. This reincarnation didn't come easy, and you're not entirely the person you were, but you sloughed yourself out of your figurative grave with the kind of vigour only a phoenix could have. When you sleep, you dream strange and vivid dreams, and your gaze now holds a certain intensity. When something takes your attention, it doesn't let go. Your kindness is endless, as is your love for vast things like the sea, the sky and the stars. You have a certain unshakable fixation with religion or higher powers, and the prospect of death doesn't scare you. In fact, you feel less fear than you should, and you've never felt more alive than you do now. As a deity, you're the god of life and death, of moving on, of growth and of courage.

guys I made an ‘if you were a deity, what would you be the god of?’ quiz! it’s somewhere between the greek gods and astrology and hopefully it’s fun and a little weird :))

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my cat joined my dad and my dog on their morning walk

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“My rescue cat allows me to help him groom”

(Source)

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One of the funniest failures of US school system is the fact they are legally obligated to teach us all the states but they never actually show how big Alaska is like I have actually had teachers tell me that Texas is the biggest state. We have all just convinced ourselves that Alaska is that small shrunken down thing on most US maps and the people that know it's the largest state can almost never accurately describe how large it is.

For context here is a picture

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How are penguins not extinct?