#Forgotten Fiberglass

[fingertipsmp3]

That ‘is this UK uni accommodation or a Swedish prison’ game is so funny but also so depressing

[goodlucktai]

29 with Mikey and Leo please!

29. “Tell me where it hurts, and be specific.”

x

It really was his own fault. If Mikey didn’t want to be babied, he shouldn’t have broken his wrist. 

He was mostly just annoyed it happened in such a boring way, catching himself wrong falling off his skateboard.

Yes he’d decided to sneak off and find a sewer tunnel to attempt the full pipe loop a full two weeks before Draxum said the gross mystic mandrake tea would finish running its course, but he felt fine! His hands barely shook anymore, only when he overworked himself or let himself get too tired or too excited.

But from the look on everyone’s faces when he slunk home ungraciously dragging his board behind him, you’d think he was at death’s door. 

What was worse, Donnie wheeled him by the shoulders into the infirmary and deposited him right in front of Leonardo, the only person Mikey couldn’t out-stubborn, whose affable smile faded at once into that serious look that made all of his siblings straighten their spines and pay attention.  

If the skateboarding accident had happened pre-almost-apocalypse, Dr. Leo would have probably led with a joke instead of, “Tell me where it hurts, and be specific.”

Mikey resigned himself to a ridiculous amount of mother-henning for the duration his arm was stuck in its short cast. His brothers took his newly fragile hands so personally, like they were the ones who couldn’t hold an inking pen or color inside the lines or even cook a meal more complicated than lasagna without having to give up in the middle and have someone else take over. Like they were the ones who woke up shaking in the middle of the night from some distant, half-forgotten dream of disappearing into fragments of light, arms radiating pain like it was their job, a confused jumble of grief and fear and farewell on his tongue until he went and climbed into bed with papa or Raphie and let them hug it all away. 

Leo said Mikey’s wrist wouldn’t need the full six-to-twelve weeks that a baseline human’s would due to their genetic modifications—“Thank you, Barry,” they had chorused in varying degrees of sincerity (Mikey, Raph and Casey) and sarcasm (Leo, Donnie and Splinter)—but that he still needed to give it time to heal.

“You’re the toughest guy I know,” Leo had said, poking Mikey on the beak to stall the inevitable whine, “but you gotta give yourself a break, Miguelito.” 

He said it like his skin wasn’t still bruised like a peach and his shell all wired together from going one-on-one with an actual living nightmare even as he found the energy to take care of someone else. 

He sat there in the doctor’s seat, pressing carefully around the wet fiberglass to mold it to Mikey’s wrist, all his attention bent to the task. He always tended to his brothers’ hurts the same way, as if it was the most important and remarkable thing he’d ever do. 

Leo’s own casts had only been removed last month, and he was usually very good about following his own medical advice, if only because he knew his siblings would cite his behavior in a heartbeat if it meant they could loophole around doctor’s orders. So Mikey really had no choice but to sulk and accept the distant cousin of scolding he received. 

“It’s not a race,” Leo said, smiling at him. “No one’s gonna run off without you. Where would we go that’s half as good as where you’re at?” 

It was his knee-jerk reaction to smile at Mikey, like his day got better automatically when Mikey was in it, and it soothed that jangling, frustrated thing inside of Mikey’s chest that only got loud when no one took him seriously. Leo always took him seriously, was always the first of their siblings to believe he could do anything he said he could do, and that meant taking Mikey’s injuries seriously, too. 

He’d seen the way Leo had to run himself ragged making sure Donnie kept up with the treatments to his shell and Raph followed instructions on taking care of his eye to the letter. They were trying to spare Leo additional stress, but if they knew they were only compounding the stress he was already in and making it ten times worse, Mikey was pretty sure they’d shut up and take their medicine. 

Mikey wanted to be on Leo’s team, not playing against him. So he put his sulk away and put on his best listening face instead, rewarded when some nearly-invisible line of tension in Leo’s shoulders relaxed until it was gone.

Besides, it wasn’t all bad. He got to pick what color cast he wanted, and got everyone to sign it. And it wasn’t the most horrible thing in the world not to have to do any chores. 

And when Leo announced to the lair as a whole that he was going to visit his tío Hueso and bring back pizzas for dinner—in a tone that made it very clear he was not asking for permission or inviting any worrywart older siblings along—he followed it up with, “You coming, Angie?” 

Maybe because he had been under the scrutiny of worrywart older siblings, too, and understood better than anybody how close Mikey was to biting the next person who tried to baby him. Or maybe because Mikey was the exception to Leo’s rules and he always had been—always invited and always welcome and always wanted. 

In another place, in another time, Leo asked Mikey to die for him, and Mikey died for him. 

In this kinder one, Mikey jumped to his feet with a grin and said, “I’m with you!” and it didn’t cost him anything.

It should have been silly to say something out loud that they both knew was true, but sometimes it was nice to hear it.

[alphynix]

Crystal Palace Field Trip Part 3: Walking With Victorian Beasts

[Previously: the Jurassic and Cretaceous]

The final section of the Crystal Palace Dinosaur trail brings us to the Cenozoic, and a selection of ancient mammals.

Image from 2009 by Loz Pycock (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Originally represented by three statues, there are two surviving originals of the Eocene-aged palaeotheres depicting Plagiolophus minor (the smaller sitting one) and Palaeotherium medium (the larger standing one).

The sitting palaeothere unfortunately lost its head sometime in the late 20th century, and the image above shows it with a modern fiberglass replacement. Then around 2014/2015 the new head was knocked off again, and has not yet been reattached – partly due to a recent discovery that it wasn't actually accurate to the sculpture's original design. Instead there are plans to eventually restore it with a much more faithful head.

These early odd-toed ungulates were already known from near-complete skeletons in the 1850s, and are depicted here as tapir-like animals with short trunks based on the scientific opinion of the time. We now think their heads would have looked more horse-like, without trunks, but otherwise they're not too far off modern reconstructions.

There was also something exciting nearby:

The recently-recreated Palaeotherium magnum!

This sculpture went missing sometime after the 1950s, and its existence was almost completely forgotten until archive images of it were discovered a few years ago. Funds were raised to create a replica as accurate to the original as possible, and in summer 2023 (just a month before the date of my visit) this larger palaeothere species finally rejoined its companions in the park.

Compared to the other palaeotheres this one is weird, though. Much chonkier, wrinkly, and with big eyes and an almost cartoonish tubular trunk. It seems to have taken a lot of anatomical inspiration from animals like rhinos and elephants, since in the mid-1800s odd-toed ungulates were grouped together with "pachyderms".

———

Next is Anoplotherium, an Eocene even-toed ungulate distantly related to modern camels.

(Apparently the sculpture closest to the water is a replica of a now-lost original, recreated from photo references in the same manner as the new Palaeotherium magnum. I can't find a definite reference for when this one was done, though – I'd guess probably during the last round of major renovations in the early 2000s, at the same time as the now-destroyed Jurassic pterosaur replicas?)

Anoplotherium commune is a rather obscure species today, but it was one of the first early Cenozoic fossil mammals to be recognized by science in the early 1800s. Depicted here as small camel-like animals, the three statues are positioned near the water's edge to reflect the Victorian idea that they were semi-aquatic based on their muscular tails.

Today we instead think these animals were fully terrestrial, using their tails to balance themselves while rearing up to reach higher vegetation. Their heads would also have looked a bit less camel-like, but otherwise the Crystal Palace trio are still really good representations.

———

Next is a sculpture that's very easy to miss in the current overgrown state.

Who's that peeking over the bushes?

Going all the way around to the far side of the lake reveals a distant glimpse of the Pliocene-to-Holocene giant ground sloth Megatherium.

A better view of the Megatherium | "Tree Hugger" by Colin Smith (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Fossils of Megatherium americanum had been known since the late 1700s, but the 1854 Crystal Palace statue was still one of the first life reconstructions of this animal. Its anatomy is actually very close to our modern understanding, depicted with correctly inward-turned feet and sitting upright to feed on a tree with its tail acting as a "tripod".

However, we now know it didn't have a trunk-like nose, but instead probably had prehensile lips more like those of a modern black rhino.

Something weird also appears to have happened to the Crystal Palace Megatherium's hands. Early illustrations of the sculpture all consistently show it with the typical long claws of a sloth, but today it's missing its right hand and its left has only a strangely stumpy paw – suggesting that at some point in the intervening 170 years there was an unrecorded crude repair.

———

And finally we end the trail with three Megaloceros, the Pleistocene-to-Holocene "Irish Elk" that's actually neither exclusively Irish nor an elk.

A closer look at the second stag and the doe.

There was originally a fourth giant deer sculpture in this herd, a second resting doe, but it was destroyed sometime during the mid-20th century. The stags also initially had real fossil antlers attached to their heads, but these were removed and replaced with less accurate versions at some point by the mid-20th century.

One of the stags' antlers suffered some damage in 2020, ending up drooping, and since then one antler has either fallen off or been removed.

In the 1850s Megaloceros giganteus was thought to be closely related to deer in the genus Cervus, and so the Crystal Palace reconstructions seem to be based on modern wapiti – specifically in their winter coats, fitting for ice age animals – since both the stags and the doe sport distinctive thick neck manes.

The stags from the other side.

We now know Megaloceros was actually much more closely related to modern fallow deer, and so probably resembled them more than wapiti. Cave art also shows that it had a hump on its shoulders, and even gives us an idea of what its coloration was.

———

…But wait!

There's actually one more thing.

A small statue sitting on the far side of the deer herd, missing its ears, and seemingly representing a Megaloceros fawn.

Except it's actually something very different and very special.

Ceci n'est pas un cerf.

Some recent investigation work revealed some surprising information about the Crystal Palace mammal statues – much like the nearly-forgotten large Palaeotherium, there was originally an entire group of four small Eocene-aged llama-like Xiphodon gracilis that had disappeared from living memory.

There was also no historic record of a fawn with the giant deer, but instead a suspiciously similar-looking sitting sculpture is illustrated among what we now known are the four missing Xiphodon in early records.

An 1853 illustration of the sculpture workshop. The four Xiphodon are shown in the center, directly in front of a Megaloceros stag and doe. (public domain)

Somewhere in the late 19th or early 20th century three of the Xiphodon must have been completely lost, and the remaining individual was misidentified as a fawn and placed with the giant deer herd.

———

Rediscovering a whole extra species among the Crystal Palace statues is exciting, but it also demonstrates just how much of these sculptures' history has gone completely undocumented. 

The mammal statues especially seem to have suffered the most out of the "Dinosaur Court", being often overlooked, neglected, disrespected (at one point the Megatherium was inside a goat pen in a petting zoo!), and subjected to cruder repairs. A total of five original statues are now known to be missing from this Cenozoic section – the original large Palaeotherium, the three other Xiphodon, and the second Megaloceros doe – compared to the two pterosaurs lost from the Mesozoic island.

Hopefully the excellent recreation of the lost Palaeotherium magnum is the start of a long overdue new lease of life and conservation attention for all of the Crystal Palace sculptures. It was disappointing seeing them all in such an overgrown state, and with signs of ongoing disrepair in places such as the plant growing out of the big ichthyosaur's back.

But there has been some resurgence of interest and public attention in the Crystal Palace sculptures over the last few years, so with any luck these historic pieces of early paleoart will survive on to their 200th anniversary and beyond, to keep on reminding us of where things began and how far our understanding of prehistoric life has since come.

[its-avalon-08]

lando norris x reader part6

part 6 guys <3 themes enemies to lovers flirty interactions female Formula1 driver

Red Lights, Racing Hearts: Chapter 6 - Collision Course

The once playful camaraderie at the arcade felt like a distant memory as Y/N navigated the unforgiving corners of the practice track. She pushed the car to its limits, adrenaline coursing through her veins, the taste of asphalt and competition thick on her tongue.

Then, in a heartbeat, everything went wrong. A miscalculation, a split-second lapse in judgement, and Lando Norris was bearing down on her, his car a runaway missile heading straight for hers.

The impact was brutal, a sickening crunch of metal and fiberglass. The world spun, her car swerving across the track before coming to a halt in a shower of sparks and smoke.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, panic clawing at her throat. She unbuckled herself, fear and anger a potent cocktail in her veins. As she emerged from the mangled wreckage, adrenaline masking the throbbing pain, she saw Lando standing beside his own battered car, face pale and expression unreadable.

"WHAT THE FUCK NORRIS?!?!" Y/N roared, her voice echoing in the stunned silence of the pit lane. "Are you fucking blind?!"

Lando's mouth tightened. "It was an accident, L/N. Don't make it sound like I tried to take you out."

"An accident?" Y/N spat, a hand instinctively flying to her forehead. A metallic tang hit her tongue, and she pulled her hand away, seeing a smear of red blossoming across her palm. Panic spiked, fear forgotten, replaced by a surge of primal terror.

Lando saw the blood, his initial defensiveness dissolving into concern. He reached out, fingers hovering hesitantly near her face.

Y/N flinched, swatting his hand away with a hiss. "Don't you dare touch me!" she screamed, her voice thick with fear and fury.

Lando recoiled, hurt flickering in his eyes. "I was just trying to see if you're okay," he protested, his voice tight.

"Yeah, right," Y/N scoffed, tears stinging her eyes. "Like you actually care."

Lando's anger flared. "Don't act so fucking high and mighty, L/N," he snapped, grabbing her shoulders, his grip surprisingly firm. He brushed aside her hair, his thumb gently wiping away the blood trickling down her forehead. "You put yourself in danger every time you get behind the wheel. Don't expect an ounce of sympathy if you can't handle the heat."

Y/N stared at him, his touch sending a jolt through her. His words were harsh, laced with anger, but his eyes held a concern she couldn't ignore. "Don't pretend to care, Norris," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You wouldn't know what caring looks like if it hit you over your head"

Before Lando could retort, Max and Daniel materialized beside them, their faces grim. They saw the raw emotions playing out, the anger, the fear, the flicker of something deeper that danced beneath the surface.

"Alright, that's enough," Max said, his voice a low rumble, pulling Lando away from Y/N. "Both of you, take a breather. We'll talk about this later."

As the tension slowly dissipated, replaced by a wary silence, Y/N looked at Lando, his face unreadable. Was there genuine concern in his eyes, or was it just another mask in his repertoire? She didn't know, and the uncertainty gnawed at her.

The accident had been a jolt, a stark reminder of the dangers they faced every time they strapped themselves into those high-powered machines. But it had also unveiled something else, something hidden beneath the layers of competition and rivalry. A spark of connection, a flicker of humanity, that threatened to disrupt the carefully constructed walls they had built around their hearts.

----------------<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3------------------------

The antiseptic sting of the disinfectant brought Y/N back to the present. Max, crouched before her with a cotton ball, focused on cleaning the graze on her arm, his expression unreadable. The heat radiating from his proximity made her cheeks warm, a stark contrast to the chill gripping her heart.

"There," Max mumbled, tossing the used cotton ball into the bin. "You'll live."

Y/N huffed, a weak attempt at humor. "Thanks, Pretty Boy. For saving me from myself, that is."

Max paused, his hand lingering on her elbow for a beat longer than necessary. "Or saving you from Norris?" he said, his voice low and neutral.

Y/N's jaw tightened. "It was an accident," she snapped, more to convince herself than him.

"Accidents happen," Max agreed, "but sometimes, they tell a story."

Y/N met his gaze, a flicker of apprehension flashing in her eyes. "What story?" she whispered, dreading the answer.

Max chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm and gentle. "The story of a girl who can't stop talking about the boy who almost ran her over," he teased, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Y/N's face flushed crimson. "I do not!" she protested, her voice cracking under the pressure of his gaze.

Max raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Really? Because all I heard was 'Don't pretend to care, Norris,' not 'Don't come near me, you reckless maniac.'"

Y/N opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her tongue. Max was right. Her anger towards Lando had stemmed from something deeper, something she hadn't even admitted to herself.

Silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken words and blooming emotions. Max's hand reached up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was comforting and calm in contrast to the turmoil she was facing internally.

"Look," Max said, his voice turning serious, "Lando might be...well, Lando. But I don't think he meant to hurt you."

Y/N sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It's just...there's something about him. This anger, this darkness. It scares me but it is so fucking inviting."

Max nodded, his expression softening. "It scares me too. But maybe, just maybe, there's more to him than meets the eye."

Y/N considered his words, a flicker of hope battling the fear in her heart. "Maybe," she breathed, her gaze flitting towards the window where the setting sun painted the sky in fiery hues.

But even as she allowed herself a sliver of hope, a voice whispered a stark warning in her head. Lando Norris was a storm, a tempestuous force that could consume her whole. Was she strong enough to weather it, or would she be swept away in its fury?

Only time would tell. And as the shadows lengthened and the silence deepened, Y/N knew that the real race had just begun - not just on the track, but within the tangled labyrinth of her own heart.

[rosemage]

TO MAKE THIS BODY YOU MUST

CHEW THE INSULATION

FROM THE HOUSE YOUR MOTHER LEFT

OVER AND OVER AGAIN

YOU ARE, AFTER ALL

A CONGLOMERATION

ASBESTOS PLASTIC FIBERGLASS

SINCE BEEN

PLASTERED OVER, NEW CONSTRUCTION

TO HIDE THE FIRES CAUSED BY

CIGARETTES

ON ALL THE WALLS AND CARPET

YELLOW TINTED, CAVING IN

PARTS UNWANTED, LEFT FOR ROTTEN

LONG ABANDONED AND FORGOTTEN

THAT FLAME FLICKERS, STILLS, IS HUNGRY

IT MUST BE FOREVER FED

BY THE LITTER AND DRIFTING ASHES

OF WHAT REMAINS, WHATEVER’S LEFT

MOUTHFUL BY TENDERED MOUTHFUL

YOU WILL SPOON THE FILLER IN

NEVER MIND THE BLOODY LIP

THROAT SPITTING

EMBERS ONTO BURNING SKIN

TO MAKE THIS BODY YOU MUST

CHEW THE INSULATION

FROM THE HOUSE YOUR MOTHER LEFT

(Feb 1 prompt by @nosebleedclub “burning skin”)

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

10 Forgotten Muscle Cars That Deserve to Be Restored

by James Derek Sapienza 

Source: General Motors We all know the story; it started in 1964 with the Ford Mustang. No, wait — I mean the Plymouth Barracuda. Or the Pontiac GTO. Or was it earlier with the Pontiac Catalina SD? The ’50s Dodge D-500 maybe? Debating the origin of the muscle car is like debating over the first rock and roll record; everyone you talk to has a different opinion, and no one is exactly wrong. Let’s just say that by the early ’60s, a generation coming of age fell in love with high-performance midsize cars coming out of Detroit, and for a few brief years, performance ruled the day. Naturally, the good old days seem to look better with each passing year, and as the book was written on the muscle car, a fair amount of contenders fell by the wayside.

1. 1964 Studebaker Avanti R3

Source: Auctions America The Avanti isn’t generally counted among muscle cars, but then, Studebaker was never exactly considered a performance powerhouse to begin with. But the fiberglass Avanti had a long hood, short rear deck, and 289-cubic-inch V8 a full two years before the Ford Mustang did. In 1964 (after production officially ended), Studebaker bored out nine V8s to 304 cubic inches, slapped a Paxton supercharger on them, and dropped them into remaining Avantis. The result was a 171-mile-per-hour rocket, which the company claimed made it the fastest production car in America. This R3 was sold by Auctions America in 2010 for $96,250. With the collector market being what it is today, good luck finding one this cheap ever again.

2. 1965 Pontiac 2+2

Source: General Motors As far as classic muscle cars go, the ’65-’67 GTO is remembered to be about as big as they came. But with the success of the GTO, Pontiac wanted to take its go-fast formula to an even bigger car, which became the ’65-’67 2+2. Based on the full-size Catalina two-door, the 2+2 had its own unique 338-horsepower 421-cubic-inch V8, and in High Output guise, power jumped to 376 ponies, which when tuned right could rocket from zero to 60 in a mind-bending 3.9 seconds. Bigger, plusher, and often faster than its smaller stablemate, the 2+2 deserves a lot more love from speed freaks. 

3. 1964 Mercury Comet Cyclone

Source: Ford For ’60s Ford products, the Mercury Comet was about as basic as they came. Closely based on the Ford Falcon, the ’64-’65 Comet could be livened up with Ford’s famous 289-cubic-inch V8. But for those who wanted more from their Mercurys, Ford built 50 Comet Cyclones for the dragstrip, complete with fiberglass hood, fenders, doors and front bumper, plexiglass windows, and the same 425-horsepower 427 V8 found in the Shelby Cobra. In ’66, Mercury introduced the production Comet GT with the 390 V8, and while they’re capable compact muscle cars, they couldn’t hope to match the insanity of their big block predecessor.

4. 1968 Ford Ranchero 500

Source: Ford It’s been long overshadowed by Chevy’s iconic El Camino, but the Ford Ranchero was America’s first car-based Ute. And while Chevy was offering the 396 V8 in its muscle trucks, Ford upped the ante in ’68 and made its restyled Ranchero available with a 335-horsepower Cobra Jet 428 V8. Unfortunately, a lack of weight over the rear wheels made the hot Rancheros a handful to drive, so very few were built with Ford’s biggest motor. While it seems like every surviving El Camino happens to be an SS model, we can’t remember the last time we’ve seen a Cobra Jet Ranchero. Come to think of it, we can’t remember the last time we’ve seen any Ranchero.

5. 1969 Chevy Kingswood 427

Source: General Motors Back in the ’60s, you could order virtually any option you wanted on a car, and companies would actually build it for you. So imagine you’ve got a growing family, and your Corvette just can’t handle them. What to do? Buy a Chevy Kingswood station wagon with Rally wheels, hideaway headlights, seating for seven, and the same 390-horsepower V8 found in your ‘Vette. Only 546 buyers opted for the big V8 in ’69, but a number of 427 Kingswoods spent the next decade making their mark on the drag strip.

6. 1969 Oldsmobile Rallye 350

Source: General Motors When gearheads think of outrageous muscle cars from 1969, the Pontiac GTO Judge easily sits at the top of the list. But while the Judge has gone on to become a legend, Oldsmobile’s analog, the Rallye 350, is all but forgotten. Like the Judge (at least at first) it was offered in one outrageous color (Sebring Yellow), had color-matched wheels and bumpers, a spoiler, and a fiberglass hood. And compared to Olds’s top-dog 442, the car’s 310-horsepower 350-cubic-inch V8 made it significantly lighter, allowing it to scramble from zero to 60 in seven seconds and run the quarter mile in a respectable 15.27 seconds at 97 miles per hour. Just 3,500 Rallye 350s were built, making it one of the more obscure muscle cars to ever come from GM.

7. 1969 Ford Torino Talladega

Source: Ford Half a century on, the Plymouth Roadrunner Superbird and Dodge Daytona get all the love when it comes to NASCAR homologation specials. But in 1969, Ford tried its hand at aerodynamics too and built the Torino Talladega. Starting with a Torino Sportsroof, Ford worked with the Holman-Moody race shop to design a sleeker, longer front clip and rear fascia for the car. The Talladega was honed in the wind tunnel — a relative novelty for the era — and powered by the 429-cubic-inch V8 found in the Boss Mustang. Production was over by March; Ford only built 754 of them and they were barely advertised, but the slippery cars dominated during the ’69 season, winning 29 races. In 1970, however, the 200-mile-per-hour Superbird ruled NASCAR, and the Talladega’s time in the spotlight was over. Today, the Talladega (and near-identical Mercury Cyclone Spoiler II) are bargains on the collector market compared to the beak-nosed Mopars.

8. 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix SJ

Source: General Motors The second-generation Grand Prix is largely remembered for its role in popularizing the Personal Luxury Coupe segment, but in its early days, it was one of the hottest cars on the street. With a long hood (the longest hood of any production car in ’69, in fact) and short deck, the Grand Prix was available with Pontiac’s 390-horsepower 428-cubic-inch V8, allowing it to scramble from zero to 60 in 6.5 seconds and run the quarter mile in 15 seconds at 97 miles per hour. Its combination of luxury and power made it the Grand Prix massive hit for Pontiac; within a few years, any semblance of performance would be gone.

9. 1970 Chrysler Hurst 300

Source: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles As early as 1970, Chrysler die-hards were feeling nostalgic for the 300-letter series, which ended in 1965. The 300-series carried on, but performance had taken a back seat as mid-sized muscle cars had picked up the go-fast mantle. Chrysler tried to recapture the magic for ’70 by outfitting a 300 coupe with the interior from an Imperial, a fiberglass hood and decklid, a 375-horsepower 440-cubic-inch V8, and a Torque-Flite automatic to handle all that power. At 18.5 feet long and 4,400 pounds, the big Chrysler could still make zero to 60 in 7.1 seconds and run the quarter mile in 15.3 seconds. With just 500 built, the Hurst 300s rank as one of the rarest Mopar muscle cars of all time. 

10. 1971 AMC SC/360 Hornet

Source: Chris Andrews Productions via YouTube In the ’60s, AMC’s red, white, and blue Rebel Machine and SC/Rambler muscle cars failed to move the sales needle for America’s last independent automaker, but they sure caused a scene wherever they went. For 1970, the company had introduced the compact Hornet and Gremlin to replace the Rambler, and with them came the SC/360 Hornet. With an available 285-horsepower 360-cubic-inch V8 under the hood, the small Hornet could hit 60 from a standstill in 6.7 seconds, and run the quarter mile in 14.9 seconds at 97 miles per hour. But in 1970, displacement still ruled the day, and despite being cheaper than a Plymouth Duster 340, AMC found just 784 buyers for its smallest muscle car. We think it’s aged remarkably well, and would love to take one of these ’70s-era sleepers to the drag strip.

[lastweeksshirttonight]

if you could force john oliver to acknowledge 1 (one) tumblr post-literally any tumblr post/thread- which would you choose?

I know you were probably hoping I would share a meme post for this, but I immediately knew the answer was, by a large margin, @tellthemeerkatsitsfine 's comprehensive summary of Cowgate.

I could force John to answer why he, David O'Doherty, Daniel Kitson, and Demetri Martin dismantled a fiberglass cow at Late n Live at Edinburgh in 2003. All other posts are irrelevant!

(It would be hilariously sad if the answer is that he'd completely forgotten about this and had no answer.)

[dr-trafalgar-law]

Trafalgar Law X CisFem Reader

5

"What?" you croaked as he pulled away to look at your face.

"That brand of cologne doesn't really suit you." his silver eyes sharpened while he watched you formulate a response.

"I went to visit a friend who was having a breakdown, that's all."

He knew that wasn't entirely true; the cologne on you now was so familiar but he couldn't place it.

"And who might this friend be?" now he was sitting up watching every expression you made.

You shifted chewing on your lip, "It... It was Marco."

Law's frown deepened as it clicked, that scent was on you that night back in November before your anxiety attacks started.

"So, you just casually meet up with your married ex-boyfriend in the middle of the night?" he could feel the fury blooming in his chest.

"It's not like that." you murmured, guilt plastered all over your face.

"Please tell me what it's like then?" he raised his voice making you jump.

You choked on the lump in your throat and averted your gaze.

"Well?" he crossed his arms and huffed, "Have you forgotten that we are to be married in less than two months? You promised you'd try and the first chance you get, you run off and break the law?"

He was exhausted, upset and infuriated by your unwillingness to be a part of this relationship, just when he'd had a glimmer of progress.

You remained quiet too shocked by his uncharacteristic outburst.

"Am I that bad? That unworthy of trust?"

You were, now, resembling every other woman he'd encountered.

"L-law..." you stammered feeling your breath grow shorter.

Not now.

He watched still scowling, waiting for you to continue.

"I-it ...it was... really nothing." you were gasping now, "Nothing. Please."

Recognizing the symptoms of your anxiety attack, he calmly reclaimed his place at your side and eased you into the bed on your right side. As you began to curl into yourself and involuntarily sob he clasped your wrists together with one hand and tipped your chin up to open your airway with the other. His expression was soft and calm now, but he was hardly holding it together.

You truly didn't deserve him.

"F/N-ya, deep slow breaths, in through your nose out through your mouth," he ordered in a soothing tone.

"C-can't." you murmured frantically.

"You can," he moved your hair from your face, "I'll do it with you. Relax."

For ten minutes he laid with you; softly instructing you to breathe until you finally calmed down. Once he felt your pulse was somewhat normal he stood and stepped into the bathroom returning with a damp washcloth. As he helped you clean your face you noticed the crease between his brows had reappeared.

You wanted to come clean and apologize but your throat felt like you'd spent the night swallowing fiberglass.

"We'll talk tomorrow," he ran his tattooed fingers through his messy hair, "I can't do this right now."

You could only nod as he exited.

Crossing the apartment to his room Law shut the door and collapsed into his mattress. He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned shielding his eyes from the morning light. Surely, he was just being sensitive because of the girl that reminded him of Lami.

You just made him feel so defeated, and that was embarrassing. He knew from the beginning that this was just a legal obligation, for him it was too. Somewhere on the way watching you heal and start to open up things changed. Things he was still unwilling to admit, things you were blind to.

Right now, he wasn't sure how he'd be able to face you without being angry and raising his voice which clearly upset you. And even though it was completely warranted he didn't want to see that terrified look on your face.

He rose and changed shirts before slipping back into his coat and grabbing his keys. There wasn't any way he'd be able to stay home with you today.

His phone chimed as he locked the door.

F/N: Be careful. You haven't had enough rest to drive around.

Ignoring your concern, he pocketed his mobile and continue to his car.

An hour later he parked in front of the small brick cottage and took a short moment to run his hands over his exhausted face. Slouching to the front door he fumbled looking for the right key, it had been a while since he was last here.

"Law? What a surprise!"

"I'm going to stay here for a few days," he replied with a sigh.

_______________

"It was around six when he left, I sent him one text, but he never answered." you sighed dragging a stressed hand through your hair.

"Well, to be honest, I'd probably ignore you too." your cousin replied propping his feet up on your desk, "You haven't exactly given him any reasons to want to speak to you."

"Thanks for sugar coating it."

"That's not how this works and you know it." the greenette smirked tossing a ball of rubber bands in the air, "What the fuck are you doing sneaking around with that old guy anyway?"

"We weren't sneaking around. He just wanted to talk."

"In the middle of the night, at a secluded lake house?" he deadpanned.

"I don't know why I talk to you."

"Because I'm all you've got and the only person who loves you." he snickered.

"I hate you." you grumbled, "And get your feet off my desk."

Zoro sat upright placing the ball back on your desk, "So what was this talk that was so important you were running around in the middle of the night?"

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"His wife is pregnant." You murmured.

"That's not really news the family is sharing yet, F/N." a voice piped from the doorway, "It would be best if you didn't share with anyone for a while, you know first trimester and all."

"Ace." you sat up straight.

"Don't worry I don't care enough to say anything," Zoro muttered crossing his arms. 

[angellurgy2]

you can self-medicate, and practice finding joy. its a skill you can improve. a little less than a decade ago i thought id never feel happiness again either. 5 years ago i thought nothing would make it worth surviving. 2 years ago i didn't think i'd make it. but little by little by little by little i learned how to find happiness even when everything seems dark. and its not all rainbows but its enough, and i'm fighting tooth and nail to make things better. its not easy but its possible. don't give up on yourself. you can make it.

theres no shame in doing what it takes to keep yourself safe and happy and alive. even if its 'unhealthy,' its healthier than dying. anyone who says otherwise just doesnt get what its like to be at rock fucking bottom, when your only climbing gear is made of fiberglass. it hurts and youll bleed but you wont rot down there. you'll see the sun again.

you can make it.

-juniper

i cant self medicate, i have no way to find drugs that would help the things i have. there isnt rlly a "practicing joy" when its a chemical imbalance and also just me not having anyone. its impossible to find joy when i can never have the drive to be anything and when im unmedicated in any meaningful way. i can only give up bc every single person ik except like 3 people have already given up on me.i cant do anything even unhealthy things to keep me alive bc i have no way at all of getting what i need. weed only dissociate me and doesnt even do it well. i have no escape from the constant 24/7 pain and loneliness. no escape from the constant memories of how forgotten and unloveable i am, especially when going to things only proves me right. sorry, thx juni

[jaguz123]

Thermodynamic Lawyer

aka: a chonny jash fanfic

yes ! hello ! idk if this is how it works really , but i've decided to cross post stuff onto here as a test i guess

... will release new parts, hopefully i can figure out how to navigate tumblr in the meantime

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They stood there. Almost seamlessly. They fit into the image so well, as if they were meant to be there. But they were pasted there like patchwork- glue and shreds of paper stuck to their edges ruining their view. Freud had underestimated the power that they held, grimy fingers reaching for any ounce of influence over his sovereignty, hissing and clawing at each other.

He watched the advisors in action with a gloomy look in his eye. They threw everything they could at each other. They screamed obscenities, they slammed each other's skull in the wall… And Soul laid there, staring. He could do nothing but glare at them and their profane forms. He couldn't tell if his head was in the clouds or if it was six feet underground- fiberglass fanned across his skin, cotton in his ears. He was resting, watching as they fought, far too tired to bring out his trident.

He could offer the usual assurances. Tell them that they were the same. He could stand like that, better than them, but they looked at him as if they knew something he didn't.

Always and forever, he thought. Better. Superior.

Yes, he watched the Avian screech and sob as the Automaton ripped into his flesh with an almost guilty look in his gaze. Unwilling to indulge in his anger, and yet he committed the integral act anyway. To commit the atrocity wasn’t what was bad- it was to give into the emotion that oversees it. Mind was filthy nonetheless. Heart was soaked in the core-rotting metaphor synonymous for the trivialities of suffering that- meaning something important maybe in some other world- he had forgotten the name of. It was likely an overused proverb. Decayed trite and worthless, frayed at the edges by its repeated utterances. Paper can only stand the test of time for so long.

Soul thought, The first law of thermodynamics states… That if 2 systems are in equilibrium with a third system,- 

The Weeping Angel struck the machine in front of him with a harsh cry, wings flaring, screaming in agony, “Your fault! Your fault, you knew it, you know it! You- god, I missed! I wish I hadn’t of missed!” 

-then they are thus in equilibrium with each other. It is common sense. He lightly coughed into his palm. He watched with dying interest. His body still felt exhausted. So did he. The only difference between him and his weighted body was the fact that one listened to what he wanted, the other completely disregarded it. Guess which was which.

“Alright,” He sighed, finally at least somewhat fulfilled with his rest, tired of their bickering- “uh… Now, if I must-” grappling for his line… What did he always say here again? “You two are one in the same… Why do you always fight?” He drew out the last sentence, begging the clock to stop ticking, wailing for the bird to stop its call. Asking so kindly for the ruler to stop his parade. Not a soul in that room would listen. 

Again, they looked at him with that snobbish look of theirs. They looked tired of that bullshit of his- maybe they were just blind to their own- looking at him as if he were a child fresh from the womb.  He would crawl his way back up their expectations again maybe, perhaps he’d drag his broken body up the bell curve and label himself the average- average life expectancy, of course, if he wanted to hang by the rope then they all would.

“Are you… Blind, or something? I’m fighting for your case.” He was a thermodynamic lawyer of sorts- oh, that sounded familiar. Where’d he hear that from? Whatever. It didn’t matter. The sentence wasn’t that grand anyway. 

It appeared as though they had finally separated from their quarrel- they had found their bodies, but not their eyes. Pathos might finally come together with Logos to rise against the hypocrisy of Ethos, discreditable sources and quotes from lawyers of the past, the one who had held himself in contempt- and the third-eyed joke of a man.

(nothing against will wood btw this is just for the story)

“And… What do you think you hold against us? A noose?” Heart hissed at him, before turning around and stomping away. Mind stood rooted there like a dead tree managing to stand the weathering of lifeless bark, tolerating every force pushed against it even in its death. 

“Do you propose we sit down and have a chat?” Soul asked. He ignored how the canvas in front of him was blank. He disregarded how the clock struck twelve, pushing the ticking out of his thoughts as if it had a lack of relevance. Really, it was the most important thing he could hear at the moment. He was aware of the glare shot at him. He wouldn’t turn his back on a fucking knife, so he kept gazing at the machine-like creature in front of him. Shame he couldn’t grow a face on the back of his head to keep an eye on the mirror behind him.

“No, no- I don’t suppose I do. Just a word would be fitting.” That look. That pathetic look. It was almost pitiful, the look you’d offer an overly optimistic child that still thought the world was sunshine and rainbows and friendship bracelets at school, ketchup stains on your shirt and your hands filled with scribbles of marker. 

“Oh-” The talk would be long. Or at least agonizing. Coming from the man who had glared at himself through the glass, he knew what to expect from that attitude. To expect anything more was to expect the faceless author trying to fill some self-set quota to come up with her own clever lines, desperately scratching the surface of such demands to figure out how she even saw herself at that point.

At best, the reflection was blurred, the outcome hazy- he might slip out of this with only one or two bruises to his identity. He could try to get the superego under control, but the rider of the horse was only as strong as he willed himself to be. The mount could rear him off easily.

“You don't know yet. You truly have no idea. Of course, nothing new from the man that copes by making Tally Hall covers-" He paused for the presumed effect, “-you really are just this brand new breed of pathetic that I don't even know what to name you as.”

Soul started back with a grimace. Oh. Okay. Shit.

He blurred it all out. The anaesthesiologist had done his work well. He couldn't feel the knife digging itself into his chest, he couldn't feel it dragging chunks of his flesh out. He watched as it happened with a hollow stare- apathy was the main numbing agent. He wished he could just sink into repose like he had before. The reprise of the situation would happen again next time. Reprise? Repose? They were synonymous. Again and again, until something breaks. Something would put him to rest and he would wake up again like he had before.

“I am the lawyer fighting for your case, I am the jury arguing against you…” Soul whispered, drawing his breath near and close, almost afraid to share anything with the man in front of him. "Thermodynamics states that you are the same… The same as he… Threes, not thirds!” 

The Automaton leaned down at this, glancing at his disheveled form with slight confusion. He asked, "Pardon?”

Soul didn't listen. He was too busy hearing the ringing of the Bell curve, skull pounding in rhythm with the metronome, painting himself as the sane minority. It's the same as insane, if you really think about it. The right to a stable mind is an unobtainable privilege, but it is wholly possible in the eyes of the beholder. If only Soul was his own protagonist, then he'd be able to behold the fruits of his labors quite well. 

He leaned his head back with an almost tipsy look in his eyes, a laugh in his throat swirling with a gag. 

“Oh you think you're so smart for that… Don't you!-” He found himself suddenly hissing and lurching forward, before reminding himself of his own foreword and recalling the fact that lawyers probably don't harm their clients. Even if they're unwilling. No, he was a good person. He was whole. The other two were just parasites that had happened to stumble about. Why did he still defend their right to exist? They refused to acknowledge that they were the same.

He refused to acknowledge that the three of them were insane.

He held that thought at his lips, before standing up and nearly attempting to spit it out with a heave. 

Mind rushed towards him, joints grinding against each other artificially. He stared at him with the eyes of a snake, like some peasant trying to rid the king of his crown. Tridential regicide! God!

“No! No! This talk is over! Not another word from you!” Soul gasped, scrambling away. He collapsed just a few steps into the hall, dragging himself the rest of the way to his room.

The second law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created or destroyed- that it can only change forms. You could suppress your urges in one field to invest in another- but you can never shove down your own zeal completely.

Soul slammed the door shut, falling down completely, laying on the floor with an almost awestruck expression on his face. The very root of his issues had clawed its way out of its own grave, told him what was wrong with what Soul always did, and crawled his way back down again. The visage was rotting, the corpse was alive- the carrion was walking, its eyes on the prize! The price was anonymous, probably costing nearly two thirds of a dollar, but pest control was sacred! He needed them gone!

And even though the war would never be over, the causation of depression nearly always fighting against him and the two passengers along with him- if he could get rid of those two neat sections of the load, maybe the boat would finally stop sinking.

Or maybe it would drag him down deeper. Maybe without his two counterparts, he would be weaker. Maybe none of them were meant to tear away from the abyss, born from the sacred flesh in which their forms were sculpted from. 

Such a disgusting thought. They always swarmed around his head like flies or vultures, maybe he was the dead man walking here. Maybe that was why Heart's gaze was blind- Mind's was fresh- and his was merely atrophied from a lack of true vision. 

His ego had told him to shun away the evidence of their faces and their uncanny resemblance. It had told him to neglect how they were lacking and completing, and he had listened. He hadn't even turned to look back- as it had stolen away the whites of his eyes too, and it had sealed the half of his decent side into some merciless black. 

The closed system that he had barricaded and built around himself was loosening. It was leaking energy he would never get back. Entropy was freezing him in that very spot, the thing that kept him moving- going against the laws we have accustomed to build reality- had begun shattering in midair and fizzling out like dying oil lamps or active fireflies. He was unsure which was which, he was unsure if he would ever be sure. 

Those laws must be nonsense. If they had any stable foundation in reality, why did they desert him in the most desperate throes of looming consciousness? He didn't want to admit that he might be wrong, even if that would make him right, because there's always the possibility that the assumption of self satisfaction was to be a lie. His hands laid outstretched towards the sky, reaching out and, with dying resolve, attempting to reach for that final dream that lay beyond even the most final frontier. Fragile at closer inspection, ready to shatter, and even more ready to drag itself together because of gravity. Again, and again- and again.

No matter how many times he said again, no matter how many times he yelled cut- no matter how many directions he yelled into the void, it would happen again. The world would cleanse itself of the memory- the good and the bad. The fact and the fiction. It would recall the lines drawn between Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. The rest was irrelevant. The evidence was trite. It all existed inside of their head, things being made up inside of their individual pseudo-consciousness. What was the difference between truth and false when one lacked the confidence to attempt to differentiate between the two? Nothing.

Soul was- he was- oh, who was he fooling here if not himself? He was nobody. Not even relatively close to the identity he was supposed to be. If anything, he was cripplingly tired, and that didn't help a damn thing. He lay there with the very black sunken eyes Heart owned, and he spoke with the same sharp tongue that Mind was too preoccupied with using to detect it in his voice. Just because they only found the flaws in him that they were concerned with didn't mean that the others didn't exist. 

Heart and Mind were the same. He was different. He had to be different. Mediation was impossible then if he couldn't rip himself away from the other two. They could never be whole if they truly were the thirds they were supposed to be. They were three, and he needed to pacify them so they would finally fade away. Then he could be one. Not just one with Whole- but one as Whole.

Something in him doubted that. 

He would recite the laws. He would split off and separate himself from the bad apples, he'd roll back to the tree- the tree towering so high over them. The tree that he would have to be.

Survival of the fittest, a lawyer in the making. His finality. His solution. The one he strived for- and he was so unbelievably close. He had to ignore that nagging voice holding him back. 

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AN: mid as shit ... but anyway planning for there to be three chapters in total

barely beta read/looked over ... my neglected child , we're dying like soul's ego and likely fanon god complex

[driftwccds]

-ˋˏ ꒰ 🐚 ꒱ ── the odysseus : a character study ( death by boating accident tw ).

the  35  ft  white  sailboat  parked  at  the  valparaiso  marina  is  made  out  of  lightweight  aluminum,  teak  wood  and  fiberglass.  it’s  small  enough  that  a  one-man  operation  is  not  too  physically  strenuous,  but  the  boat  itself  is  showing  it’s  age  and  previous  neglect  :  the  hull  is  crusted  with  barnacles.  the  steel  railings  are  starting  to  rust.  the  upper  deck  creaks  with  each  step,  and  if  rohan  is  docked  at  the  marina  instead  of  on  the  water  it’s  likely  because  he’s  replacing  rotting  boards,  ropes,  and  corroded  parts  inside  the  motor.  netting  hangs  from  the  side,  disappearing  into  the  dark  water  of  the  marina  below.

the  odysseus  was  originally  built  in  the  late  1980s.  rohan  impulsively  bought  it  five  years  ago  off  the  coast  of  vancouver  while  on  bereavement  leave  after  the  death  of  his  mother  and  sister.  when  he  bought  it  the  boat  was  practically  unusable,  and  because  of  that  it  was  cheap.  equipped  with  nothing  but  lots  of  extra  time  and  a  desperate  need  to  distract  himself  from  the  crushing  reality  of  his  grief  (  and  the  guilt  of  not  returning  home  for  the  funerals  )  rohan  spent  half  a  year  teaching  himself  the  basics  of  boat  repair  instead  of  dealing  with  his  own  problems  :  he  replaced  the  sails,  stripped  the  plumbing,  gutted  the  interior  until  he  was  able  to  take  it  out  for  the  first  time. 

a  set  of  horizontal  doors  open  to  a  ladder  that  leads  below-deck.  his  living  space  is  uncomfortably  small,  especially  for  a  grown  man  :  a  kitchenette  with  a  stovetop,  a  seating  area  that’s  become  a  makeshift  workbench,  an  archway  that  opens  onto  a  bed.  rohan  is  at  least  tidy,  if  not  particularly  organized.  empty  surface  area  is  artfully  cluttered  with  different  equipment  he’s  tinkering  with,  half-finished  composition  notebooks  full  of  numbers,  books  he’s  in  the  middle  of  reading.  sticky  notes  dangle  from  cupboards  with  coordinates  and  irrelevant  and  months-old  reminders  like  call  dad  and  make  dentist  appointment,  all  of  which  are  incomplete  and  entirely  forgotten  about  (  or  avoided.  ) 

once  the  boat  was  in  working  order,  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  before  he  quit  the  research  position  he  worked  so  hard  to  get  and  travelled  down  the  west  coast  a  free  unemployed  man.  while  he  was  traveling  he  started  to  collect  an  arsenal  of  makeshift  camera  equipment  and,  thus,  unique  footage  of  different  kinds  of  sea  life.  rohan  considers  himself  more  as  a  documentarian  than  a  scientist.  because  he  never  studied  marine  biology,  he  doesn’t  feel  comfortable  as  a  voice  in  any  scientific  communities,  but  he  still  frames  all  of  his  work  through  the  lens  of  education  rather  than  entertainment.  his  goal  is  to  showcase  the  beauty  of  the  ocean,  but  also  to  document  animal  behaviours  so  they  can  be  studied  in  better  detail  by  people  who  have  a  better  idea  about  what  they’re  looking  at.  rohan  understands  just  how  fragile  alive  things  are,  and  how  fast  some  of  them  are  disappearing,  and  he’s  determined  to  document  them  before  that  happens.

during  this  time  he  got  a  lot  of  random,  unstructured  footage,  which  he  started  gathering  into  a  portfolio  collected  on  youtube  and  tiktok.  he  refuses  to  be  on  camera,  so  the  platforms  themselves  didn’t  draw  in  money  or  attention,  but  it  allowed  him  to  showcase  what  it  was  he  wanted  to  do  to  people  who  mattered  (  and  gave  him  some  extra  funds  to  cover  the  expenses  of  being  alive.  )  rohan  was  able  to  start  applying  for  grants  and  contracts,  and  his  reputation  within  academic  circles  quickly  shifted  from  up  and  coming  climate  scientist  to  nomadic  oceanic  videographer  ;  most  of  his  contracts  are  to  film  and  edit  together  raw  footage  into  informational  videos  for  conservation  groups  or  educational  institutions.

beside  the  ladder  are  a  twin  set  of  metal  lockers  for  storage  :  spare  oxygen  tanks  and  his  scuba  equipment,  gas  canisters,  first  aid,  flares.  an  apocalyptic  preparation  kit  for  the  worst  case  scenarios.  a  calendar  swings  precariously  attached  to  the  teak  wood  wall  above,  persistently  falling  off  the  wall  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  waves,  marking  important  deadlines.  the  calendar  is  carefully  plotted  out,  days  crossed  out  and  circled  in  red  ink.  it’s  easy  to  lose  track  of  time  when  you  spend  days  on  the  ocean  at  a  time.

when  he’s  in  between  grants  or  contracts  rohan  has  free  reign  to  track  and  study  whatever  he’s  passionate  about  in  the  moment.  during  these  periods  he  usually  studies  the  seasonal  ecosystems  just  off  the  coast  of  valparaiso,  with  his  topic  of  interest  changing  depending  on  the  time  of  year  and  the  animals  that  are  nearby.  the  reefs  off  the  beaches  aren’t  particularly  deep  so  he  usually  doesn’t  bother  with  heavy  tanks  or  equipment  ;  rohan  was  effectively  born  freediving──  diving  without  tanks  and  heavy  equipment──  in  the  kelp  forests  just  off  the  coast  of  falmouth,  so  he  doesn’t  rely  on  equipment  as  much.  when  he  invites  people  out  diving  with  him,  it’s  usually  within  sight  of  the  beaches  and  the  marina.

every  few  weeks  he  takes  longer  excursions  further  out  into  the  pacific.  these  are  generally  for  a  specific  purpose  or  to  track  and  get  footage  of  a  specific  animal  on  request──  migrating  whales,  hammerhead  sharks  around  the  seamounts,  sea  turtles──  and  he  will  spend  multiple  days  at  a  time  out  on  the  water  without  coming  back  into  port.  he  doesn’t  bring  people  out  on  multi-day  trips  like  this  ;  he  does  these  alone,  because  he  doesn’t  like  the  idea  of  being  stuck  with  anyone  with  no  escape  for  an  extended  period  of  time,  and  because  if  something  happens,  he  wants  to  be  sure  that  he’s  the  only  one  put  at  risk.  these  are  usually  the  times  where  he  digs  out  all  of  his  actual  diving  gear  because  the  water  is  deeper  and  he  wants  to  be  down  there  for  longer,  though  he  will  still  freedive  just  for  fun.

the  decor  inside  the  boat  is  sparse  and  impersonal;  everything  serves  a  functional  purpose  rather  than  aesthetic  purpose.  there’s  one  exception.  tucked  in  a  back  corner,  half-hidden  by  the  safety  equipment  piled  in  front  of  them,  old  photos  are  taped  to  an  elegantly  decorated  box  :  an  older  woman  holding  a  giant  spider  crab,  that  same  woman  and  a  younger  verison  of  her  smiling  and  waving  towards  the  camera,  a  family  standing  in  front  of  a  wild,  overgrown  garden  near  the  sea.  unfortunately  the  movement  of  the  waves  don’t  allow  for  trinkets  that  aren’t  tied  down,  so  inside  the  box  sit  the  sentimental  items  that  rohan  can’t  bring  himself  to  get  rid  of,  such  as  the  shark  tooth  his  sister  gave  hi  when  he  was  7  or  the  collection  of  seashells  from  falmouth  he  used  to  keep  on  the  windowsill  of  his  college  dorm.  the  most  recently  addition  is  a  basket  of  dead  things,  used  to  make  a  makeshift  offerenda  luna  insisted  upon  after  finding  a  shedded  crab  skin  their  first  dive  together.  rohan  wears  the  key  to  the  box  around  his  neck,  still  carrying  the  secrets  him  and  his  sisters  used  to  hide  inside  it  when  they  were  kids.

rohan’s  obsession  with  the  ocean  is  bordering  on  religious.  it’s  in  part  a  regression,  coming  from  an  attempt  to  reconnect  with  his  childhood,  aka  the  fond  memories  he  has  with  a  family  he  won’t  see  again.  it  became  very  obvious  once  the  accident  happened  how  little  rohan  actually  cared  about  the  conferences  and  research  labs,  and  he  was  able  to  remember  the  reason  why  he  went  into  ocean  sciences  in  the  first  place──  not  for  prestige  or  money  or  to  save  the  world,  but  because  he  was  raised  by  people  who  loved  the  ocean  and  it’s  part  of  his  dna.

the  odysseus  is  where  his  self-inflicted  isolation  started.  although  he’s  well  aware  of  the  dangers  of  diving  alone,  he’s  more  likely  to  sacrifice  his  personal  safety  for  the  serenity  of  being  the  only  human  for  miles  or  for  the  efficiency  of  knowing  he  can  complete  his  work  on  his  own.  it’s  easier  to  pour  all  of  his  energy  outside  of  himself  and  into  something  that  he  thinks  is  productive  and  helpful  ;  and  because  the  things  he  does  are  productive  and  helpful,  rohan  doesn’t  have  to  stop,  pause,  process  everything  that  happened  in  the  last  half-decade.  it’s  likely  that  he  not  stumbled  into  the  opportunity  he  may  have  been  forced  into  working  through  some  of  these  issues,  but  for  now,  if  the  sea  decides  to  take  him and reunite him with the people he's lost,  then  he  will  happily  go  with  it. 

[nightmarefuele]

xxx

A suspiring, gusting prow, a cliff's rough-hewn extremity. It aches aloft porous bones. Depraved and ragged red, whittled to it, pruned by restive hands. It is a good place, insofar as what language it speaks. It wants for no recompense, it needs little guidance. Its reception is innate. Arid as the rusty shore.

Forgotten how to fear? wonders the Stygian menhir, inspiring rilles unto her stone, her chassis of the change. To fear, or to want?

“If I had one to give, it would be withered, and grey. It failed its function long ago. Worthless.” The thing is more than the wind. The thing is the sound of inferno, eaten. “It would be no gift. You would not recognize the hollow thing it is.”

He dips his fingers into her woven fabric. His is the cold she feels. Knees stooped, face a valley tipped low, he is the murk and brume. He is the spray of midnight seas. His leather'd digits, absolving her eventide magnanimity. How clement his stroke, how loving.

Inside, there is a ribcage, a fiberglass composite like an animal's hutch. Papyrus ribbons sighing to and fro, expiring with what becomes of his pulp, his tissue. When [Zela] touches him, when her dead fingers make a name within his chest, Ren does not exhale so much as his peritoneum flexes, and slackens around her want.

—what would a monolith do with a heart if it had one?

“I would make a new realm of a heart. So that its vital throb would serve as shield, and weapon; so that pretenders who might climb inside shall convulse, and bleed.”

[Zela] endears herself to the cold, by chance or by purpose. She picks at some unspooling nerve — (a softness) — from within their conjugation.

What I have forgotten... the penumbra seeps. You would have them to command: my dismembered dreams.

@kylo-wrecked

[pastafossa]

to be fair to you, you probably also spaced on the ladder/mystery door because of the subsequent Fiberglass Fuckening. i'm pretty sure you are 1000% valid to have forgotten about mystery door with all THAT shit.

-thenerdlordparade

OH MY GOD YOU'RE ALSO RIGHT

I'm betting now if I went back and looked at the mystery door dropoff it would be aroooound the exact same time the fiberglass thing went down not me having ptsd flashbacks to the fiberglass fuck fiberglass RUN AWAY FROM IT FOREVER Dealing with that took a ton out of me and the mystery door was something brain likely relegated to 'unimportant, must handle crisis first' and by the time it was over, I had nothing left to go ??? DOOR??? since it's literally way up above my eyeline so I don't really see it anymore.

[cryptid-killjoy]

One random night while nosing around Feral and rooting around Bastien decided to go check out his old building he’d been so proud of buying. It still had some of the instruments in it Willem had brought over for his video that Maddy helped sing in. He hadn’t had time to come back for everything before the Horned King take over. It was also one of the handful of places Delta left as was pre-Feral. Everything was just as Bastien left it. He knew when he saw it he should consider that a gift. This was still his and would be. All his horses were still strewn about, his tools, his collection of metal, wood, and fiberglass. 

He sat down at the drum kit that was left there. He picked up the sticks. He didn’t really know what he was doing, but he tried, fiddled, and gave it a little go. He didn’t turn world class over night, but it wasn’t so bad. There was something about Jetsam being in him, sharing minds even when they aren’t always completely conscious of one it that was leaving traces behind, leaving wires and synapses of muscle memory still inside him. Every now and again memories were getting crossed. There were effects on a person being when used on a regular basis and while in New Zealand he’d started to be quite often. 

He might not have been stage worthy, but he was still impressing himself. He’d look up after at his wife with more surprise in his eyes than pride though. It was and ‘I didn’t know I could do that’ sort of look. 

Then he leaned back and swiveled on the stool and looked around. He used to salvage around this whole hood looking for parts and pieces. “Salvaging for parts won’t feel the same without the threat of someone catching you.” 

That was the funny thing about being down and out. It started out for such sad reasons and then it became a rebellion of it’s own kind because society bullied you for your own sad circumstances that you couldn’t control. They dehumanize you and give you pity or hate and all you ever want is respect. So, being homeless became a lifestyle. Even once he got a home at the castle there was a way to keep a rebellion by being where he didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted. Now that Delta had everything he and everything felt so safe inside this empty bubble dome of a world he wondered who would even ride his carousel if he finished it. 

It was meant for the children of the forgotten neighborhoods. He didn’t think there were any children left. It felt like a lot of work if no one lived here to ride it anymore. 

“I think I’ll just light it on fire.” 

[perianfrost]

Join the Chorus 13/25

We're officially halfway through the Macdonald Hall advent fic no one asked for! Want to get caught up? Here's December 1st.

December 13

“Hey Bruno.”

Bruno mumbled something unintelligible.

Boots, eyes locked on the window above his head as it slowly creaked open, whispered again. “Bruno, get up.”

Panicked, Boots held his breath and fumbled a hand down off the bed. His fingers found his hockey stick, hustled into the dorm from the rink just in case. Bruno had laughed about it; they both had. 

Boots wasn’t laughing now. The taped fiberglass was hefty. “Bruno,” he said.

The window creaked. 

He leaped to his feet and took a swing. 

The blade hit the window.

Glass cracked.

Bruno woke up with a shout.  

The enormous shadow outside the window snarled and bolted into the dark.

Bruno lunged for the window and wrenched it open, sticking half his body outside into the whirling snow. “Was that it?”

“Get back in here!” Boots grabbed him round the waist and yanked hard enough to send them both tumbling to the floor. Bruno landed on top of him and all the air went whooshing out of his lungs. “Idiot,” he gasped. “Could’ve—taken –head–clean off!”

Bruno pushed himself up and reached to close the window in no little haste. “Right! Right. How long was it there?”

Boots accepted the hand and let Bruno pull him back to his feet. “I don’t know! I just woke up and…”

They both jumped at the sudden pounding on the door.

“Fudge,” Bruno sighed, an acknowledgement and a curse, and went to let the rest of the dorm in.

~*~

“Boys, finals are in just two short days,” Mr. Sturgeon said later that morning. “Surely your time could be put to better use studying than this… Sasquatch escapade.”

Boots shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “But sir, it isn’t us! I don’t like it anymore than you do! It keeps trying to get in! The scratches are outside.”

“And the broken window pane is the interior one,” Mr. Sturgeon said. “The cost of repairs will come, as always from your spending budgets.”

“It was self-defense!” Bruno objected.

The Fish overrode him with absolutely no effort. “From your spending budgets. Now you look at me, both of you. Is this the result of a Committee?” Head shakes. “An Organization? A Team? A Group?”

“No sir,” Boots said, thinking of the Squad hiding away in the library. 

“No sir,” Bruno echoed. “None of those things.”

Mr. Sturgeon sighed, but let them go.

~*~

“Elmer, tell me you have something,” Boots pleaded at dinner. “Finals are basically here, I can’t study if I’m worried about being abducted!”

The resident genius shook his head, eyes somber behind his glasses. “Sorry, Boots. I can confirm that the scratches weren’t made from tools. And the hair wasn’t a normal synthetic. I’m running labs on it right now. But… but I do admit that I haven’t been devoting as much of myself to my studies as usual. We may have to put it aside until after finals.”

“Elmer, it’s after us!”

“I think it’s coming inside,” Bruno added. “I keep losing things! I’m down to two pairs of underwear!”

“We know it’s definitely not human then,” Mark said, “who would want those?” He ducked as Bruno grabbed for him.

Elmer waited until the scuffling had died down. “We’ve gone through all the resources the school has to offer. Right now, our best hope is to wait until we know what kind of hair it is. In the meantime… finals.”

“Finals,” Chris agreed, bent over his notes and meal forgotten.

“Finals,” Bruno moaned.

Boots fixed his gaze on his plate. Finals.

[from-dre]

All That Blurs By

Time is running out. I need to be at O’Hare International Airport in under ninety minutes. To go that far west, I should first head south toward the Loop and then take the Blue Line. Everything is a blur—, the studio walls, the commotion outside, the last twenty-some years. Everything blurs by.

Michigan Avenue is one long, concrete runway. It reaches the sunset and then some. Police are posted at most corners, beggars escape the wind within random alcoves, and tourists slow down foot-traffic while trying to take the perfect picture. Still—, it’s the epitome of style. Not just because everything is so designer and so glamorous and so chic—, but because it’s what keeps us coming back. The shine, the next step, the possibility that one day we too can say “we made it.” Couples exit expensive restaurants and reach for each other’s arms, interlocking them as they set off down the street toward a taxicab or café. Either way, it’s a charming sight and one that invites us to see ourselves in that exact position.

We keep moving.

I hear the announcer say that the Michigan & Lake stop is coming up so I pull the cord, stand up, and ready myself to walk toward the Washington station. Once there, I board the Blue Line and sit in the first open seat I see. The speeding train interweaves through the clusters of structures like a massive steel thread. If only I could reach out beyond the sealed windows, my fingertips would be able to graze the bricks themselves.

Everything I’d learned from books and movies was reduced down to mere reference points when I finally moved out into the city. Nothing prepares you for the real world like stepping out into the real world. Of course it can be beautiful. Of course the sunshine beaming off of the stage at Millennium Park is perfect. But it can also be cold. The winters are rough. Ice and sleet cover the streets and everything is grey. Not a pure white with freshly fallen snow, no. It’s marred from the tar off the wheels that run themselves over the slush and dirt of an urban landscape. But even then—, something beautiful can be found within it. Something compelling. Like the city is irresistible even in mid-January, even with the dreariness of unforeseeable blizzards, because after all, it is home. It’s where you sleep and shower and see how far you can go without feeling like you’ve been left behind to fend for yourself, since here, everyone fends for themselves.

Time keeps ticking.

The rooftops drift by in the late afternoon sun. The ones right past the fiberglass, quickly. The ones way behind in the background, slowly. Either way, they all drift by into the recesses of our memories and only reappear once we pass through again. Coded languages are graffitied onto the stairwells of large complexes and ciphers onto the sides of small apartment buildings. They speak of some type of spiritual revolution while prayer flags are strewn through the streets—, fallen and forgotten. I don’t pretend to understand, I just accept it.

I begin to think back to yesterday. The scene floods in like waves of scorching sunlight; thick fumes drift up and through the atmosphere as we take our seats, speak in pieces of broken slang, and seek peace itself. This is nighttime—, personified in two people. Stars sparkle in our eyes. The Windy City’s air courses through our veins and makes its way up toward our brains as the name stays on the very tips of our tongues;

“Chi…ca…go…,” she says with such elegance.

We keep moving. Time keeps ticking. The world keeps blurring by.