#kurly writes

[gib-mir-gift]

rewatching 'cocksucker: a new musical' (thank you skelekidd for the link <3) and jesus fucking christ how did i miss "and let me fuck your skull". what. brother. jeffrey

[kurly-quill]

Hiya, hon! Ask, and you shall recieve <3 (when I get off my ass anyway)

Robin’s Nest Cafe Part 2

Pairings: DickTim, JayDick, JayTim, future JayDickTim

Rating: Mature for Language 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?) Part 1 - Part 2 

(2) The Nest

In the past four years or so, it became a well-kept secret in East End, that if you ever needed a safe place to shut your eyes, you might find it at The Nest. They don’t take names. They don’t ask any questions, and will take in anyone of any age. You’ll get a clean room, with a clean bed, and a square meal. Rumor even has it that folks sometimes leave The Nest with things like new job prospects or that last refill of medication you couldn’t afford in your pocket.

It’s not a long-term arrangement, but it helps when the winter rolls in and  you don’t want to freeze to death.

The shop is quiet. But then, it’s never particularly busy either. Like, ever. She spends more time practicing her latte art than taking orders (“You’ll never get paid to doodle cats, young lady!” they used to tell her in high school. Well joke’s on you, Ms. Maximoff)

Tim is standing beside her at the counter, carefully wiping down the espresso machine like it’s his baby -- kind of accurate, since the only thing he loves more than that machine is her, obviously. Maybe. He better, anyway, if he knows what’s good for him.

It’s midway through her shift. Idly, she stacks the little espresso cups into a pyramid, knowing that Tim is silently judging her for it (“You realise we can’t use the cups now that you’ve touched all of them, right?” “So narrow-minded, Timmy. We can definitely use them for shots later!”).

Like Tim can’t afford the cups or something. But, appearances are still important for a place like this, she supposes. Barely getting by, but passed the health inspection! - that’s the look they’re apparently going for to the public eye.  She gets it. Robin’s Nest cafe isn’t supposed to be high profile, or else The Nest loses its purpose. She flicks at her tower of espresso cups, leaning over the counter with her chin propped up on her hand, musing.

She thinks of a few years ago, remembers being at the end of her rope. How she had been ignoring the rumors about The Nest, passing them off as bullshit, until a cold front hit Gotham so hard it even had the Gotham-grade criminals running for cover. She remembers  finally caving to the rumors, looking across the street at Robin’s Nest, brightly lit compared to the sorry excuses for street lamps that lined the sidewalk. Shivering, blue-lipped. All of the closest shelters were full, and the last time she’d slept in one, she’d woken up to a man reaching under her sheets, so like hell was she going back to one if she had other options.

She remembers her vow to herself-- that whatever happened, she wasn’t going back home.  She would have frozen in an alleyway somewhere before that happened.

She remembers jaywalking across the icy street to the sidewalk just outside the shop window. But, as soon as she had gotten there, had taken a better look at the interior, she’d hesitated. A sort of hipster-industrial look with some hodge-podge, DIY-esque decor that’s not too shiny and clean and just worn enough to seem lived-in and welcoming-- It was that last part, of all things, that had made her clam up inside. Made her turn around to find some alleyway to go lose some toes in.

She probably would have, she muses, wiggling her toes around in her Adidas, if Tim hadn’t caught her just as she went to turn around the corner of the block. He’d ran out of the shop in nothing but a long-sleeve “World’s Okayest Barista” shirt, skinny jeans, and converse, all messy dark hair and pale blue eyes, and he had looked about three seconds from turning into an icicle. But in his hand, had been a drink.

“What d’you want,” she demands, defenses up on autopilot.

The barista fairly skids to a stop on the icy sidewalk, breath coming in visible plumes. The drink is shoved in her face-- she can see that it’s piping hot, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of how her nose and lips ache with cold.

“Take it. It’s hot chocolate.”

“Wow,” she deadpans, quirking a brow, “this is, like, a classic case of stranger danger.”

She notes how hard the barista is beginning to shiver, and wondered if he’s just an idiot for running after a homeless person on the wrong side of Gotham in ass-degree-and-dropping temperatures. (And in that getup, too, that screams: “please, oh please, ma’am, rob me, I’m a little nerdboy!” She could do it, probably, if she really wanted to.)

The barista grins sheepishly at her, shrugging.

“Okay, fair. I can make you another one back at the shop and you can watch me to make sure it’s safe to drink, if it makes you feel better.” She blinks at him. An idiot, definitely.

“Hate to break it to you, dude, but I’m broke.”

The barista holds up one finger. He fishes around in his pocket, pulls out his wallet (an open invitation to snatch it, that), and tugs out a little card. He holds it out to her, and she watches him carefully before taking it and reading-- she frowns. Flips the card over. The little card is small and sleek-- heavier than paper, PVC?-- and has a single bird-like symbol on the front. The back only reads:

For One - Redeemable at The Nest

“It’s a coupon.”

She swallows. No way.

“For a drink?”

The barista tucks his hands into his pockets. She wonders if he’s doing it because he thinks it looks cool or if it’s because he’s lost feeling in his hands. When she meets his eyes again, though, she’s distracted by how they sharpen with focus, flashing with a secret.

“Sure,” he concedes, shrugging again, “Or a room, if you want it. On the house.”

She blinks at him once. Twice. “You’re fucking nuts, aren’t you?”

The barista lets out a startled laugh, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. It shouldn’t be cute, and she really shouldn’t go there, but there it is. She’s officially the type to be charmed by dorky, early 2000s, sk8er boi aesthetic.

“Jury’s still out.”, then holds out a hand that’s white with cold, “I’m Tim.”

She notices that he doesn’t ask for her name, and she thinks over whether she should even tell him. After all, she’s only about 85% sure the guy’s not batshit crazy. But then, she’s probably in good company.

Oh, what the hell, she thinks, letting herself smile back at him. She takes his hand, and can’t even feel it with how numb her fingers are.

“Well, it’s Gotham, so crazy’s just the status quo around here. Also, name’s Stephanie,” she pauses and adds, more quietly, “And I think I’ll take you up on that room”

Tim shakes their hands minutely, and the movement has pinpricks of pain shooting up to her elbow, but already she somehow feels warmer.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, relieved, already turning to walk back towards the cafe, “I can officially no longer feel my ass. I barely had one to begin with. Please, let’s go inside.”

And, despite how cold she is, and how she aches, and how absolutely, completely shitty her life is right now, she bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over. It’s a miracle that she doesn’t fall over, considering she can’t feel her legs.

“I feel that. Not so much the last part though. My ass is great,” she snickers, trying to regain her composure. She sidles up just behind Tim’s shoulder to follow him back down the block.

“But, hey, you know, I’ll still take you up on that hot chocolate if you’re still offering.”

“I think I can manage that.”

She’s jarred from her reminiscing by the bell above the shop door. In an instant, she’s baring her teeth in the default hello, I work in food service, so please don’t be a prick!! smile.

“Hello!” she sings, upbeat, “Welcome to Robin’s Nest!”

Behind her, Tim’s got his back turned towards the entrance, wiping down the back counter and pointedly leaving her to do the customer servicing. She hopes he can feel her glare. Asshole.

She then turns her head and wind up locking eyes with a man in uniform. She balks.

Oh damn, says one part of her brain, because wow that’s a nicely-fit uniform.

Oh shit, says the another part of her brain, because that’s a police uniform.

Oh fuck, says the rest of  her brain, because that’s Richard Grayson in a police uniform.

No, like, the fucking Richard Grayson™ .

Richard-fucking-Grayson gives her a smile that’s whiter than bleached tile floors, brighter than the goddamn sun in Metropolis. Stephanie’s missing all of her customer service cues and she will blame it entirely on that smile in the future if Robin’s Nest gets a bad review.

“Uh,” she says dumbly, standing up straight so fast she manages to knock all of her espresso cup pyramid over. She makes an aborted movement to try and stop them, realizes it’s a lost cause, so instead just stares Richard-fucking-Grayson in the face and lets them all fall in a tragic, drawn-out cacophony of noise as they clatter, one-by-one to the floor. Total power move.

The noise has Tim whirling around towards the front -- “Steph, what the-” -- but then he falls mute as he gets an eyeful of Gotham royalty in a police uniform. Yeah, same here, dude.

The silence goes on for so long that it’s become decidedly uncomfortable, so Steph tears her eyes away from glances in Tim’s direction --

And yep, that’s the creepy Tim.exe has stopped working stare of death that happens when his brain goes full-on computer mode and he forgets how to emote (It’s either because he’s worried there’s a cop in The Nest, or because Officer Grayson is just that hot. Actually, it’s probably both). Christ, he’s not even blinking-- they’ve had a talk about this, Timmy, get your shit together. “Hello! Hi!” she says, too loudly, diverting the officer’s (increasingly growing) concerned gaze back to her, “Can I take your order?”

The last cup makes a final, agonizing descent to the floor in the beat of silence that follows, while Richard Grayson blinks, a little amused but not overly surprised by the fact that he’s apparently been recognized.

“Hi,” he replies, too-bright smile back in place, “Sorry if I surprised you?” “No worries, Mr. Grayson. Just don’t usually get celebrities on this side of town,” Steph leans against the counter, falling back into her default teasing, “Just tell me you’re here cause of a good Yelp review or something, cause I plead the fifth if it’s for anything else.”

“Just call me Dick, please,” Dick chuckles, “And I just happened to be passing through. A friend told me that this place serves the best hot chocolate this side of Gotham.”

Tim twitches. “Bullshit,” Steph quips, “We serve the best hot chocolate in all of Gotham. Total, unbiased truth!”

Dick grins, “Then I guess that’s what I’m having.”

Steph smiles wide, making a show of punching the buttons on the register system, “I’ll be gentle with you, since it’s your first time -- Tim, one classic chocolate, for the man in blue!”

. . .

She looks again to her left when there’s no movement. Oh for the love of Wonder Woman--

“Tim.”

Tim snaps out of it with a visible jerk, blinking wide eyes as the past five minutes seem to play at hyperspeed through that ridiculous brain of his, and he opens his mouth.

“Right, yes. Okay. I can, that. Chocolate, sure. Hot. ” is what comes out, even as Tim’s eyes widen in horror at himself, the skin of his neck and ears beginning to flush red with embarrassment.

Steph’s jaw drops, because she’s never seen Timothy Jackson Drake lose composure like this in all three years she’s known him (not even counting that one time sex turned into a trip to the hospital that they both agreed to never speak of again). And well, she had never pegged Tim for a fanboy of all things, let alone of Dick Grayson, but there he is, moving through the motions of making his signature hot chocolate with the grace and poise of a robot chicken.

Dick, for his part, is looking at Tim in the bemused way one tends to look at a toddler that’s doing something a little bit weird but otherwise harmless. Steph is the best wing-woman ever, because she clears her throat to try and get his attention again instead of the other barista.

“Sooooo that’ll be 4.89,” Steph declares, “Will that be cash or card?”

Her tactic is thwarted -- Dick continues to look at Tim in mildly amused fascination as he digs around in his pocket before pulling out a few rumpled bills and, like, six Jolly Rancher wrappers. She tries not to judge too hard when the whole wad is pressed into her hand, even though they’re a little sticky.  

She hands him his change before turning to see that Tim has finished the hot chocolate, complete with the snowflake-covered cup sleeves that Steph spent nearly three hours doodling that morning with a silver Sharpie (“Starbucks makes festive cup sleeves, Tim! We can’t be beaten by the competition!” “Why do I even pay you?”). However, Tim is just staring at the cup like it holds the solution to world peace and also this painful interaction. Steph clears her throat, and he flinches again. He slides the cup to the edge of the counter, way too slowly, like he’s thinking about it too hard, and Dick reaches for the cup in the way someone might approach a skittish animal. His hand closes around the cup and he lifts it, watching Tim’s face as he lifts it to his mouth. “Thanks,” he says with a gentle smile, but Tim steadfastly refuses to look the police officer in the eye. Arguably, this is worse, because instead he’s staring at the guy’s pecs. The barista then retreats from the counter, takes a full step back, mumbles something that was probably a “You’re welcome”.

“Well come on,” Steph interrupts, “I reserve the right to see you take the first sip.” Dick raises an eyebrow at her, teasing, “I’ll have you know that the Wayne butler makes some really great hot chocolate. It’ll be tough to beat.”

“Quit stalling and drink the liquid diabetes, Grayson.”

Without breaking eye contact with Steph, he does just that. Steph’s smirk grows when the man’s eyes grow wide.

He swallows, the flavor washing over his tongue, and looks down at his cup in amazement. Takes another drink, and groans. It’s a sound that Steph’s sure she’s heard on one of the more trashy pornos on her laptop, and knows it’s not just her mind going straight to the gutter when she sees Tim’s ears go bright red. “Wow.”

Stephanie grins, smug, “Like I said -- best hot chocolate in all of Gotham”

“I’m a believer now,” Dick says solemnly, taking another long sip. “God. Tell your management to open a store in Bludhaven -- I could single-handedly keep the business afloat if I could drink this every day.”

Steph snorts, jerking her thumb at Tim, who’s staring resolutely at the far wall.

“Tell him yourself, maybe then he’ll listen. I keep saying we should expand! If you ask me, every shithole town with a Robin running around the streets deserves Robin’s Nest to go with it.” Tim breaks his stupor to glance at Steph in a way that she’s come to learn is a warning, which she resists the urge to roll her eyes at.

Dick outright laughs. “Heh, well these days I’d say Bludhaven sees just as much of Robin as Gotham” Dick chuckles, “Might need to relocate entirely with criteria like that.”

He slides his gaze to Tim.

“Not that it’d be a bad idea to move shop. Seriously, Bludhaven has a lot of up and coming neighborhoods -- You would get more customers than you probably get in this area, and if the rest of your menu is as good as this hot chocolate, you’d be pretty popular.”

At this, Tim freezes, then turns, his face twisting into a slight frown, “Robin’s Nest belongs in Gotham,” he says, clipped, “Besides, we do just fine here.” The officer blinks, suddenly looking into sharp, ice-blue eyes that until this moment had refused to look at him.

“I’m sure you have some faithful regulars, around here,” Dick says slowly, a bit placating, “but I know Gotham pretty well, and a bit about business,” he pauses and says, not unkindly, but it nonetheless has Tim’s spine going rigid, “You’d get more revenue if you relocated down to somewhere in Midtown, even the residential areas. Why don’t you?”

Tim’s eyes flash, but nothing else gives away his irritation. Instead, he tilts his head in a curious gesture. “Well,” there’s a calm lilt to his voice as he asks, “Gotham pays its officers a higher average salary than Bludhaven. Why don’t you move?”

Dick’s jaw drops for a second at the barb, blinking. Then, his brilliant blue eyes light up with humor, and he laughs, long and loud. Even that sounds attractive, which is so unfair that Steph glares at the dangerous tilt of his take-away cup, willing it to spill on his uniform. The officer regains his composure, chuckles dying down as he regains his composure. “Woah, okay, touché then!” he acquiesces with a shrug, “But on that point -- It’s not really about the salary, the job. I work in Bludhaven because I’m needed there.”

At that, Tim’s blank face slips into a smirk. Steph sighs as he unties his apron and slips off his ball cap, clearly deciding that he’s done playing Customer Service for the time being. That means Steph is going to be manning the counter alone for the next few hours. Thanks a lot, Grayson. Steph doesn’t miss the way Dick’s gaze flicks interestedly to Tim’s fingers sliding through his too-long hair, brushing back and it away from his face. Steph feels the need to nod in solidarity. She found that move kinda hot too, once.

For a second, it’s not Tim the Barista standing there. Instead, it’s Timothy Drake, and Dick seems to stand straighter in attention. “Then maybe, Officer Grayson,” he surmised, in that slightly condescending way that Steph reckoned only those bred in high society could recreate, “Robin’s Nest is exactly where it needs to be.”

At that, Dick hums in what is more a surrender than an agreement. Wise, Steph thinks, to keep his mouth shut and spare himself the verbal lashing. Dick doesn’t seem to look very cowed, though, she notes, so much as intrigued.

Satisfied, Tim carefully lays his apron and hat on the far end of the counter, and passes through the front counter’s the swing-gate. He gets to the door at the far wall that Steph knows leads up into the stairwell that connects the rest of the building’s floors, Tim’s attached apartment included. Dicks eyes follow him all the way there.

“Hey Steph, can you hold down the fort for awhile while I go up? I need to do the ordering for next week.”

Steph sighs dramatically, gesturing to Dick. “What, and leave me alone with all these customers?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Just pick up all the cups off the floor -- and no more building towers with the espresso cups!” Steph sticks her tongue out at him before he closes and locks the door. “Spoil sport.”

Dick is quiet for a few seconds, before he sighs, “I feel like I should apologize for pushing.” Steph stands up from where she’s crouching on the floor, her arms full of fallen espresso cups. Dumping them into the recycling bin under the counter, she huffs her hair out of her face, humming thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t take it too personally -- Tim just gets pretty touchy about the shop,” she hesitates, before continuing a bit more quietly “It was important to him, growing up. He bought the place after his parents died.”

At this, Dick’s expression falls, and suddenly she’s being hit with the most beseeching blue eyes she’s ever seen. Jesus H. Christ, those have to be against the Geneva Conventions.

“Would you tell him I’m sorry?  I didn’t mean to offend him. . .” Steph physically resists the urge to wince at the intensity of the look, waving him off, “Yeah, sure, fine, I’ll tell him. Just jeez, quit it with the eyes.”

The eyes are still in the realm of small kicked animal, but less Sarah McLachlan, so Steph manages to survive as Dick’s expression turns thoughtful.

“Thank you.” A beat, then, “I think I’ll order another hot chocolate, actually, if you don’t mind.”

At that Steph raises an eyebrow, “For the road?” Dick clicks his tongue. "No,” he says, blue eyes twinkling with something like mischief, his grin suddenly sharp. His eyes, however, turn to the door that Tim had disappeared behind.

“It’s for a friend.”

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To be fair, Steph lasts a whole 23 minutes.

“Hey, I mean, Timmy didn’t say anything about building towers with any of the other cups.”

[roleplaylover97]

I'm looking for someone to roleplay with, preferably aWilly Wonka roleplay. I'm 24 years old and my OC's information is as follows.

Name: Jane

Age: 30

Fandom: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Species: human

lives: In a little house near Willy Wonka's chocolate factory

Powers, if applicable in fandom: not applicable

Family: Unknown, was abandoned at an early age

Friends: Willy Wonka, eventually

Appearance: pail skin, long kurly blond hair, bright blue eyes, short: about 4 foot 10, a dazzling smile

Personality: Jane is a sweet sole who has a big imagination. She cares for others, though has terrible flashbacks due to a rough upbringing. She may be shy, but once you get to know her, she'll be happy to talk your ear off about the things that she is passionate about.

Sexuality: straight

Likes: candy of any kind, anything old fashioned , reading, writing, singing, good kind children, helping others, being creative

Dislikes: bratty children, anyone who is spoiled annoying parents, people who are untrustworthy

Crush: Willy Wonka

If you are interested please message me or reply to this post with a plot.,

[kurlyq722]

Intentional Writing, Corona, and art in a time of lack

Hello my lovely readers, I hope to have my internet back up tomorrow, after several weeks of operating solely on spotty LTE from my phone. If the service person can find out why my modem decided to give up the ghost, I should be in a position to write the next chapter, starting tomorrow morning. I plan to focus on writing for the rest of the week. Thankfully, the outline of the story is already sorted and done. It’s simply a matter of “filling in the blanks” with plot driven dialogue and more quote worthy Sam lines. (I really love writing those.) For those that do not know, I am also a creative in my time away from fanfiction. As most are already aware, the Coronavirus is wreaking havoc on us as a nation and as a world, forcing us to be confined, away from others. Creative work on a larger scale requires collaboration—more often than not, in-person. I have several friends that are worried about where their next meal will come from. Friends that will not be able to walk for their art degrees during graduation season. Loved ones that have had notifications of job cancellations since early March, promising no income for the next three months. Still, these same brilliant creatives create. Because, if we as artists are nothing else, we are resilient. We are the megaphone for the world at large, the beacon of hope in times of wanting. We are not only essential, we are crucial. The world would stop spinning without art. I say all of this to say: please, never ever stop writing. Never stop singing. Never stop imagining and finding a platform for the world you’ve created. We need you now more than ever. Dreamers don’t stop in the face of crisis. History has proven that. Don’t let this pandemic kill your colorful spirit. Don’t let anything kill it. We always need art in a time of lack. It shows us who we are and who we could be. It inspires hope and fosters change. It breaks the monotony. Dare I say, it cures the depression of loneliness and uncertainty. Keep creating, artists. Keep creating. I love you. The world needs you. We can’t do any of this without you. We need you. Write now. Xoxo, Kurly

[thetruekingofeire]

I THINK I’VE SEEN THIS SOMEWHERE BEFORE IN LIKE A KIDS BOOK OR SOMETHING anyway your writing is amazing I applaud you @kurly-fryz

crunchity munchity it’s the sound of me gobbling up your ribcage

[projectbeautifulwords]

My friends kept telling me it’s a gift: this unique way of drawing out stories from people and helping them transform ideas, feelings, memories, and thoughts into books. People kept telling me that it’s something unique to me, something a lot of people can do, but something I can do differently. Friends kept telling me that this is where they see me at my best—when I help people tell their stories and write their books. What people don’t always know is that for me, helping people in their writing journey gives me as much joy as writing my own; that there is a profound happiness in seeing my name in the “Acknowledgments” section as much as there is in seeing my name in a byline or a book cover. Which is why I’m glad to have met Kurly, a brave and beautiful mom who has a powerful story to tell. I can’t say what it’s about yet, but what I can say is that it’s going to be phenomenal. I’m so blessed to have met such a woman take concrete steps in making her dreams come true, and I’m so humbled that she allowed me to journey with her as her writing coach. Please pray for us! Kurly’s book is something to look forward to, and we need your prayers, so this book can come to life and bless thousands of people when it does. #projectbeautifulwords #bookcoaching #bookwritingcoach #writingcoach #amwriting #workinprogress https://www.instagram.com/p/BnL47HOB_HW/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1wdnzt87h3ygv

[togachipblog]

May Potato Chips

The earth continues its annual trip around the sun and we have now reached the month of May.  I thought it would be interesting to write about potato chip brands/companies that include the work "May" and found two of them: 1) The May Potato Chip Company; and 2) The Ethel May.     Ralph and Dorothy May ran a small business called the Kurly Krisp Potato Chip Company at 3111 Holmes, in Kansas City, MO.  See the  photo of the building in the 1940 Kansas City Tax Assessment photograph collection.   If you look carefully, you can just make out the company name on the building windows and delivery truck. 

Later they founded the May Potato Chip Company which is first listed in the 1942 Kansas City, MO City Directory at 2214 McGee with Ralph E. May as President and Mrs. Dorothy May as Secretary-Treasurer.  Ralph May died of lung cancer in 1945 (death certificate and obituary are attached) and it appears that Dorothy took over the business.

In 1948, Dorothy remarrried to Ernest L. Strauss (marriage license attached), but Ernest died in 1958 (death certificate attached).   In 1958, the company was sold to Red Dot.  See the articles.  It's difficult to track Dorothy after 1958, but according to Find-A-Grave, she eventually died in California in 1987: https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/146773582

See the map including the location of the potato chip plant.  Enjoy the gallery of newspaper ads for the company.  Note that they used the "Ruffles' brand prior to the time it was acquired by Frito-Lay.  

Special thanks to Kate Hill, Senior Archivist at the Kansas City Public Library who materially contributed to both the research and the drafting of this post.   I found a reference to "The Ethel May" Potato Chips in an old newspaper from Fitchburg, MA, and contacted the Lunenburg Historical Society to help me research this.  James Larkin of the Historical Society determined that “The Ethel May” was a restaurant on Whalom Pond lakefront. It was there from approximately 1927 to 1935. After 1935, the Ethel May became the “Fountain of Youth” restaurant. It actually was in Leominster MA across from the Lake Whalom boat ramp there. The restaurant building is still there, converted to a residence (see the photo).

t’s at the junction of Main St & Lakeside Ave, Leominster MA.  Whalom Park was the site of an old amusement park, Whalom Park.  You can read more about it at http://massachusettspaddler.com/whalom-pond. 

See an old commercial for Whalom Park.

Making chips in a lakeside restaurant is reminiscent of the site where potato chips were purported to be invented, Moon's Lake House on Saratoga Lake in Saratoga Springs, NY.   Like Whalom Pond, Saratoga Lake was the home of an amusement park, Kaydeross Park.  Both amusement parks are now housing developments.   Enjoy the gallery of old Fitchburg Sentinel newspaper ads for "The Ethel May" restaurant  including the tagline  “See them fried.” 

Enjoy the Temptations singing "My Girl."  One of the lyrics is " When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May."  

The Toga Chip Guy

[sarahheartsdesign]

✨Did you know that #kale comes in all sorts of varieties? ✨ YUP, it’s true! This Kale Power Pack has ink colors representing Kurly and Dino Kale (yes, it’s supposed to be Curly but, nah!). And a variety called Dino? That makes my heart #rawr for sure. This Pack includes all you need to power your way to a healthy, letter-writing day! ✍🏻💌 🥗Includes 4 cards and 1 pin. Look for #ladyhanoverpress at the Brunswick Bazaar and Farmers Market, I’ll be the one in the denim vest with #kaleyeah #pins ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨ #farmersmarket #madeingeorgia #madeinthesouth #shoplocal #shopgoldenisles #nationalkaleday #ilovekale #lapelpin #pingame #flair #pinstagram #enamalpins #farmersmarket #discoverbrunswick (at Georgia)

[gib-mir-gift]

...

[kurly-quill]

Robin’s Nest Cafe (part 1)

So, here goes nothing! This will probably have more than one part, but will likely be non-chronological. 

Pairings: JayTim, maybe future JayDickTim 

Rating: Mature for Language [for now] 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?)

         Part 1 - Part 2

(1) Hot Chocolate

The first thing to know about Gothamites, is that they are objectively, irrevocably rude as fuck.

It’s not like New York City, where people bustle past without so much as a nod of acknowledgement because they have somewhere to be and don’t have time for pleasantries, or the aggressive shoving on the metro in Tokyo, or God forbid, like Metropolis, where people born past 1930 still tip their hats at passerby.

No, the average Gothamite would see you, without an umbrella, soaking wet, and shake their umbrella off on you on the way inside. If you gave up your seat to an elderly Gothamite on the train, they would sooner say fuck you than thank you. If you tried to mug a Gothamite, they would probably punch you in the face and steal your wallet, because, hell, you’d be the fifth person to try it this week.

And Tim, for all of his “good breeding” and “respectable upbringing” is, at his very core, a Gothamite.

His smile is so wide that he’s baring teeth, and while it doesn’t match the snarl on the face across from him, it’s no less able to convey the sheer amounts of fuck you very much, have a fucktastic day!!

“I ain’t sayin’ it again -” the man bellows, spit hitting Tim’s face and, ew, probably his lips too, “- give me the money inna register ‘afore things get ugly!”

His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of the icicles hanging outside along the shop window, barely sparing the knife shaking under his chin a second glance.

It’s 11 pm on Friday night, and the cafe is still open because Gotham never really sleeps and Tim lives above the shop, anyway. Behind Knife Guy, there’s a few people in line, displaying varying degrees of concern.

(1- was born in a Gotham alleyway, please if you’re going to stab the cashier just do it I’ll pour the coffee myself, 5 - been in Gotham for awhile, kinda worried but Killer Croc smashed my car last week and I just really need a coffee, 10 - visiting Gotham for the first time this weekend-- and the last time.)

Tim looks skyward, praying for strength. There are cobwebs up there he’s never noticed.

“Sorry, the money in the register is a seasonal flavor. But hey, bright side, we’ve just got peppermint mocha back in, so I can ring you up for that instead?”

Knife Guy gapes for a second, squinting at Tim like he expects him to start tap dancing any second now. Tim raises a brow, patient. With a frustrated snarl, the knife jolts forward enough that it clicks against Tim’s nametag, chipping at the edge of the black and yellow batman sticker beside his name, which is his favorite sticker so excuse you.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Either you put away the knife and order a peppermint mocha with christmas tree sprinkles, and we pretend this never happened, or we do it the less fun way, with the GCPD. Who are a total buzzkill, by the way, believe me. Your choice.”

There’s an eye-twitch, and a change in the man’s expression that makes Tim’s finely-honed Gotham instincts go “oh damn, here we go”, when someone opens up the front door with far too much strength, the glass rattling with the force of its inward swing. The freezing night wind billows in, the scent of oil and snow filtering through the warmer scents of the cafe. There’s an unceremonious tinkle of the bell dangling on the doorframe, and beneath it stands another man.

Tim stares. Knife Guy stares. One of the customers looks up from her phone, groans long and loud, grabs her triple-espresso hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle, and walks out into the late-November chill.

The Red Hood holds the door open for her, because he’s a fucking gentleman.

The door swinging shut with another tinkle, and there’s a pause filled only with catchy holiday jingles that have been playing over the radio since September. Hood surveys the scene before strolling toward the counter.

“Damn, lemme tell ya, it’s cold as fuckin’ balls out there,” Hood laments, with absolutely zero prompting, rubbing his hands together as though he’d gain any friction through the gauntlets. He stops just short of where Tim and Knife Guy are facing off, the blade hovering threateningly in the air just under Tim’s chin. Hood cocks his head.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?”

Tim takes a quick second to make sure that, if he opens his mouth, his jaw won’t hit the floor, before he replies, “Just regular customer service in Gotham. Hope you’re not here for the money in the register too - We’re fresh out of stock. Moving onto the Winter Menu, you know?”

Hood nods, making what sounds like an understanding hum through the voice synthesizers, “Some people just never check the website. Read you’ve got a mean gingerbread latte on special.”

Tim would respond, except now the knife is shaking to a worrying degree– Knife Guy is scared shitless, because the Red Hood is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder– or, well, shoulder-to-bicep with him, because the man is huge and smells very distinctly of cigarette smoke and blood. Tim would sympathize if he wasn’t having an internal fangasm to end all fangasms at this moment.

In a display of panic-borne, truly ballsy stupidity (unfortunately, also a common trait amongst Gothamites, particularly the ones that rob cafes at knife-point at just the hour the Bats tend to come out), Knife Guy whips the knife to the side to turn on the vigilante.

Hood’s got the knife out of the guy’s hand in an instant– Tim has just enough reflexes to grab the steaming cup of caffeine goodness that’s sitting innocently in harm’s way– and in the next second he’s grabbing the guy by the hair and slamming his head backwards onto the counter, spine bent at an angle that makes the onlookers flinch. A few more scurry out the door. There are other places to get a caffeine fix.

“Look here,” Hood growls, No-Knife Guy going cross-eyed as the knife points straight at his nose, “I ain’t lookin for a side of stitches with my candy cane hot chocolate with heavy cream, ya feel me?”

Mr. No Knife squeals.

“P-Please– I’m sorry, I’ll go! Promise! Just– fuck, l-lemme go!”

Hood’s head makes a minute motion, somehow conveying sheer exasperation despite the helmet (Though Tim can just feel the eye-roll going on). He drags the wannabe-robber up to his feet, though it’s pretty useless seeing as the guy’s knees give out they’re shaking so hard– and, oh dude, gross, that’s definitely a wet spot in the front of his jeans there. Tim’s nose wrinkles. He better not have to mop that up.

Hood pays the fact that he’s basically holding up all the man’s weight one-armed no mind, dragging him to the front of the shop. The bell chimes merrily as he gives the guy a literal kick in the ass out the door. The guy lands face-first in dirty, oily, Gothamy snow. An eight year old kicks him as she walks past, hand-in-hand with her father to the nearest bus stop. That Uptown Gotham charm, amiright?

“You’re just lucky I’m feeling the holiday fucking spirit right now– Plus, no offense,” a quick appraisal, “you’re kinda pathetic.”

And then Hood closes the door.

But he’s still here.

Tim looks around the shop. Apparently, at some point in the last 2 minutes, the rest of the customers have decided that they really don’t have time for the typical Bat-dramatics today and fucked off to another cafe. Tim should be more upset about the loss in business than he is, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Because the Red Hood (It’s him, it’s really him) is still standing there. In the cafe.

 With Tim.

He glances down at his chest to make sure the knife isn’t actually buried there, because the possibility that he’s died makes more sense than the Red Hood standing in his cafe, surrounded by a horrific mash-up of dollar-store Hannukah and Christmas (because his family is technically Jewish even if they didn’t celebrate jack shit, and Steph took the shitty plastic menorah on top of the espresso machine as a challenge).

“Um,” Tim remarks, scrambling for the words he wants to say to one of his childhood heros, “So, can I get you something? I feel like I should get you something. Cause I mean. This is an establishment that supports vigilantism, okay? Robin’s Nest cafe, at your service. At least a 10% discount, just like military. Just putting it out there.”

Right. So where is that knife again? Can’t speak if he doesn’t have vocal chords.

The vigilante makes a sound through the synths in his helmet that must be a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. He moves back up to the counter with movements far too fluid for someone of his size, and Tim swallows a bit as he’s forced to look up (and up) at close proximity. Wow, the helmet is something else– he’s itching to get his hands on it, take it apart and see all its functions and how it was made.

“Gotta first aid kit?” is almost lost to Tim, he’s so mesmerized – he thinks distantly that he’s probably looking a little manic, cause he’s running on caffeine and spite, and people have always told him that his tendency to hyperfocus is unnerving on a good day – but then the words click. He frowns.

“Yes, we do? He didn’t get you with the knife, did he?” he questions, eyes raking up and down Hood’s leather jacket for any telling rips or tears.

Hood tuts, reaching up to tap at his neck, “Nah, not me, but you’re ‘bout to need a new white shirt.”

Tim mimics the movement on autopilot, clapping his hand to the side of his neck and feeling the stickiness there. His heart jumps for a second as he pulls back his hand and sees enough blood there to wonder how he’d missed it.

“Oh. Damn.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, Tim’s got the doors to the cafe locked and finds himself sitting in the break room with the Red Hood dabbing at his neck with a cotton swab.

If he finally manages to overdose on caffeine tonight, he thinks he could go happily.

Hood’s so close that Tim’s 100% sure the vigilante can feel his heart trying to burst all his arteries by its sheer pumping force. He’s getting light-headed because he’s trying not to be creepy and do something like smell the the tall, buff guy with gentle hands (Cause, God, somehow the scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal just work for him) and has thus forgone taking any deep breaths.

“Lucky you, s’not deep,” are the only words either of them has said since he plopped down on the table. Tim hesitates for a second, watching Hood close the first aid kit and step away, before he clears his throat.

Courage, Tim. Come on, you’re from Gotham.

“So. Thanks. For all that, I mean.”

Hood shrugs.

“Eh, there are worse ways to start the night. Plus, it’s way warmer in here than out there. Wasn’t kidding when I walked in– was gettin fucking blue balls out there, and not even from anything fun this time.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh? Well, I think I have a way to warm you up.”

There’s amusement in every line of Hood’s shoulders as he tilts his head, becoming increasingly intrigued by this particularly bold civilian. When he speaks, there’s a definite purr there, mechanized though it is. Something prickly hot shoots down Tim’s spine, and he has to fight down a flush.

“Yeah? You got something in mind?”

Tim can’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

.

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“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with heavy cream?”

“Shut your shittin’ mouth, Dick.”

.

.

.

.

“…. It’s got candy cane flavor in it”

[roleplaylover97]

Hey everyone

Name: Jane

Age: 30

Fandom: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Species: human

lives: In a little house near Willy Wonka's chocolate factory

Powers, if applicable in fandom: not applicable

Family: Unknown, was abandoned at an early age

Friends: Willy Wonka, eventually

Appearance: pail skin, long kurly blond hair, bright blue eyes, short: about 4 foot 10, a dazzling smile

Personality: Jane is a sweet sole who has a big imagination. She cares for others, though has terrible flashbacks due to a rough upbringing. She may be shy, but once you get to know her, she'll be happy to talk your ear off about the things that she is passionate about.

Sexuality: straight

Likes: candy of any kind, anything old fashioned , reading, writing, singing, good kind children, helping others, being creative

Dislikes: bratty children, anyone who is spoiled annoying parents, people who are untrustworthy

Crush: Willy Wonka ,

Wonkalover97 is my name, and fanfiction and roleplay is my game. You can probably guess from my username that I love Willy Wonka. Both the 1971 and 2005 films are my favorite. I'm hoping to meet some likeminded people on here who share the same interests. If you would like to roleplay with me, feel free to send a message. Here's a bit of information about my OC to help us get started.

[gib-mir-gift]

am i the only writer who acts out scenes ive written before/after i write them to see if they go well????

like,, i cant be the only one..... right??? is this just a thing i do??? am i the wacko???????

[gib-mir-gift]

DUDE the members of slapnuts playing Twister,,,

im not sure if this is what you meant but heres a one-shot for it because i fucking love this idea lol (also og lineup because i dont know the new guys well enough to properly write them)

"Hey, guys, let's play a game." Chris suggested, earning several exasperated groans from his bandmates. They knew all too well how the percussionist got while playing games. Chris made a face. "Please?"

"Fine. Which one? We have Uno, Monopoly, checkers, some Japanese thing, and... well fuck me." Corey mumbled, picking up a dusty old box with the bright, exuberant letters spelling out one of the worst words on the planet. 'Twister'. The vocalist felt himself more then let himself groan. Even the name of the game made him uncomfortable. It sent shivers of dread all along his spine and arms, making him tremble.

Of fucking course Chris smiled and stole the box from Corey's grasp.

"Twister it is, fellas!" He yelled happily as he put the mat out on the bare concrete floor. Corey sighed, took his shoes off, and stretched carefully. Jim looked up from his conversation with Paul when Corey's spine made a noise close to breaking glass.

"What in the unholy fuck was that?" He asked, looking mildly concerned. Paul just smirked, loving the awkwardness of the whole situation. The bassist hated Twister as much as the rest of them seemed to, but he loved other people's discomfort much more. "Was that your fucking back?"

"Possibly. Hurry the fuck up and get over here. We're playin' Twister." The vocalist responded, still stretching. Jim moved like he was going to retaliate, thought better of it, and walked over to Corey and Chris, who was reading the directions out loud. Paul joined the three of them, silently chuckling. "Sid, Joey, Clown, Mick, Craigy! Get the hell over here!"

"There is no way in hell I'm playing fuckin' Twister!" Mick yelled in response, sitting quite still on a couch in the next room over. Joey and Sid bounced over, Clown not too far behind them. Craig materialized behind Chris and Paul, scaring them both. The sampler only laughed.

"I-... Are you guys for real? Where the hell did you get this?" Joey asked as he sat beside Chris, scanning over the page. "Are we really gonna play Twister of all things?"

"Yes." Came a gruff reply. Sid was already excitedly jumping from one coloured dot to the other by the time everyone else was ready. Corey, Mick (somehow?), Clown, Jim, Chris, Paul, Joey, and Sid all stood by the side of the mat, waiting for Craig to tell them what to do. There was no way in hell he was playing. It's fucking Twister. What do you expect him to do, make a fool of himself? No, thank you. That job belongs to the others.

"Sid, right hand on yellow." Craig ordered, adjusting his glasses. Sid obeyed, making a show of leaning over and smirking when Chris wolf-whistled. Mick rolled his eyes. He was not looking forward to this. "Just play the game like a normal human being, you inconvenient shrimp."

"I- I'm sorry, you what?" Paul could barely get through his sentence. He was used to everyone else ruining each other's will to live via insulting nicknames, but Craig never did that. He usually just sat silently and nodded along.

"Joey, left foot on blue."

Less than ten minutes later, Mick and Clown were out. Jim had managed a spread-eagle with Corey, Sid, and Joey practically sitting on him. Chris looked close to fallling, in his own corner, balancing on his tip-toes. Paul stood innocently between Jim's legs.

"Uh... Jim, left hand yellow." Craig sounded too happy about this. He was entirely too amused about the situation, Jim thought, to be normal. Jim groaned. He couldn't reach any open yellow spots. Everyone was in his way. That, and yellow was on his right, not his left.

"I can't. I'm gonna fall."

"Then fall." Craig stated. Jim made a face and somehow managed to balance himself as he reached between himself and three of his bandmates all the way to the yellow. "Well then... Corey."

"Oh, no."

"Right hand yellow."

"Dammit." Corey could only reach the yellow that Jim's hands were on, so he carefully placed his as close to the guitarist's without touching. "What next?"

"Sid, right hand green." Sid fell.

"Joey, right foot blue." The tiny acrobat stayed up.

"Paul, left foot red." The bassist threw in the towel without even giving it an attempt. Red was under Jim and his face would end up in the taller man's crotch. There was no way in hell he was doing that.

"Pussy." Mick mumbled as Paul walked away and put his shoes back on.

"Fuck yeah, I am."

"You didn't seem to care when Joey was crouched in front of you like he was about to suck you off." Paul was beginning to get flustered.

"That's different."

"Chris!" Craig interrupted suddenly and loudly. "Right hand yellow!" Chris went down, taking Joey with him. Corey made a noise of pure joy when he realised that he had a solid chance of wining. Jim twitched uncomfortably as the reality of how vulnerable his position was suddenly hit him. Corey didn't seem to notice nor care. Everyone else did, though, and began to chuckle.

"What?" The vocalist huffed.

"Dude, it looks like you two are about to fuck!" Paul laughed, leaning on the back of Craig's chair so he didn't fall from laughing so hard. Corey turned red and immediately leaned over so he fell on the floor. "Aw, you ruined it."

"Jim wins." Craig shrugged, put the spinner in the box, and got up and left the room. The guitarist stood up, brushed his hair out of his face, and stared at nothing in particular as he spoke.

"If I ever get roped into playing Twister again I will immediately shoot myself dead."

[projectbeautifulwords]

My friends kept telling me it’s a gift: this unique way of drawing out stories from people and helping them transform ideas, feelings, memories, and thoughts into books. People kept telling me that it’s something unique to me, something a lot of people can do, but something I can do differently. Friends kept telling me that this is where they see me at my best—when I help people tell their stories and write their books. What people don’t always know is that for me, helping people in their writing journey gives me as much joy as writing my own; that there is a profound happiness in seeing my name in the “Acknowledgments” section as much as there is in seeing my name in a byline or a book cover. Which is why I’m glad to have met Kurly, a brave and beautiful mom who has a powerful story to tell. I can’t say what it’s about yet, but what I can say is that it’s going to be phenomenal. I’m so blessed to have met such a woman take concrete steps in making her dreams come true, and I’m so humbled that she allowed me to journey with her as her writing coach. Please pray for us! Kurly’s book is something to look forward to, and we need your prayers, so this book can come to life and bless thousands of people when it does. #projectbeautifulwords #bookcoaching #bookwritingcoach #writingcoach #amwriting #workinprogress https://www.instagram.com/p/BnL47HOB_HW/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1wdnzt87h3ygv