writer vs. muse: the animation
I tried to scroll over this
i saw this a few times but I just realized what was happening, this is sick
raise your hand if you are scared shitless about the future yet couldn’t care less at the same time
I want all of them.
“A member of the Scottish National Antarctic Expedition plays the bagpipe for an indifferent penguin, 1904.”
According to the captions of the first Thor movie, the battle between the Jotuns and Asgardians take place in Norway, 965 AD. Around this time, Loki was born.
In Thor 2 the life expectancy was stated to be around 5,000. The average human life in developed countries from what I’ve gathered is approximately 82.
Therefore, in human years Loki is somewhere around 17.
Found this wonderful old orange juice stand, long closed, on Hwy 441 just about a block and a half north of the intersection with Hwy 46 on the right. My husband tells me they used to sell all the OJ you could drink for 10 cents at these stands in the 40s, 50s and early 60s. it was apparently part of the old Giant Orange chain that peaked in popularity in the mid 50s. It’s just outside Mount Dora, Andrea Pauline
Midnight struck just as she slammed the bolt home. She stood gasping, half-shod, near weeping, as the carriage clock tolled the turning of a new day.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
She sank down against the door, drenched in sweat and finery; and she stared at the glass slipper hanging from her hand, the filmy stockings still intact on her legs, and the placid, unaltered billows of silken skirts. She could hear the horses outside the door: a matched set, pure black with one high, white star on each forehead, protesting their abandonment and their burden with huffing snorts and dull stamps.
The fairy had lied; and the magic hadn’t ended; and she had left it all for naught, for naught.
She heard the news the next day, shouted in the town squares and printed in the town papers and whispered in the town markets: how the prince, (rebuffed and sullen—she could see his face over his shoulder as she fled, the fury contorting his wide eyes and full mouth and little soul) had danced half the night (the second half) with a woman of low breeding and high accounts; a woman who had smiled and laughed and disappeared, coincidentally, at the same time as the prince, and for the same hours; and had, by the sun’s rise, so ensorcelled him that they were promised to be married, and the marriage to take place even by the end of the week.
She pulled down the priceless gown that had so caught his eye. She bundled it about the glass slipper that had so intrigued him, tied the whole thing off with the diamond necklaces and bracelets and belt that had so fooled him; and as she did, she whispered imprecations in the accent that had given it all away.
Wrapped and tied, all her finery still measured as large around as a pumpkin—though not as large a pumpkin as still stood outside her wretched little hovel. She dropped the ransom armful down the well and waited for the guilt to come; and she felt nothing but satisfaction.
The pumpkin proved more difficult. In the end, she vented her rage with an axe and buried the remains in her brimming garden, save for a single bowl of flesh. She roasted it in her oven, poking the creamy mounds viciously with a fork far more often than necessary, then stewed it with beets and ate the mess alone at her table, all in one sitting. It tasted of firm earth, and sweet sun, and it stained the rims of her teeth for days.
She was well done with it, she thought—until the day of the prince’s wedding, when the first questing vines pressed their green fingers out of the dirt and reached for her home. She hacked at the ground until her axe blade snapped from its shaft; and with that weapon gone, she yanked until her gloves tore and her hands bled.
She considered sending a cutting to the palace. As a wedding gift.
By the second day, the vines had reached her home and sent their curling feelers between every board, into every knothole. She gnawed on a handful of pumpkin seeds and watched the whole thing come down, slowly, with all the gravitas of a state funeral. The vines swelled over the ruins and swallowed them into the earth. The pumpkin that took their place obliterated the site completely, growing so fat that it took her nearly a minute to walk completely around it, and so tall that it brushed the branches of the surrounding oaks.
She cocked her head a moment, then shook the shells from her dress, dropped the axe blade in her pocket, and shinnied up the nearest tree.
The stem ripped her hands open anew, but it moved—oh, it moved. With a yell that emptied her lungs, she heaved the pumpkin top to the ground and contemplated the murky space within. Seeds bigger than her fist, strands like heartstrings—but she could walk those out the front door, had she a whole axe with which to hew one. She could build a fire in the centre, dry the thing slowly until its walls toughened like leather, wax it inside and out until it shed water like a duck.
She peered at its fellows, swelling much more slowly along the vine, but no less surely. She would have to thin them out soon—within the week—lest her new home be overrun.
She could feed the whole world, and shelter it, too.
The surrounding pumpkins gave her the courtesy of staying small enough for her to find buyers, then growing to full size overnight once they reached their new beds. They were storage sheds, at first; then market stalls; then, finally, when enough incredulous gawkers had spread the story of her home often enough, cottages of great practicality and low price. Surrounding towns sent newspapermen to ask invasive questions that she met with friendly smiles and empty answers. Botanists the whole world over took home seeds and cuttings, and sat over them of nights, and watered and fertilised and fidgeted; they grew pumpkins of extraordinary colour and flavour, and utterly ordinary size.
She lived quietly, tending to her garden and the grounds she could now afford to keep. She watched the world contentedly from her home, ventured into it often; invited it in occasionally. She lived, as they say, happily—if not forever after, then at least until her death, peaceful and calm, at the age of one hundred and one, and the most famed gardener in the nation.
She did send a pumpkin to the palace upon the birth of the new princess. The Crown Prince ordered it hacked open and served at a private banquet, just he and his wife—but upon seeing the yards of diamonds and silk, and the single crystal slipper that the terrified cook found within, decided that he could bury it quietly on the palace grounds, where it rotted and stank and grew nothing at all.
The scarf I made my mom for Christmas. This is the crocheted pattern “Ripple Scarf Pattern” from Woolcrafting.com (first found on Ravelry). Instead of 11 rows with a 200 base stitch, I did 9 rows with 260 stitches. I did not use the crocheted fringe described in the original pattern. Instead, the tassels/fringe is made from 5 pieces of 11 inch yarn doubled over and knotted into each thick row while using 4 pieces of 11 inch yarn to fill in the “hole” rows where it looked too spaced. For this particular scarf I used 1 skein, 6 oz of Caron Simple Soft in Bone and a I/9 - 5.5mm crochet hook. It came out to 80 inches in length, 70 if you don’t include the fringe. The fringe and scarf were ironed briefly to become more flexible and flow better. All in all, it took a few hours to make and was a very easy pattern to follow. Put on a good TV show or movie and it will be done in no time!
And as a last note, the pattern does not look appealing when it is first being crocheted. It really comes together about 6 rows in and once the single crochet border is added.
I have such amazingly talented friends 8D
Oh, so those snake things sold around the 4th of July are calcium tablets.
R&B for the holidays