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therealvinelle · 1 year

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I felt sad seeing that no one asked you about your master plan for your april fools joke post, so I'll ask.. what was the plan? how did you and muffin convincingly pretend to be two separate people?

(Anon is referring to this amazing April Fool's joke)

I'm so glad you (and a few others, after seeing my "woe nobody asked. woe!" post) asked!

So, rule one of making up an elaborate lie: what is already known? What can people find out on their own?

Well, @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin's ffnet account is older than mine. It's from 2008, Vinelle is from 2014 (accidental account creation, I thought I was reviewing anonymously. Ffnet said "so you wish to make an account"). It's the reverse with our tumblrs, my main belovedordos dates back to 2012 while theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin is only from 2015 or so.

Faithful followers will remember that the reason why Muffin created the account theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin in the first place was because someone had nabbed the url thecarnivorousmuffin, and this was creating confusion. Faithful followers will further remember that Vinelle's fanfiction career began with bizarre fanfics where Harry Potter is a deer.

How, then, to tie these together?

We decided on the following series of events:

In 2008, Muffin creates the account The Carnivorous Muffin on ffnet. A few years later she gets a tumblr, she keeps this separate from her fic profile. In 2015 however, she discovers she does actually need a tumblr. To keep the two separate, however (as tumblr will make it so your likes and follows come from your main, making it impossible to keep the two separate in any meaningful sense), she creates an entire new blog: theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin.

Meanwhile, in 2014, an accident led to her creating a second ffnet account, Vinelle. Hate when that happens, but it exists now and when she gets the really dumb idea to write really dumb fics where Harry is a deer, she posts it on that account instead of The Carnivorous Muffin (Longtime followers of Muffin will remember this was a time when people would ask "Can you write a Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus fic where she meets deer!Harry?" if she had).

So, alright, Muffin now has a lot of accounts but that's fine, it's manageable. A main ffnet account, a shame account, both get imported to Ao3, a tumblr main, a tumblr for her fanfiction stuff, it's all good.

2020 comes around, and she starts posting metas on theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin because people are giving her asks. Life continues as usual otherwise.

Until in December 2020, when she is posting the first chapter of Nebuchadnezzar's Dream and she posts to the wrong account.

Ah hell.

She decides to go with it, however, if anything it'll be interesting to see if it gets any readers on its own considering the Vinelle account is a fandom nobody. As a nod to herself, she has Vinelle thank The Carnivorous Muffin for being such a good beta. Har har.

The comment section turns out to be a surprisingly chatty place, though, and...

She gets a horrible idea.

She's already pretending to be two people.

Why not take it further?

So she creates therealvinelle on tumblr.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

(With @franzias-cave having been called in, even, as thoughts about making them back us up on this were had.)

#clonery #april fools #the carnivorous muffin #franzias cave

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 months

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Imagine for a second the premise of Sword Art Online: VR game, everyone is stuck in it or their brain gets fried, etc.

Given that Carlisle Cullen couldn't kill himself by starvation... what if, say, Jane and Alec get stuck in the Death Game with a bunch of humans? Maybe we toss in Eleazar so that Aro can unplug someone and realise the brain-frying works on vampires (sorry Eleazar!)

Anyways what do you think that'd do to the Volturi and to Jane/Alec? If they had to cooperate with humans, do you think their attitude towards them would change? Or are they so hangry they're doomed?

I want to write the fic but first I want your take lol

Well, the Volturi try to hide that Jane and Alec are out of commission for as long as possible. When this is sooner or later exposed, we humans have a bloody and terrible time as vampires quickly build up what armies they can in order to overwhelm the Volturi with numbers now that they won't be swatted like flies by magic twins at a moment's notice.

The Volturi are very very busy waging wars against their enemy and keeping the secret in line.

As for Jane and Alec, they're having a time in a video game, I guess, I haven't seen this anime so I wouldn't know. I assume they're not vampires in the video game? If they are, they probably don't cooperate with humans, as they'd likely end up eating them and use their bullshit abilities to begin with to clear the game as quickly as possible (is that how this works for this one???)

More, given their background, I imagine they'd avoid relying on humans at all costs and not even really consider it as a serious option.

...

You really should write the fic here.

(gift credit @franzias-cave)

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #the volturi #jane #alec #meta #headcanon #opinion

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sheisadanger · 3 months

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— O Basgiath War College dá as boas-vindas a ISAVELL YIN LYNCHEHAUN, uma PRIMEIRO ANO que mostrou-se disposta a desafiar o parapeito para incorporar o Riders Quadrant. Vinda da província de MORRAINE, ela possui VINTE E TRÊS anos, e foi recrutada para a SEGUNDA ASA, encontrando-se atualmente na SEÇÃO CHAMA e fazendo parte do 1º ESQUADRÃO. Esperamos que algum dragão reconheça que é LEAL e CÍNICA, ou esse cavaleiro estará morto.

HABILIDADES NOTÓRIAS: Capaz de usar o peso e força do oponente contra ele mesmo, é nesse contexto em que suas habilidades se destacam. A velocidade e flexibilidade atreladas à arte marcial que ataca pontos de pressão sobre o corpo humano fazem de Isavell uma ótima combatente no corpo-a-corpo. Quando esses pontos específicos sofrem um golpe certeiro, os efeitos podem ser desde atordoante e/ou imobilizantes até mortais. Isavell ainda não sabe utilizar dessa arte para fazer vítimas fatais, mas acredita ser capaz de ainda evoluir a esse nível.

ARMA DE PREFERÊNCIA: Sabre, espada de meia lua e arco e flecha.

DRAGÃO (se já estiver vinculado): Não vinculado.

SINETE (se já manifestado): Não manifestado.

Criada para ser uma boa mãe e uma lady em tempo integral, Isavell era curiosa e ativa demais para o gosto da família e dos tutores particulares. Questionava quando devia acatar, e mesmo que fosse extremamente graciosa como o exigido, seu cinismo quando revelado era assustador. Era capaz de mentir com a cara mais deslavada do mundo, e não foi apenas uma vez que ouviu a mãe sussurrar preocupada sobre como a menina parecia com o pai. Como podia? Nunca tiveram o menor contato, e lá estava ele, surgindo por detrás da superfície do rostinho angelical da pequena Isavell.

A adolescência fora difícil. Diante de qualquer pergunta sobre o homem, sua mãe até disfarçava mas franzia o cenho. Tudo que dizia é que ele foi alguém complicado, e que havia morrido em combate em cima de um dragão. Ficava irritada com a insistência e desobediência que ela mostrava. Então, Isavell não contou para a mãe sua vontade (e a esse ponto, já total certeza) de ir atrás do caminho do pai. Onde ele pisou, ela iria pisar. Se ele voou em um dragão, ela também o faria. Deu um jeito de exigir do tutor de dança tradicional que a ensinasse a arte marcial de seus antepassados em comum, algo que ela já havia deixado escapar acreditando que seria uma informação curiosa e inofensiva para uma menina que gostava de ouvir histórias. Esqueceu-se que essa gostava também de saber de tudo, e registrava na mente.

Tendo a ponte que o dinheiro pode garantir até tudo que se quer quando se tem, chegar até o dia de ser cadete não foi a pior parte. Foi entender que teria de abrir mão de tudo que tinha. Fazer uma trouxa e partir no meio da noite. A lealdade consigo mesma e sua vontade de entender de onde vinha aquele que temiam ver quando se revelava nela. Seu pai, o cavaleiro de dragão, o homem forte que conquistou a frieza de sua mãe, que dera metade do que ela era. Não era justo conhecer só a outra parte. Fora árduo manter uma máscara de boa garota, ainda que tenha sido só o mínimo do que exigiam dela. Agora não era hora de pôr tudo a perder, ela tinha uma história para descobrir.

#fixado.

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tlt-big-resurrection · 9 months

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THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

by @sophelstien

art by @franzias-cave and @noctilia

Read the Fic & See the Art HERE

Rating: M

Summary:

Two stories, seven years apart, and the moment that joins them.

When Coronabeth is fourteen years old, her mother kills herself.

Now first in line for the throne, feeling exposed and unmoored, grappling with her grief, her sense of self, and her increasingly unstable sister, Coronabeth convinces Naberius to teach her how to sword fight. This is how the story begins.

When Coronabeth is twenty-one years old, she watches her sister kill their brother.

Coronabeth, abandoned, powerless, and hopeless, must do her best to survive alongside Camilla Hect and Judith Deuteros in the wake of the deaths and betrayals of the people closest to them in an empty, crumbling Canaan House. This is how the story begins again.

#tlt bre #tlt big resurrection event #the locked tomb #tltbre #tlt

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teteiaorg · 2 years

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Onde você estava em 1989?

"Não sei por que estou contando isso agora, mas suponho que seja sempre assim: escrevemos algo para contar outra coisa" escreve María Gainza em O nervo óptico (2014).

Estava no banco de trás do Gurgel cinza esverdeado da minha mãe. Lembro daquele raio de luz batendo insistentemente na minha cabeça. Fortaleza e sua luz que desbota tudo. Estava vestida com uma blusa que tinha duas crianças de costas empinando uma pipa em formato de estrela, com um PT bem no meio dela, no meio da estrela vermelha, voando lá no alto. As duas crianças olhavam para cima, para o céu, para a pipa e a estrela. No carro tentava tapar em vão a luz do sol alencarino, com minhas mãos. Naquele ano de 1989, as carreatas foram infindáveis. Participei de todas do banco de trás, cara de preguiça, preguiça do sol, arrastada pela minha mãe: Rita Stella ou Rita Estrela. Quando o muro de Berlim caiu em 09 de novembro de 1989, estava com certeza no banco de trás do Gurgel da minha mãe, em uma carreata petista. A venda de pedacinhos do muro de Berlim acontece até hoje, 33 anos depois. Ainda existe muro? Sua queda, para as narrativas eurocêntricas, encerraria o longo período de Guerra Fria (União Soviética x EUA) e abriria outro caminho de disputas políticas e econômicas – marcado pela globalização.

Maria Angélica Melendi, em Estratégias da arte numa era das catástrofes (2017), desloca territorialmente os marcos temporais de Eric Hobsbawm no seu Era das catástrofes – 1914 até 1945 – para forjar outros acontecimentos históricos, embaralhados a sua memória de criança. 16 de junho de 1955 é o dia em que “aviões da marinha comandados por um grupo de militares e civis contrários ao governo do presidente Juan Domingo Perón bombardearam e metralharam a praça, matando mais de 308 pessoas e ferindo setecentas, entre civis e militares” – o Massacre da Plaza de Mayo. 16 de junho de 1955 também é o dia em que sua mãe a pegou mais cedo na escola primária. Melendi lembra de ver, assustada, os aviões cruzarem o céu em direção à Casa Rosada.

me lembro da praia. havia um vento constante, constante nessa praia. devia estar muito distraída pelo mar e pelo vento, e o vento no mar, e não reparei quando se aproximou. Orlando veio sozinho, empurrava o barco em direção à areia. Orlando era forte e ainda assim franzia o rosto em esforço. o barco era de madeira pintada e sem motor. tudo nos braços de Orlando. desta vez trazia uma moreia, um bicho enorme que eu só havia visto nos quadros ilustrativos da peixaria. era verde-esmeralda. o corpo iridescente enrolado em si mesmo, com certeza Orlando tinha decepado o bicho. contava que a moreia tinha saído da toca e vindo em sua direção. sem distância para usar o arpão, nadou até o barco e de lá com muita agilidade empunhou a faca e se defendeu do animal. Orlando mergulhava só de sunga e um cinto de pesos de chumbo. havia muitas histórias decepadas sobre Orlando, mas não me lembro de nenhuma, naquela época andava muito distraída com o mar e o vento, e o vento no mar.

1989 é o ano da queda do muro de Berlim.

1989 é o ano da primeira eleição direta no Brasil.

Propomos a um grupo de artistas já nascidos em 89 e para outro grupo que nasceu na década de 1990 que produzissem uma lembrança daquele ano. 1989 foi o ano da primeira eleição direta para presidente no Brasil, depois de um vácuo de quase trinta anos. Verdadeira ou inventada. Sua ou de outra pessoa. A lembrança é um áudio, uma imagem, um ensaio, uma fotografia, uma reportagem de jornal, um poema de outro autor, uma música, um pedaço de filme, um videoclipe, uma letra de música, etc. Com esse conjunto de lembranças, teteia quer tecer uma memória coletiva do que foi esse ano para aquelus que viveram e para aquelus que não o viveram, mas que precisam se lembrar de sua importância.

Como lembraremos os últimos anos de golpe democrático – do impeachment de Dilma ao governo parasitário dos últimos 4 anos?

O que lembraremos dos últimos anos de golpe democrático – do impeachment de Dilma ao governo parasitário dos últimos 4 anos?

Setembro de 2022.

As editoras de teteia 4 Maria Palmeiro, Natália Quinderé. Publicação de conteúdo e design: Luana Aguiar. Tradução para o espanhol Maria Palmeiro. Revisão: Marcel Gonnet Wainmayer. Tradução para o inglês: Renata Azzi. Revisão: Marcelo Quinderé.

¿Dónde estabas en 1989?

"No sé por qué te digo esto ahora, pero supongo que siempre ha sido así: escribimos algo para decir otra cosa", escribe María Gainza en El nervio óptico (2014).

Estaba en el asiento trasero del Gurgel gris verdoso de mi madre. Recuerdo ese rayo de luz golpeando insistentemente mi cabeza. Fortaleza y su luz que todo lo desvanece. Tenía puesta una blusa con dos niños en la espalda que remontaban un barrilete en forma de estrella, con un “PT” escrito justo en el centro, en el centro de la estrella roja, volando muy alto. Los dos niños mirando hacia arriba, al cielo, al barrillete y a la estrella. En el coche trato en vano de tapar con mis manos la luz del sol. En ese año de 1989, las caravanas eran interminables. Participé en todas, cara perezosa en el banco trasero, sol perezoso, arrastrada por mi madre: Rita Stella o Rita Estrella. Cuando cayó el Muro de Berlín, el 9 de noviembre de 1989, yo estaba seguramente en el asiento trasero del Gurgel de mi madre, en una caravana del PT. La venta de pedazos del muro de Berlín continúa hoy, 33 años después. ¿Todavía hay un muro? Su caída, para las narrativas eurocéntricas, pondría fin a la larga período de la Guerra Fría (Unión Soviética x EE.UU.) y abriría otro camino de disputas políticas y económicas – marcado por la globalización.

Maria Angélica Melendi, en Estratégias da arte em uma era das catástrofes (2017), modifica territorialmente los marcos temporales de Eric Hobsbawm en su Era das catástrofes – 1914 a 1945 – para forjar otros hechos históricos, barajados en su memoria infantil. 16 de junio de 1955 es el día en que “aviones de la armada comandados por un grupo de militares y civiles contra el gobierno del presidente Juan Domingo Perón bombardearon y ametrallaron la plaza, matando a más de 308 personas y 700 heridos, entre civiles y militares” – la Masacre de Plaza de Mayo en Buenos Aires. Es también el día en que su madre la recogió temprano de la escuela primaria. Melendi recuerda ver, asustada, los aviones cruzando el cielo rumbo a la Casa Rosada.

recuerdo la playa. había un viento constante, constante en esta playa. estaba muy distraída por el mar y el viento, y el viento en el mar, que no me di cuenta cuando se acercó. Orlando, solo, empujaba el bote hacia la arena. Orlando era fuerte y sin embargo fruncía el ceño por el esfuerzo. el barco de madera pintada no tenía motor. todo sobre los brazos de Orlando. esta vez venía con una anguila morena, un animal enorme que solo había visto en los cuadros ilustrativos de la pescadería. Era verde esmeralda, el cuerpo iridiscente envuelto sobre sí mismo. seguramente Orlando había mutilado a la bestia. Dijo que la anguila morena había salido de la madriguera en su dirección. sin distancia para usar el arpón, nadó hasta el bote y de allí con gran agilidad tomó el cuchillo y se defendió del animal. Orlando buceaba vistiendo short y cinturón de plomos. había muchas historias mutiladas sobre Orlando, pero no recuerdo ninguna, en ese momento estaba muy distraída con el mar y el viento, y el viento en el mar.

1989 es el año de la caída del Muro de Berlín.

1989 es el año de la primera elección directa en Brasil.

Proponemos a un grupo de artistas nacidos antes del 89 y a otro grupo que nació en los 90 que produjeran un recuerdo de ese año. 1989 fue el año de la primera elección directa para presidente en Brasil, después de un vacío de casi treinta años. Real o inventado. Tuyo o de otra persona. El recuerdo es un audio, una imagen, un ensayo, una fotografía, un reportaje periodístico, un poema de otro autor, una canción, una película, un videoclip, letras de canciones, etc. Con este conjunto de memorias, teteia quiere tejer una memoria colectiva de lo que fue ese año para los que lo vivieron y para los que no lo vivieron, pero que necesitan recordar su importancia.

¿Cómo recordaremos los últimos años del golpe democrático, desde la destitución de la presidente Dilma hasta el gobierno parasitario de los últimos 4 años en Brasil?

¿Qué recordaremos de los últimos años del golpe democrático, desde la destitución de la presidente Dilma hasta el gobierno parasitario de los últimos 4 años?

Septiembre, 2022.

Las editoras Maria Palmeiro, Natália Quinderé. Publicación de contenidos y design: Luana Aguiar. Tradcción al español: Maria Palmeiro. Revisión: Marcel Gonnet Wainmayer. Traducción al inglés: Renata Azzi. Revisión al inglês: Marcelo Quinderé. Agradecimientos a las autoras y autores publicados.

Where were you in 1989?

“I don't know why I am telling you this now, but I suppose it's always like this: we write something to tell something else”, writes Maria Gainza in O nervo óptico (The optic nerve), in 2014.

I was in the backseat of my mothers gray–green Gurgel. I remember the ray of light insistently hitting my head. Fortaleza and it's light that fades everything. I was dressed in a blouse that had stamped two children flying a star-shaped kite with ”PT '' right in the middle of it, in the middle of the red colored star, flying up in the sky. The two children looking up to the kite and the star. In the car I tried in vain to block Fortaleza’s sunlight with my hands. In that year of 1989 the motorcades were endless. I participated in all of them from the backseat, lazy face, laziness of the sun, dragged by my mother: Rita Stella or Rita Star. When the Berlin Wall fell in November 9, 1989, I was certainly in the backseat of my mother's Gurgel, in a PT’s motorcade. The sale of pieces of the Berlin Wall continues to this day 33 years later. Is there still a wall? In Eurocentric narratives this fall represents the end of the long period of Cold War (Soviet Union x USA) and would have opened the way to political and economical disputes - marked by globalization.

Maria Angélica Melendi in Estratégias da arte em uma era de catástrofes (2017) territorially displaces Eric Hobsbawm‘s time frames in his The Age of Catastroph -1914 to 1945- to forge other historical events, shuffled to his childhood memory. June 16, 1955 is the day when “navy planes commanded by a group of soldiers and civilians opposed to the government of president Juan Domingo Peron bombed and machine- gunned the square, killing more than 308 people and injuring 700, between civilians and military”- the Plaza de Mayo Massacre. June 16, 1955 is also the day her mother picked her up early in elementary school. Melendi remembers watching, terrified, planes cross the sky towards the Casa Rosada.

i remember the beach. there was a constant wind, constant in this beach. i should be distracted by sea and the wind and by the wind at the sea and i didn’t notice when he got closer. Orlando came alone, pushing the boat towards the sand. Orlando was strong and yet he frowned with effort. the boat was made with painted wood and no motor. all in Orlando's arms. this time he brought a moray eel, a huge animal that i had only seen in the illustrative pictures of the fishmonger. it was emerald green, the iridescent body curled in on itself, surely Orlando had cut off the beast. he said the moray eel had left the burrow and was coming towards him. with no distance to use the harpoon, he swam to the boat and from there, with great agility, took the knife and defended himself from the animal. Orlando diving in only his swimming trunks and a lead weight belt. there were lots of cut-off stories about Orlando, but i don't remember any, at that time, and i was very distracted by the sea and the wind, and the wind at sea.

1989 was the year of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

1989 was the year the first direct election in Brazil.

We proposed to a group of artists already born in 89, and to another group that was born in the 1990s that they produce a memoir piece of that year. 1989 was the year of the first election for president in Brazil , after a vacuum of thirty years. Real or invented. Yours or someone else's. The memory can be an audio, an image, an essay, a photograph, a newspaper report, a poem by another author, a song, a piece of film, a video clip, a song lyric etc. With this set of memories, teteia wants to weave a collective memory of what this year was for those who lived it, and for those who didn't, but still need to remember its importance.

How will we remember the last years of democratic coup- from Dilma’s impeachment to the parasitic government of the last 4 years?

What will we remember of the last years of democratic coup- from Dilma’s impeachment to the parasitic government of the last 4 years?

September, 2022.

The editors Maria Palmeiro, Natália Quinderé. Content publishing and design: Luana Aguiar. Spanish translation: Maria Palmeiro. Spanish revision: Marcel Gonnet Wainmayer. English translation: Renata Azzi. English revision: Marcelo Quinderé. Thank you to the authors published.

#teteia4

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andoneforlittleadam · 3 years

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#wineoclock #franzia #wasted #thirsty thots #thirstythursday #classy #original content #my art #phone art #there is no god #original #mine #butts butts butts #butts #photo edit #edit #gif

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lurrkingly · 4 years

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Making Franzia littler

#artists on tumblr #art #digital art #original character #oc #anime #anime art #anime girl #sketch #charactr design #horns #webcomic #my ocs #my oc #Franzia

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dailyunsolvedmysteries · 2 years

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Disappearance of Maura Murray

In November 2003, three months before her disappearance, Murray admitted to using a stolen credit card to order food from several restaurants, including one in Hadley, Massachusetts. The charge was continued in December, to be dismissed after three months' good behavior. On the evening of February 5, 2004, while she was on duty at her campus-security job, Murray spoke on the phone with her older sister, Kathleen. They discussed Kathleen's relationship problems with her fiancé. Around 10:30 p.m., while still on her shift, Murray reportedly broke down in tears. When her supervisor arrived at her desk, Murray was "just completely zoned out. No reaction at all. She was unresponsive." The supervisor escorted Murray back to her dorm room around 1:20 am. When asked what was wrong, Murray said two words: "My sister." The contents of this call remained unknown until October 2017, when Kathleen publicly explained the conversation: Kathleen, a recovering alcoholic, had been discharged from a rehabilitation clinic that evening, and on the way home, her fiancé took her to a liquor store, which caused an emotional breakdown.

After midnight on Monday, February 9, Murray used her personal computer to search MapQuest for directions to the Berkshires and Burlington, Vermont. The first reported contact Murray had with anyone on February 9 was at 1:00 pm, when she emailed her boyfriend: "I love you more stud. I got your messages, but honestly, i didn't feel like talking to much of anyone, i promise to call today though. love you, Maura"

At 1:24 pm, Murray emailed a work supervisor of the nursing school faculty that she would be out of town for a week due to a death in her family; no one in her family had died. She also said she would contact them when she returned. At 2:05 pm, Murray called a number which provides recorded information about booking hotels in Stowe, Vermont. The call lasted approximately five minutes. At 2:18 pm, she telephoned her boyfriend and left a voice message promising him they would talk later. This call ended after one minute.

In her car, Murray packed clothing, toiletries, college textbooks, and birth control pills. When her room was searched later, campus police discovered most of her belongings packed in boxes and the art removed from the walls. It is not clear whether Murray packed them that day, but police at the time said she had packed between Sunday night and Monday morning. On top of the boxes was a printed email to Murray's boyfriend indicating trouble in their relationship. Around 3:30 pm, she drove off the campus in her black 1996 Saturn sedan; classes at the university had been cancelled that day due to a snowstorm.

At 3:40 pm, Murray withdrew $280 from an ATM. Closed-circuit footage showed she was alone. At a nearby liquor store, Murray purchased about $40 worth of alcoholic beverages, including Baileys Irish Cream, Kahlúa, vodka, and a box of Franzia wine. Security footage again shows she was alone when she made that purchase. At some point in the day, she also picked up accident-report forms from the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles from an incident she was involved in a few weeks before hand to which she owed money.

Murray then left Amherst between 4 and 5pm, presumably via Interstate 91 north. She called to check her voicemail at 4:37 pm, the last recorded use of her cell phone. To date there is no indication she had informed anyone of her destination, or any evidence that she had chosen one.

Some time after 7:00 pm, a Woodsville, New Hampshire, resident heard a loud thump outside her house. Through her window, she could see a car up against the snowbank along Route 112, also known as Wild Ammonoosuc Road. The car pointed west on the eastbound side of the road. She telephoned the Grafton County Sheriff's Department at 7:27 pm to report the accident. According to the 9-1-1 log, the woman claimed to have seen a man smoking a cigarette inside the car. However, she later stated that she had not seen a man nor a person smoking a cigarette, but rather had seen what appeared to be a red light glowing from inside the car, potentially from a cell phone. At about the same time, another neighbor saw the car as well as someone walking around the vehicle. She witnessed a third neighbor pull up alongside the vehicle.

That neighbor, a school bus driver returning home, noticed the young woman was not bleeding or visibly injured, but cold and shivering. He offered to telephone for help. She asked him not to call the police (one police report says "pleaded") and assured him she had already called AAA (AAA has no record of any such call). Knowing there was no cellular reception in the area, the bus driver continued home and called the police. His call was received by the Sheriff's Department at 7:43 pm. He was unable to see Murray's car while he made the call but did notice several cars pass on the road before the police arrived. Another local resident driving home from work claims she passed by the scene around 7:37 pm, and saw a police SUV parked face-to-face with Murray's car. She pulled over briefly and did not see anyone inside or outside the cars, and decided to continue home. This witness's statement contradicts the official police log, which has Haverhill police arriving nine minutes later.

According to the official police log, at 7:46 pm, a Haverhill police officer arrived at the scene. No one was inside or around the car. The car had impacted the tree on the driver's side of the vehicle, severely damaging the left headlight and pushing the car's radiator into the fan, rendering it inoperable. The car's windshield was cracked on the driver's side, and both airbags had deployed. The car was locked.

Inside and outside the car, he discovered red stains that looked to be red wine. Inside the car, the officer found an empty beer bottle and a damaged box of Franzia wine on the rear seat. In addition, he found a AAA card issued to Murray; blank accident-report forms; gloves, compact discs, makeup, diamond jewelry; driving directions to Burlington, Vermont; Murray's favorite stuffed animal, and Not Without Peril, a book about mountain climbing in the White Mountains. Missing were Murray's debit card, credit cards, and cell phone, none of which has been located or used since her disappearance. The police later reported some of the bottles of purchased liquor were also missing.

Journalist Joe McGee, writing for the Quincy, Massachusetts, Patriot Ledger, summarized the incident: "At a hairpin turn, she went off the road. Her car hit a tree. At that point, a person came along who was driving a bus. It was a neighbor. He asked her if she needed help. She refused. About 10 minutes later, police showed up to the scene and Maura Murray was gone."

Between 8:00 to 8:30 pm, a contractor returning home from Franconia saw a young person moving quickly on foot eastbound on Route 112 about 4 to 5 miles (6 to 8 km) east of where Murray's vehicle was discovered. He noted that the young person was wearing jeans, a dark coat, and a light-colored hood. He did not report it to police immediately due to his own confusion of dates, only discovering three months later (when reviewing his work records) that he had spotted the young person the same night Murray disappeared.

The responding officer and the bus driver drove around the area searching for Murray. Just before 8:00 pm, EMS and a fire truck arrived to clear the scene. By 8:49 pm, the car had been towed to a local garage. At about 9:30 pm, the responding officer left. A rag believed to have been part of Murray's emergency roadside kit was discovered stuffed into the Saturn's muffler pipe. Authorities would refer to Murray as simply "missing" at 12 pm the next day, almost 24 hours after the last confirmed sighting of her.

The case remains unsolved.

#Maura Murray #unsolved mysteries #cold cases #crime #unsolved

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alittlebitmaybe · 4 years

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wait ok you’re legally obligated to tell me about the vassar au

wow you’re right i am

ok so for those who are unaware: this is just a liberal arts college au in which i plan to project every dumb thing that happened while i was at school onto the cast of the witcher

so far it consists mainly of these messages i sent to @yoursummerfrost in like july which i c&ped into a document:

alittlebitmaybe yes!! i'm like...yen is emancipated from her shitty family and isn't paying a cent. hates the whole institution and rips it to shreds constantly. the administrators and top donors know her by name. poli sci major/women's studies correlate who chills in the women's studies lounge to scare the freshmen boys who come in for essay help alittlebitmaybe geralt is from nowhere and has barely heard of the school before he gets there but he had a hs counselor who Believed In Him and when he looked at the brochure the landscape was nice and there was like a horse in one of the photos so he's like whatever okay i'll apply alittlebitmaybe jask went there exclusively because it is prestigious enough to satisfy his parents (while also pissing them off for being Progressive, gender neutral bathrooms, oh the horror) and has a wild theatre department. also a little bit because he had an overnight prospective student visit and fell in love with his host student, maybe alittlebitmaybe geralt is either an environmental studies major or a medieval & renaissance studies major and i can't decide which because i like the idea of geralt's drunken party trick being a flawless recitation of the canterbury tales in middle english too much

other things on the list that you, in particular, might appreciate (some of which will be nearly incomprehensible to most other ppl):

when playing spin the bottle, jaskier kicks the bottle every time geralt and yen are gonna have to kiss

“someone should get naked and howl at the moon” “you do it” “alright”

GIN BUCKET

hamlet!yen and ophelia!jask in the garden feat. wet dress

yen does derby

seven deadly sins party (kissing under the anal beads)

senior streak

just a shit ton of andre and franzia

rocky horror

#my fic #citadelofswords #aldgkjalskgj i actually do really want to write this

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therealvinelle · 2 years

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Is there any way I can get you, or the carnivorous muffin interested in reading (the first 10 or so) Anita Blake books? 👀 They're a doozy, and the metas you could make of them even more. I'm honestly interested in whether you would hate or love Anita as a character, because the fandom is very split on this. Also, something to note that in one the books, one vampire character starts the animal diet for his human mate, but literally starts slowly rotting and falling apart, something that actually becomes irreversible.

... I take it anon is not part of the Rank Heresy book club.

I must be bribed with Franzia's art or actual money to even participate, and when I do I whine so much that the Muffin has to sit in the voice channel as moral support.

No can do, anon.

#anita blake

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essaysbyciara · 4 years

Text

Old Habits Die Hard| Part Three: Recognize the Butterflies

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE | PART TWO: JUST BE GOOD TO ME

Warnings: Language, lightweight mentions of sexual situations, marijuana use

Here’s part three! This is turning into a slow burn which was not my intention lol. Again, thank you for all of the responses and love. It makes my heart super happy. Taglist is still open!

RECOGNIZE THE BUTTERFLIES

Yahya’s right thumb trails down the seam of your sundress. He slips his hand between the slit of your dress and pinches the brown skin attached to your left hip. It’s the first private moment you two have had since the drive north on I-95.

“I told you my family would love you…”

“It was looking really rough for a minute there. I thought your Uncle Trace was going to kill me.”

“Trace means no harm. He just loves his niece.”

“And I love his niece…” Yahya’s kisses were beyond soft, your soul flutters during every millisecond his lips meet yours. They feel like butter. Your foreheads touch as your right hand pats his rising chest at the syncopation of your own heart.

You two desperately needed this moment. Between Aunt Jerri scream-singing every Earth, Wind and Fire song from the depths of her lungs to your uncles somewhat-but-really-not-so-gentle interrogation of Yahya to the incessant screaming of little children and the fight that almost broke out at the end of the street, you craved to find a sliver of the peace that exists back home.

You also needed another opportunity to hide from Dave.

Despite the protest by some other organs belonging to your body, your heart made the best decision by coaxing you to instantly delete Dave’s Instagram message. You didn’t even read it, swiping left to throw it all away. You made the decision to stand up for your current relationship. As much as you wanted to settle into Yahya’s affectionate imprisonment of your body and take in his incessant need to kiss your neck and right earlobe, you couldn’t help but to survey your surroundings in hopes of spotting -- and swerving -- Dave.

The last thing you wanted was to see him in the physical and to marvel at the man who eliminated all timidness from your aura. You were already triggered by the thought of his presence, wanting to repel -- yet craved to feel -- those lighting bolts that crashed against your body at the sight of him.

“Aww, look at the two lovebirds!” Aunt Jerri walks upstairs from the basement with a box of Franzia white wine in her right hand. She’s set to drink for the rest of the night. “I’m so happy y’all came up.”

“Me too, Miss Jerri,” exclaims Yahya as his takes the last sip of his drink.

“Boy, you are too polite for your own good!” Aunt Jerri caresses Yahya’s left shoulder as she walks past you both and into the living room. You begin to stare at Yahya and wonder how on Earth you found a man this kind, generous and thoughtful.

That kindness and generousity motivated you almost a year ago to call Yahya’s office and ask him out on a date. Weeks prior, you watched Yahya speak on a panel at a social justice conference and from the back of the room, you could feel his beautiful spirit. Most of the “social justice warrior” men you encountered up until that point were “woke” in public places but womanizers in private spaces, their misogyny masked by outward motivations to change the world. There was something about the powerful yet gentle way Yahya spoke on the tough topic of criminal justice reform that kept your attention even after your appearance on a panel about arts and justice earlier in the day.

Against your high levels of exhaustion, you willed yourself into participating in the closing event for the conference. You were finally able to see his height -- long legs and galavanting walk -- up close and personal, totally oblivious to Yahya trying not to stare an ungodly long time at you as you jumped in and out of conversations. You two caught eyes a few times in the midst of the fellowship happening around you, with the last of the stares causing him to walk up to you to introduce himself. The conversation was brief but impacting. You both were in the beginning stages of what they call “the fall”.

You hadn't felt this way since the summer. With Dave, you encountered these butterflies that traveled throughout and around every peak and valley of your curvaceous body. You never wanted someone beyond the very concept of need like that before. But since that drive back to the mundane life that Dave’s presence saved you from, you hadn’t heard from Dave. He disappeared on you without a trace, Aunt Jerri telling you to let him go because he was only supposed to be, as she called him, “a temporary distraction.” But Dave was a temporary distraction who, on your last night in Philly, said that he was going to call you every night and come visit you on the weekends. Your orgasms would no longer be limited to the spare room at his brother’s house or the backseat of your car or Aunt Jerri’s basement anymore.

You owned your townhouse. You could scream as loud as you want.

Dave broke his promise and after you broke down about it, you made a covenant with yourself to move on. Using the conference’s website, you found out where Yahya worked and called his office. You had to get what was yours -- a confidence you acquired over the summer. You left a message -- along with your phone number -- with his law firm’s file clerk and waited, scrolling through his Instagram as you imagined a day in the life of his love. Yahya called you back and invited you out to lunch. Mission accomplished.

Dave’s disappearance led to you finding the love of your life. This man standing in Aunt Jerri’s kitchen who can’t keep himself from touching your body, who couldn’t wait to make you his Mrs.; who’s love for you is so deep that your uncles had to fall back because they could tell almost instantly that Yahya was here to protect and honor you in a way that would have met your father’s expectations.

And you weren’t going to throw that away for Dave.

Aunt Jerri breaks up your gaze at Yahya. “Y’all two are staying the night, right?” It was only 6 PM, too early in the day to think that you two would be too drunk to get home. “I’m thinking about opening up the house tonight, you know, to celebrate y’all engagement.”

“Aunt Jerri, you what? You don’t let people in your house…”

Once the street lights come on and the barricades are picked up by the city, the block party moves from outside to inside two or three houses on the street. In years past, Aunt Jerri would never let her house become an “after-party” spot despite the protest of her family.

“I know, I know. But hey, I’m in a festive-ass mood and I want to celebrate y’all union since your mother didn’t want the hoodlum side of your family present.”

You wince at the brutal honesty of Aunt Jerri’s words. You cut a look at Yahya as he tries to stifle his laughter at Aunt Jerri’s opinion of your mother. He lifts up his hands in defense and apologizes by kissing your forehead.

“Let me talk with Yahya to see if we’re going to st-”

“We’re staying.” You cut another look at Yahya and this time he’s not relenting.

“Aww, yay! Let me get the guest room ready for you…”

You take an incredulous look at Yahya. The more you languished, the more chances you had to run into Dave. You loved your family but for the sake of your sanity, it was beyond time to leave.

“Yahya, babe. We don’t have to stay.”

“What? You’re tired of celebrating us?”

“Don’t do that to me… I just … there’s a reason why my Mom didn’t want Dad’s side of the family there, you know what I mean…” You remember your Dad’s funeral and the empty liquor bottle that almost hit your mom’s sister, Aunt Rachel. It wasn’t her fault that bottle went flying.

“Look, let’s stay for a while, sleep it off and leave first thing in the morning. Okay?” Yahya’s sweet kisses always changed your mind. You grin and bear it, yanking at the belt loop of his jeans. You are determined to hold onto him as long as you could.

As you soak in the rest of your private moment, Uncle Trace enters the kitchen with a bottle of Crown Royal in his hand. “Yo, Yah … come downstairs, man. Let’s rap right quick.” Yahya lets you go with ease and follows Trace downstairs to the basement.

“You smoke, Yah?”

“Not really, man. But it doesn’t bother me.”

Trace pulls two whiskey glasses from the downstairs bar and places them on top of the table. His pour is heavy and Yahya gulps in fear at how much of a drink he’s about to have with Uncle Trace. The fear still carries on throughout Yahya’s body.

“Y/N wanted me to talk to you and apologize, man.”

“No apologies necessary, Trace. I get it.”

“That little girl still has me wrapped around her finger, man. She damn near ran me over today because of you…” Yahya and Trace laugh and tap their glasses. “When my bro was in the hospital, I told him that I’d look out for her like she was my baby girl, you know? I had to see what was good with you. But you’re solid, my dude. Just know that protection doesn’t stop.”

As the day turns into night, the last man that Uncle Trace thought he protected from his niece sits mystified that you ignored his message. He knows you must be up here with the man that benefits from his absence. An absence he still can’t wrap his head around.

Dave peers out into the street as the barricades are lifted and the neighbors park their cars back into their designated spots. His brother, Pardi, is one of them.

“Yo, Dave. Miss Jerri’s is the after spot tonight? You comin’?”

There’s no such thing as leaving a person “on read” when they are right in your face.

Taglist: @yoursoulstea @harleycativy @twistedcharismaaa @dorkskinneded @need-my-fics @ghostfacekill-monger @writerbee-ffs @chaneajoyyy

#yahya abdul-mateen ii x reader #yahya abdul-mateen ii #dave east #dave east fic #fanfiction #old habits die hard

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lydiaclemence · 4 years

Text

September 11th, 2020

Today was a typical day for me. I consumed what I would have expected to on a normal day. I woke up groggy and drank some coffee, leaving me more energized for the day. Without a cup of coffee I usually remain tired and a pounding headache awaits. I then took my moped out, realizing it needed to be filled with gas so I drove to the gas station and consumed some gas of about $1.70 to fill the whole tank. I then sped off to the RecWell center to go workout. I consumed the music playing through my earbuds as I ran. Without the consumption of music my time there would feel less enjoyable and my run would feel more strenuous.

As I arrived back at my new home in Como, I began to get hungry. I haven’t truly gone grocery shopping yet so my options were slim. I had a cucumber my mom had given me from her garden and I had some rice. Not the most satisfying or fulfilling meal, but hey I’m in college and have very little money to spend. My stomach hurt a bit after, as I have a condition where I do not have enough stomach acid to break down a lot of foods. I take pills to add acid into my stomach to help with the digestive process. I proceeded to consume my pills which offered my stomach relief about 10-20 minutes after.

As all my roommates finished up class and I had finished up some homework, we all met downstairs to continue to work on setting up our new living and dining room. We shared our enjoyment of the new place and our excitement to get everything put together. We set up our speakers and all began to consume the upbeat music one of my roommates had put on. We all focused and moved furniture, hung up art, organized the kitchen and soon enough the rooms were complete. My roommate ran to the liquor store and we all sat in our new living room and enjoyed each others company as new roommates and consumed some cheap, sweet boxed Franzia wine that we all split the cost of. A good end to the day.

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zybnnct · 5 years

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minisugakoobies · 2 years

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Throwing it back to college. Your roommate drags you to a party she heard is going to be THE party of the year. I mean, how could you miss it?

You get there and it is the most random bunch of students you have ever seen. Not your scene but you’re horny so whose your mark for the night?

Jin - That weird 5th year senior who dances like a chicken having a seizure in the middle of the dance while Ginuwine’s "Pony" is on. He knows how to kill a vibe.

Yoongi - Smallest guy on the basketball team. Plays the mysterious card. He’s out back with his guitar singing “All Out of Love” by Air Supply off key. Loud and off key.

Hobi - First male head cheerleader and you can see why. He’s encouraging the sorority girls to compete in the backyard over who can make the better pyramid. Cheers whenever someone offers him a shot.

Namjoon - Known around campus as “The Uniballer”. Rumor has it that on move in day he got into a bike accident and lost one of his testicles. No one has been able to confirm but he is very protective over what’s down there and flinches whenever someone walks past.

Jimin - The Dean’s kid. You’ve seen him strike out all semester. Doesn’t understand hook up culture at all. You once overheard him try to entice someone by saying his parents are out of town so he can use the oven to defrost a pizza that night. Known to headbutt when going in for a kiss.

Taehyung - Brought his own box of Franzia to the party and says it is only for the Art History majors. And will only pour it into some sort of clear cups. Those red solo cups do not deserve his wine. Thinks every girl that speaks to him is looking for marriage. As soon as he learns their name, he's holding hands until the end of time.

Jungkook - The newest cheerleader recruit. Wears all back oversized clothing to the party and no one believes he’s a cheerleader until Hobi convinces him to do a cheer with him. Does a kick ass tumbling routine down the sidewalk.

-Bloobs-

Wow, okay, my roommate really has her ear to the ground on campus, huh? I can work with this motley crew.

Jin sounds like an absolute hoot on the dance floor, but his moves don't exactly reassure me that I'm in for a good time later. Pass.

I'm not sure that I'd get very far with poor Namjoon. As curious as I am about those rumors, I'm never going to get an answer if he's blocking the tackle the whole time.

Jimin's fortunate that he has that face to help him overcome his absolutely atrocious game. But I'm looking for a hookup with the least possible risk of bodily harm. Keep the headbutts to yourself, sir.

I dig artist Taehyung's vibe. BYO Box of Wine? Sure, why not? But he sounds like a stage 5 clinger and I'm not trying to find a fiancé tonight.

Head cheerleader Hobi is tempting! But he seems competitive, like he'd turn our hookup into some sort of contest and frankly, I'm not sure I could keep up with his energy. I know my limits.

Jungkook might be less intense? And perhaps easy to convince to, uh, perform. I am definitely keeping an eye on this one in case my first pick doesn't pan out.

Because LOOK. I'm into the mysterious loners with the offbeat energy. Bonus if they play a guitar. Also "I'm All Out of Love" is a jam and I don't care if he's offkey, he's singing his way right into my pants heart.

#asks #bloobs 🫐#ot7 #college party

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