Jun. 27th, 2017

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As promised, my last night on the farm, when I heard the rain falling and could glimpse the weird gold light through my net curtain door. Photos all taken from the same place; the last thing I did was turn and try to capture how golden the light through the trees was behind the ger. 

The floral vinyl tablecloth I’m using as a door is not the most hashtag-aesthetic thing, but it’s serviceable. 

All photos taken with a D7100 and a 10.5mm fisheye lens, because the ones I took at 17mm with my usual 17-50 were not adequate. Sometimes you just gotta be overdramatic with landscape shots, y’know?
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Ms. Marvel (2014)  // Marvel Comics

Yusuf Khan, Ms. Marvel (Kamala Khan)’s dad

Story: G. Willow Wilson, art Jacob Wyatt

Get Ms. Marvel series here

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Pouring rain, bright sunshine, really long traffic light, Transit Rd.
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She makes the poppet on the anniversary of her brother’s death. She’s not much for sewing so she makes it out of paper, two gingerbread men cut out and their edges harshly, cruelty stapled together. She writes the murderer’s vices on its arms, his name on the head, and her hatred like arrows over the heart. She gives it googly eyes so he can see inside what’s happening even if he doesn’t know it for true. 

 She stuffs her creation with yarrow and rue, red pepper and rusted metal, dragon’s blood and small chips of garnet so filled with her hatred that they feel even colder to the touch. Then she seals it with another snap of the stapler. 

Thinks for a moment and drags a needle through witch’s salt and crushed red pepper and drives it straight through the poppet’s stomach. 

 Think of me, she curses, twisting the needle. Think of me and be afraid.


Mistrial. That’s what happens when a case is too clear cut. The good people who want to help move too quickly and forget the little things. Warrants. Miranda Rights. A licensed attorney.

Little things.

She wasn’t willing to wait another year for justice. Each day of this one has inflamed her roots, brought magic flaming to her fingertips, has put death in her eyes.

She won’t live until the next jury is selected if she doesn’t get this out of her and into him.


There are potions of invisibility, creams that encourage eyes to slide from physical form, chants that, when hissed, make the chanter seem like air.

Jails are a magicless place for witches like her. Too much stagnation, pain and fear. She’s not built for it so she buttons her aura down, locks her senses to her bones, and asks to visit Henry Stevens. 

“Alright,” the guard says, eyeing her bloodless face and the small package in her hands. “But he may not agree to see you. That been through security?” He nods to her paper parcel.

“Yes,” she says. There’s a secrecy rune on the inside of the wrapping paper, encouraging sensors to overlook the metal. “But it’s not staying.”

The guard nods and disappears, speaking softly into the phone. She doesn’t try to catch the words, just lets her eyes skip from ghost to ghost that litter this place.

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Oh gosh. I think my cross-posting from Tumblr thing is kind of a disaster and I am sort of sorry, probably nobody follows me on here anymore because it does look so ugly and posts so much! But it nearly killed me trying to set it up, and i have no real idea how to fix it or make it stop. Ugh.

I thought I should look on here again, though, because of the latest Tumblr fracas over net neutrality. I should get back into the habit of writing personal updates on here instead of Tumblr; people read over there, but it's so hard to keep up in return.

Anyway. I was going to do a long personal update but I just looked at my page and was sort of ashamed at all the gross crossposts on here, and now I have to go and think about that.

I need to do so much mental house cleaning and I don't know where to start. Oh well! Here I am, I'm still alive, I'm trying to focus, oh well.
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I was incredibly privileged today to meet Joy Lofthouse, 94, who flew Spitfires in World War 2 as part of the Air Transport Auxiliary, one of the vaunted ‘Spitfire Ladies’ and a hero and inspiration to all ladies everywhere, especially budding pilots. She’s a patron of the charity I support and volunteer for, and came as part of our Veteran’s Day today, to visit with us, drink tea and admire the beautiful Spitfire that did a flyby and landed for us all to have a gander at (the Spitfire itself flew 143 sorties during the war, including D-Day).

I was lucky enough to have 20 minutes or so sat with Joy on the flightline, watching the Spit refuel before it came over to us. Her memory was astounding; we spoke in detail about her wartime experiences as if it had all happened yesterday. 

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