The thing about this is, you can barely see their muscles straining from effort. The effort to keep each other and themselves balanced, definitely, but that guy’s hand is barely shaking. The amount of training and strength and balance to go into this is fucking insane.
Exquisite Miniature Hand Blown Glass Vessels and Scientific Instruments by Kiva Ford
Glass artist Kiva Ford is known for his expertise in constructing miniature glass sculptures, which include scientific equipment, glasses, bottles and stunning vase pieces. With a degree in Scientific Glassblowing, Ford has mastered his technique in creating  complex glass instruments for scientist’s use.
Each delicate sculpture is a one-of-a-kind design, which is manipulated with precision and dedication. Influenced by his interests in history, mythology, and the natural world, Ford miniature sculptures hold the elegance of modern art, as well as the architecture and scientific aspects of anatomy. He often encases replicas of human organs into his ethereal glass sculptures, which mimic the process of harvesting organs. The juxtaposition between art and science create an intriguing product.
Simultaneously edgy and soft, Ford’s intriguing designs can be found in his Etsy shop.
Or - the Harry Potter AU that no one asked for wherein the Marauders Era and the stories we all grew to love are meshed so far together that the lines blur (Or the one where James is Harry’s older brother instead of father, and we explore how this effects the story).
James got his Hogwarts letter at the same time as everyone else his age - on his 11th birthday and delivered by an owl that landed droppings from the sky about two centimeters from his nose. Aunt Madeline was very much not happy with it and said they were to have nothing of the sort. Uncle Randolf had chortled so loudly his mustache almost fell off his large, beefy cheeks, clapped James so hard on the back he stumbled forward, and wiped tears from his eyes. "You lot? Special? Going to a 'magic school'?" He asked with a sneering laugh.
Part 1 of ?
I.
James got his Hogwarts letter at the same time as everyone else his age - on his 11th birthday and delivered by an owl that landed droppings from the sky about two centimeters from his nose. Aunt Madeline was very much not happy with it and said they were to have nothing of the sort. Uncle Randolf had chortled so loudly his mustache almost fell off his large, beefy cheeks, clapped James so hard on the back he stumbled forward, and wiped tears from his eyes. "You lot? Special? Going to a 'magic school'?" He asked with a sneering laugh. "All right, boy." He downed another sip of brandy, an empty bottle of the stuff already at his feet. "You send that letter back saying you'll go. But they gotta pick ya up for it. I ain't buyin' you shit, you little bastard."
James's cousin, Erik had pressed his nose against the television screen so flat that it made his face look like a pancake but Harry, James's little brother, had looked at him with wide green eyes as if to ask if it was true. James had shrugged in a manner that said that he had no idea and stuffed the letter into his too big jeans pocket and shuffled across the kitchen floor to help Harry with the steaming dinner. The pot holders had holes in them and James would rather he got the burns on his hands than Harry. James at least healed faster.
"Is it true, Jamie?" Harry asked quietly. "A magic school?" Harry was a little too young to understand that magic wasn't real. James didn't know how to tell him, actually. He usually just turned over in bed whenever Harry started whispering wishes that some unknown relative would come and whisk them away from their aunt and uncle's house. Why ruin Harry's happy delusions that there was something wonderful in the world? He'd gladly keep Harry ignorant to their terrible reality until he physically could not anymore.
"I'm not sure, Harry." But this... this was something almost too ridiculous for James to encourage. What would happen when Harry was eleven years old? Would he expect the same letter with his name written in green scrolling ink across the front? What would he do when he didn't receive it? James could not encourage this.
But, still, there was an inkling of hope in the pit of his stomach. A fluttering of maybe, just maybe, they could finally make it out of the Dung's home one day.
And if maybe he spent that night curled up under the covers with a stamped letter back to this mysterious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry underneath his pillow that night, with Harry curled up and sleeping soundly and warm beside him, James would say nothing of it the day later.
“when i feel it it’s like i’m looking into the heart of an immense darkness. [so what do you do instead?] i look for my friends…”
“…i don’t know what to do…. i don’t think anyone does. maybe that’s why no one’s really talking to each other. sometimes we don’t even notice each other.”
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theartofmadeline
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