at The Depot - FBC Ruston
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

JVL
d e v o n

Love Begins
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KIROKAZE

Discoholic đȘ©
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

ç„æ„ / Permanent Vacation

Janaina Medeiros
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă
taylor price
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đȘŒ
noise dept.
I'd rather be in outer space đž
Show & Tell
trying on a metaphor
Cosimo Galluzzi
hello vonnie

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@gracie-melba
at The Depot - FBC Ruston
Excerpt from my latest post, "Who are You?" Head over to my blog (crazychristianityblog.wordpress.com) to check it out. #crazychristianity #christiansofinstagram #christianblogger
Excerpt from "Pawns." Go to the link in my bio and head over to my blog for the rest. Posts are under My Ramblings
Quote from my latest post, "Inconstant." Go check it out on my blog! #crazychristianity #christiansofinstagram #christianblogger
Assassin AUs
1.     âWait, youâve been hired to killthis guy too?!â AU
2.     âMy apologies, upon closer inspection it turns out that you are not the person I was hired to kill.â AU
3.     âI havenât decided if Iâm actually going to kill you yet but first, either way, what did you DO to piss off the Canadians so badly.â AU
4.     âThey never told me the target was also a trained killer. Did they tell you?â AU
5.     âIâm meant to kill you but Iâve been watching you for a week to work out how and youâre just too nice.â AU
6.     âIâm intrigued; the last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.â AU
7.     âAll my intel said youâre not meant to be back until next week and Iâm sitting here using your flat as a sniper nest to kill a bad guy. This is awkward.â AU
8.     âI can only assume weâre both missing part of the story here because that was supposed to kill you.â AU
9.     âDude, you just shot my arm off. Do they not hire assassins with an aim anymore?â AU
10. âExplain to me one more time, why exactly are you so desperate to buy this much Ricin?â AU
11. âSo let me get this straight. You nuked my entire home city and you still didnât manage to kill me?â AU
12. âDude, no. If you kill me that just leaves you, the crazy guy and the CAT!â AU
13. âI donât know who you are or how you got in here but I need you to give back at least some of the armoury.â AU
14. âHaving drawn the short straw Iâm the guy who has to explain to you why we canât take out a hit on an entire landmass.â AU
15. âLook, I know we got off on the wrong foot back there but we are literally the only two people on this boat who are not assassins, soâŠâ AU
A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.
Italo Calvino, The Uses of Literature (via quotethat)
Stood Up
He stuck out like a rose in a briar patch. His hair was white blonde, his skin was the color of snow, and his eyes were the bright blue often associated with ice. Even his suit matched his appearance. The coat, shirt, and slacks were all ivory, and his tie and vest were the same color as his eyes.Â
But that wasnât the strangest thing about him.
The strangest thing was that only the bartender seemed to be able to see him. He kept the strange manâs glass full of whiskey, yet the man didnât seem to be getting drunk or even tipsy. The man straightened his tie and unbuttoned his coat, then glanced around the bar. His blue eyes lost their shine, and he finally turned back to face the bar.Â
âI donât think sheâs coming,â he mumbled.Â
âYou been waitinâ on a girl?â the bartender asked.Â
The man nodded, picking up his glass. The glass frosted at his touch, and the whiskey turned to slush when it met his lips. He sighed.Â
âShe knows how hard it is for me to come here. Why would she ask to meet me if she was going to stand me up?â
The bartender frowned in sympathy. âIâm sorry, man.âÂ
The man sighed again and looked around the bar a second time. His eyes settled on two men that had just entered. The glass of whiskey slipped from his hand and hit the floor.Â
âAw, man, I understand youâre --â the bartender started.Â
âShe wouldnât . . .â the man whispered. âI have to leave.â
He jumped off the bar stool, and the two men caught sight of him. They moved through the crowd as if it were nonexistent. The white-haired man stopped in his tracks. He had to dissipate. His fingers started turning to snow, and the two men lunged at him. They tackled him to the ground.Â
âYou arenât getting away from us this time, snow nymph,â one of the men said.Â
They hauled the snow nymph to his feet, binding his hands with rope that made his skin sizzle and burn. As they escorted him out of the bar, no one saw and no one noticed.Â
No one except the bartender.
Nature: it brings out the weirdest in people!
20 Surprising Origins Of Famous Pop Culture Ideas
This is not a prompt, but I find it interesting to read about where other people find inspiration.Â
Vex. To cause someone to feel annoyed, frustrated, or worried. Example: You take delight in vexing me by deliberately using bad grammar. Portmanteau. A large suitcase or trunk that opens into two equal parts. Example: That portmanteau will not fit in the overhead bin and must...
Criminal Activities
I glared at my captors with a mix of disdain and boredom. They had caught the great elven assassin.Â
Good for them.Â
I couldnât care less. I knew that one day I would get caught. All the best criminals do eventually. The fact that my kind are immortal just means that the longer I live, the closer I get to being caught.Â
And then that day came.Â
It wasnât quite as I had pictured. My captors acted far more ⊠civilized than I had imagined. Hence my boredom. The least they could do was make fools of themselves in the attempt to capture me.Â
One of my captors shoved me towards a horse, barking at me to mount. I held up my shackled wrists and jangled the chain, indicating that it would be rather difficult to follow his orders. He glared at me, and for a moment I thought he would unlock the cuffs. Then, to my loud protests, I was grabbed like a sack of potatoes and thrown over the saddle. My boredom turned to rage. I may be a criminal, but I was a well-respected one. They could at least show some common courtesy.Â
My horse lurched beneath me, and our convoy was off. I waited, knowing what was soon to happen. There was a shout from the front of the convoy, and my horse stopped. Men started falling left and right, and a smile spread across my face. A small figure dropped down from the trees in front of me. She unlocked my chains, and I slid off the horse. A warm smile replaced my previous maniacal one. I kissed my daughter on the forehead and pulled a hunting knife from one of the prone bodies of my deceased captors.Â
âA prize in honor of your first ambush,â I said.Â
She smiled and hugged my waist.Â
âYou were not a moment too soon, my dear.âÂ
The Knitter
woops I accidentally wrote a background fic for the knitter my badâŠ
Rohan lived with his grandmother. She took care of him since his parentsâ death. Really, they took care of each other. And they were happy. Gram taught her young ward many things. Firstly, she taught him the art of knitting.
               âItâs the best pastime one could hope for. Nothing is more calming and pleasing than the feel of cool needles and warm yarn in your hands.â
               Rohan began only wanting to please him grandmother, not to mention the ability to make handmade gifts fairly easily, but he soon grew to love the hobby as much as his guardian did. He would often storm home from school, made upset by something childish that had happened, and soothed his spirits by sitting in front of the warm fire with his knitting. One such day, Gram asked him what had happened.
               âThe people at school teased me. They think Iâm different and called me mean names. They called me a girl! I donât see what the problem with knitting is. Itâs art! Itâs beautiful!â The needles clacked and snapped together, as if echoing his words, seeming to understand and reflect his anger.
               âThey only want to tease you because they want a common enemy. Nothing brings people together like a common enemy. It saves them needing to hate each other if they can band together to hate someone else. Donât worry about being different, my love. Itâs a compliment. It keeps you on a higher plane than them. Theyâll never know your true talent and that is their loss. All you lose is friendship with people who would bring you nothing but heartache. Chin up, love. Itâll get better in time. Some of the most important and beautiful things have happened because someone was different. So be proud. Stand tall. You may just be important one day.â Her words wrapped around him like an oversized sweater, filling him with comfort. From that day on, he was never ashamed to bring his needles or wear the things he made to school. The boy was born with a natural philanthropic quality, and would often donate hand-knit blankets, scarves, and sweaters to charities or school fundraisers. Despite, or perhaps because of, his cunning intelligence, he always somehow managed to find trouble, getting into scrape after scrape. He didnât have many friends and was often picked on by other students, sparking his rebellious attitude and often prompting him to strike back. They soon learned to leave him alone. However, he would always return home to his grandmotherâs accepting arms, and feel better about everything, and she related a proverb. âI know youâre special, Ro. I know you can change the world someday. Those others, theyâll just grow up continuing to seek attention wherever they go. Theyâll never function in this world. But you are different. Even when the whole world seems against you, as long as you remain true to who you are no one can stop you. Youâll be great.â
               Gram took care of him. Gram always took care of him. Later, he began to take care of her, too. When she started getting headaches, he got a job at a craft shop so she wouldnât have to work. When her hearing started to go, he sold scarves at a corner market, and saved up for hearing aids. More things cropped up, but they were never anything they couldnât handle. They were unstoppable. Until he found out that she wasnât. The tumor was malignant. There was nothing the doctors could do, it was too far along. Soon she would lose her sight, her balance, and begin to experience cognitive impairment. He was told to make the best of the next month r two. They were given pills to help the pain and the vomiting. He began to read cleaning columns and did housework, and became skilled at cleaning up sick without leaving a stain or smell. He started selling his knitwork full time so he could quit his job, because he couldnât leave her at home alone anymore. He did everything he could to ensure her safety when he wasnât there. Eventually she went in to the hospital and didnât leave. He had taken up knitting small stuffed animals, to sell to children, called Knittens. He made her a special one just for Gram and it never left her side. She said at one point that it almost felt alive. She never stopped telling him how proud she was. She knew he was capable of living life, going on, keeping up, without her. He knew he wasnât. Several days later, she passed away in the night. She had written him a note and wrapped a small package addressed to him, instructing him not to open it until the time came. He had desperately wanted to open it before, to thank her, to respond to it while he still could. But he respected her wishes. He couldnât not respect her wishes. So now he did. The note was everything you could expect. She told him he could do it. She told him he could probably live off his knitwork. The final thought was, âyou can do anything if you just set your mind to it. Now go and create.â He carefully peeled open the package and reached inside. They were knitting needles. Not just any knitting needles, the most beautiful ones he had seen, along with a big ball of beautiful multicolored yarn. They practically glowed.  On a small slip of paper wrapped around them was written in spidery cursive, âTo Rohan. These have been in my family for generations upon generations. Use them well and theyâll use you well. Now go change the world.â
               Rohan was slipping. It had been several weeks. He couldnât get a job. He couldnât sell anything. Heâd been grieving, and hadnât been able to bring himself to use the needles yet. In a fit of anguish he threw out all his work, along with his well-worn needles, and went to bed, sobbing himself to sleep yet again. It was the third time that week.
               It wasnât until the night before market day he realized what he had done. All his work- gone! He didnât have anything to even try to sell and he was running dangerously low on money. How could he be so stupid! Gram would never have let this happen. He rushed to find his needles and make something, anything, to sell, so he wouldnât have to beg. Stupid stupid stupid! Heâd thrown out his needles! He snatched the needles and yarn Gram had given him out of his desk and began to furiously make at least one small Knitten, as those were the best sellers. As he worked, the needles seemed to take a personality of their own. He let them lead him and watched his fingers work, and the needles catch the light and reflect it in their glossy black surface. Again, they seemed to practically glow. This was the fastest heâd ever done anything in his life. Finally, the Knitten was finished and the needles fell to the floor with a clatter. It was the strangest looking thing he had ever seen in his life. Misshapen, bulgy, limbs all askew. He threw it to the ground and accepted his fate of destitution. He was ruined. This would never sell. Nothing would ever sell again. Then he heard it- a vague growling noise. He looked up. There was nothing. And yet he could still hear it. Finally he felt something tap the back of his leg and turned around. It couldnât be. It was. The Knitten was moving. It was making noises. It was alive. And⊠he was crazy. Destition drove him to insanity. He took it out, struggling with it all the way, to put it in the wastebin near the sidewalk and heard a screech. A bystanding woman pointed to his hand.
               âWhat is that thing? Is it ALIVE?! What is it?!â
Rohan was taken aback and before he could respond, the Knitten snarled and ran toward the woman, climbing up her and biting and scratching and flailing, or trying to, with it toothless mouth and clawless paws.
               âNo, Stop! Donât!â He cried out. The Knitten fell to the ground, sheepishly shuffling back toward Rohan and the woman ran away, sobbing and screaming. Rohan shuffled back into his house. Itâs not fair, he thought as he examined his abomination. Why, why me? Why does everything have to happen to me? Is it because Iâm âdifferent,â like Gram always said? Well, thatâs just dandy. Different people have to eat too. What am I supposed to do, scare people into giving me money and food?
               Realization dawned. He could scare people into giving him money and food. He very seriously could. He had needles and yarn. The creature seemed to obey him and he could always make more. He could do anything. In fact, I could have anything I wanted. I could be rich. I could get rid of the bad people, the mean people, too. After all, Gram said theyâd never function in society. All those years being picked on. Now itâs my turn to do the picking and I pick the going-to-change-the-world option. Iâm going to be important. I can do anything. I can be anyone. I can be great. Iâm unstoppable, Gram, Iâm unstoppable for you! All those people who wanted a common enemy, well theyâve got one now. I was never good enough for them. Well letâs see how they like⊠The Knitter! Â
yes im a boy
yes i knit things
This guy should be some crazy DC villainâŠ
OH MY GOD YES PLEASE.
oh god someone do this
FERNACULAR
GET ON IT
I think Iâll call him⊠THE KNITTER!
He robs banks with the help of his little quilted monsters
can anyone put an end to his reign of warm and cozy terror!?
âŠneedâŠto writeâŠrisingâŠ
The key to the Hobby Lobby slid into the lock without any complaint as she locked up for the night, her blue shirt seeming darker in the evening light. Being the last one out of the store was sometimes a pain, sometimes a fun experience. It was always fun knowing that she had the key that could let her into the store whenever she wanted to, but even more fun was the thought of things she could do if she ever took that chance.
Moving flowers into the yarn section? Fabrics into floral? Woodwork into textiles? Paint over some of the signs? Oh, the mayhem at her disposal if she ever got bored enough to do it!
She chuckled slightly, slipping the key back into her pocket and beginning to turn, when a sharp object was placed to her throat, point against her jugular. She froze, barely daring to breathe.
Is this a⊠knitting needle?
âOpen the store.â the voice is harsh, right next to her ear. âNow.â
Hands shaking, she pulls the key back out of her pocket.
âSlowly.â
She slips it back into the lock, turning it and unlocking the door. âI-Is there something I can help you with, sir, the store usually closes at eightââ
âBe quiet.â the tip of the knitting needle pressed more against her jugular, causing slight pain to pulse with her heartbeat, ââŠbut now that I think of it, yes, you can help me with something.â the voice is far too amused for her liking as sheâs pushed into the store, hands being tugged behind her back byâ
Yarn. Moving on its own. Tying around her wrists tightly enough to cut off circulation, she feels more of it wrap around her neck as the needle leaves, and lets out a small whimper. Whoever this is, he can move yarn to do whatever he wants and heâs leading her to the section thatâs full of it.
The yarn holds her still, wrapped around her ankles and keeping them from moving, keeps her head turned toward him as he steps around her into the yarn section, chuckling under his breath in an all too satisfied way. Sheâs forced to watch as he raises his hands, a knitting needle in one and another in his mouth. The yarn all around him leaps up, untangles itself, loops around him like so many tiny, hypnotized snakes before slipping together, weaving itself into new forms â tiny woven monsters.
He leads the new army out of the store, the yarn forcing her to walk with him, twisting around her jaw until it all but covers her mouth and nose. Itâs a miracle she can breathe. âNow, my dearâŠâ he looks at the name tag on her chest, âElissa⊠intriguing name. Would you be a dear and join me for a bit of fun?â
She canât speak, and he knows she canât speak, but the look of terror in her eyes must be enough to make him laugh. He moves the knitting needles again, more strands of yarn curling up and around her neck, like a scarf. âYouâre going to be my insurance.â he almost purrs the word, and itâs only then that she realizes where the yarn is leading her, forcing her to walk. The bank around the corner.
âSo you know~â he almost sounds conversational. âIf anything, anything goes wrong, the yarn around your neck will tighten enough to ensure your head comes off.â And with that lovely thought placed in her head, he lets the yarn leave her mouth.
âWhyâŠ?â she asks weakly,forced to keep walking beside him.
âWhy?â he repeats, before laughing, âWhy not?â
Wat is happening
Why Spider-Man is a city person.
Me: I don't want to go to school anymore (step-dad makes some disgruntled noise) Until August comes around.
Little sister: That sneaky August.
Earth provides enough to satisfy every manâs needs, but not every manâs greed.
Mahatma Gandhi (via quotethat)