blood and bones,
bones and blood.
Reblogged from coffeeandcheesecake
“party rock is in the house tonight,” I sing quietly to myself as I lie in bed on a Saturday night and open another tab of fanfiction
Best (most accurate) text post I’ve read on Tumblr.
Reblogged from hitrecordjoe
Text by JulesKD
==
“I see you have fine taste,”
the Wolf said, eyeing my basket of flowers,
“step off of the path, if you’d like to,
and we’ll while away a few hours.”
-
“Don’t do it!” the Huntsman cried out,
“Think of your honor, your virtue!
He’s a jerk, you don’t know any better.
Come with me, and I never will hurt you.”
-
A typical Nice Guy, the Huntsman:
his aim is to own and defeat me
“Wolf,” I said, “you want what I want,
so get on your knees then, and eat me.”
==
(Source: hitrecord)
Reblogged from shannoncates
“Beauty and the Beast, or Stockholm Syndrome”
The Enchanted Doll
Marin Bychkova
Reblogged from decaying-organic-matter
Gabriel Zaid, So Many Books (via distantheartbeats)
Reblogged from iamthemagicks
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.
"Reblogged from suburbancinderella
George R.R. Martin (via mirroir)
(Source: decaying-organic-matter)
