Questionable Ethics - Tumblr Posts

After decades of painstaking and often lethal breeding experiments, the Harper Government has successfully weaponised the Canada Goose. Formerly docile and agreeable, these newly-vicious terrors are capable of skeletonising an adult cow in under three minutes. While some may question the wisdom of unleashing migratory bioweapons upon an unsuspecting planet, everyone can agree that Canada can no longer be ignored on the world stage.

My weird... Happenchance moments.

So my Dad is visiting this weekend, he usually comes up twice a year. Unfortunately we're right in the Onstage for my first show and I'm working non stop.

Between my matinee Understudy and my evening Onstage I have exactly two and a half hours. It takes half an hour to get home, and half an hour back, leaving an hour and a half to grab supper together.

I decide to take Niagara Stone Road out of NotL, which I 99% of the time avoid like the plague. It has several different speed limit areas, three school zones, stop lights, intersections, residential driveways, flat open fields with huge cross winds, a roundabout, and nonstop tourists trying to get back to the QEW and having no idea how.

On the map it's more direct. In practice, less so. But for whatever reason I decide to try it today.

So I'm stuck behind confused cars going "why the HELL did I go this way?" and everyone's backed up waiting to make left turns at the intersection light in Virgil, and that's when I spot this little guy.

Stunned. Hunkered against the ground. Beak open panting. One eye scrunched shut. Sopping wet in the rain. Dead centre of the roads.

Being completely aggressive when it comes to protecting innocent life, I immediately pull over and storm back into the middle of the streets. You want to go? You're gonna have to go through me.

Cradling the little guy in my gloves, I get him back to the sidewalk, but he's far too wet and dazed to determine how injured he is. Now... The responsible circle of life option would probably have been to stick him in a bush and hope for the best.

But. I also grew up in the heyday of Disney Channel "children adopt an injured wild animal and nurse it back to health". I make a snap decision to get him home and let him rest and warm up. But also fearful that birds can stress out very easily? Well. I'd plucked him from certain death, if he could hold out through the trip home, I'd do my best. Also the NC750X has a built in trunk.

Back at home, a light paper towel dry, some seed and water offerings, and he was bright eyed, suspicious, and flying around the bathroom in no time.

Health apparent and senses restored, the best option seemed to be "put him right back in the area I found him," so Dad shows up and I'm like "No time for food, we're helpin' a birb!!" Sparrow goes in a box and us goes in a truck and truck goes back to Virgil and, welp;

I dunno how to rotate that. Oh well. Better at riding bikes than writing blogs.

Yah for not dead Sparra Warrior!

“There is no right and wrong. Just good and evil.”

kinda awful but I tried my best. happy birthday to our favorite sociopath.

read from the beginning on AO3 or FFN!

patricide is like falling in love (tom riddle, probably)

~inspired by a moodboard thing I saw on here where TMR says murder is like falling in love~

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

“You are my son,” Tom Riddle chokes out, his gaze roving helplessly over his dead parents’ bodies as he clutches a crucifix, dangling from a small silver chain. 

His voice is wrecked from the pain.

Weak. 

“I made you. You’re a monster.”

Tom laughs. “No one made me, father. I made me.” He feels his head tilt, his eyes focus. “You’re sixteen years too late to claim me, now. You left me. I came for you. You see?”

“Your mother bewitched me!”

“That may be so,” says Tom, twirling Morfin’s wand and laughing as his father shrinks back. “She’s dead. Died giving birth to me. In Wool’s Orphanage, London. My poor, dead mother stumbled into the orphanage, weak and starving on the coldest night of the year. They couldn’t stop the bleeding or the fever, and she only lived long enough to name me.”

“I’m sorry,” says his father, though Tom doesn’t want his pity. He hates pity. He hates his pathetic, neglectful, sobbing father.

How could two weak people produce him?

“This is wrong, Tom!”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Shakespeare.” Tom points his wand at the battered copy of Hamlet on the bookshelf, laughing. It catches on fire.

“What do you want?” He sounds tired.

“Nothing much, father,” says Tom sweetly. His father, who left him, like everyone else. His father will never read him a bedtime story or wipe the sweat away from his face when he is sick or hold him when he is sad. (Not that he needs any of those things — he doesn’t.)

His father is the reason he is broken. Broken from birth.

It doesn’t matter, because Tom is something better than human now. (There is only power.)

“Daddy,” he says, like a small child. He has never said the word before, and it rolls off of his tongue with surprising difficulty — the agile tongue that pronounces Parseltongue, Latin and Arabic spells, and Ogham runic chants with ease. “Why did you leave me?”

“She bewitched me — she lied to me, you don’t understand how violated—“

“I want to see the light leave your eyes,” whispers Tom, in a tone that befits a love confession more than a death threat. “I hate you.”

“I grieve for your soul,” says his father, trembling with fear. “Repent, demon. Show some remorse, for your own sake!”

But Tom doesn’t intend to meet judgment. Tom intends to live forever.

He is burning, burning, he has never burned like this, he is so full of exquisite hatred that aches so good, and all Tom has to do is to let it all go.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Now, Tom is sitting on the floor in the Riddles’ dining room. He is running his fingers through his dead father’s hair, handsome, just like him, admiring his frozen, horrified expression. 

Tom sits in his grandfather’s chair and cradles his dead father, like the Pietà, with two more dead bodies strewn at his feet. His head tilts gracefully down, mimicking the Virgin Mary’s silent compassion and suffering, but feeling none of it. Tom Riddle is gone. He is dead. Tom lays his head on his father’s chest, but there is no more heartbeat, no more breath.

His brown eyes, just like his son’s, blown wide with fear. Lips parted in surrender. 

He leans forward and kisses his father’s forehead sweetly, presses two chaste, cold lips to still-warm skin, like a priest’s blessing. 

The twilight sky is darkening, turning dark violet like ink has spilled on it.

It is beautiful. It is perfect, yet the despair is not gone. His heart still beats with anguish, and Tom Riddle is left more broken than ever and aching for more.

It is like falling in love.