Off we go!

Off we go!

the-candy-van:

↳ Kenna asked: Teen Titans or Young Justice

There is good and there is evil. There are those who commit crimes, and those who stop them. The two sides are opposite, as different as day and night, and the line between them is clear. Or at least it’s supposed to be.


Athena

Athena

shybooklover:

You’ll never hate the Percy Jackson movies like Rick Riordan hates them

aquaticwonder:

Paris in the rain | Christophe Jacrot

petitetiaras:

Disney movie posters come to life. 

thedandyunderworld:

Probably one of the best costumes from the con that I’ve seen.

thedandyunderworld:

Probably one of the best costumes from the con that I’ve seen.

officiallesmiz:

A snapshot from the wings as the Students take to the street.

officiallesmiz:

A snapshot from the wings as the Students take to the street.

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault they’re dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your lover is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault they’re dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your lover is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

The Phantom of the Opera
Jeremy Secomb and Harriet Jones

wanderingchildofthebarricades:

stilldriftingoffalone:

thartwell:

stilldriftingoffalone:

The title song from today’s matinee. Needless to say I was surrounded by very confused tourists. It was definitely an experience I’m never going to forget. I felt so bad, especially for Jeremy who sang all of his bits despite his mic not being turned up until ‘In all your fantasies’, but all I could do was laugh.

I didn’t do touch my phone or anything, this is exactly how it sounded in the theatre. 

The Phantom of the Opera - Jeremy Secomb and Harriet Jones, 21st August 2014 Matinee

Wait, isn’t this the number that’s always pre-recorded (‘cause the real actors don’t show up until the boat comes in)? So it seems like this would be a technician fuck-up rather than anything to do with the mics.

Why yes this song is the pre recorded one, but the technicians failed to raise the mics of the performers so they could then be heard singing it live. Jeremy sang the entirety of his part live but could not really be heard until his mic was raised near the end of the song, along with Harriet’s. The mics are also operated by the technicians so something clearly went wrong on their part.

I don’t think it’s a matter of the board ops forgetting to turn on their mics. That’s something they would have figured out, and turned on after a line or two. There’s someone always at the board in shows like this, so it seems more like the mics stopped working altogether, as well as the pre recorded parts.

asylum-art:

Photographs and Watercolors Merge in Surreal Paintings by Aliza Razell

Using self-portrait photographs and watercolors, artist Aliza Razell has been exploring several abstract narratives by merging the two mediums in Photoshop. Her first series, Anesidora , involves the story of Pandora’s Jar (Pandora’s box was actually a jar, a detail misinterpreted in the 1400s), while the second is inspired by the Finnish word ikävä, meaning the feeling of missing someone or something. You can see much more of her work over on Flickr, and you might interested to know Razell is the older sister of young photgorapher Fiddle Oak, featured here last year.

musicaltheatreramblings:

"No moon, no wind - nothing to spy things by.  No wave, no swell; no line where sea meets sky…"
Titanic, the musical 

musicaltheatreramblings:

"No moon, no wind - nothing to spy things by.  No wave, no swell; no line where sea meets sky…"

Titanic, the musical 

koujakuandthediamonds:

the worst is when you’re reading a really good book that follows multiple characters’ stories and you love it 90% of the time until it periodically switches back to that one character’s story that you just could not care less about and it’s like an entire chapter of internal groaning while waiting for the plot to switch back to a character you actually care about