comic-book-horror

anonymous asked:

class 1-a favorite book genre?

Bakugou: Mystery series. Things he can just jump in and out of whenever he feels like it.

Izuku: Autobiographies about heroes.

Tsuyu: Childrens books. She likes finding things to read to her siblings.

Iida: Fantasy.

Uraraka: Romance.

Todoroki: Comic books, he’s not allowed to have them at home so being able to safely keep them at UA makes him so happy.   

Kirishima: Not much of a reader but likes newspapers and magazines   

Momo: Science/engineering books. Things she can learn from to help her learn understand how things are made.  

Kaminari ,an intellectual: Classics, plays poetry. Anything that catches his eye. He spent a lot of time alone as a child so he waded his way through his parents book collection.  

Sero: Comic books

Tokoyami: Gothic horror. Fuck you quoth the raven.

Jirou: Music theory/grade books.

Hagakure: Shojou manga

Mina: Whatever Hagakure and Uraraka are reading!

Ojiro: Science fiction.

Satou: Cookbooks, particularly anything about desserts.

Aoyama: Fanfiction

Kouda: Children’s books and veterinary books.

Mother’s Day

My mother despises Mother’s Day. As a child, I remember her telling me that it was just a cheap absolution; payment for a year’s neglect in Hallmark platitudes and supermarket chocolates. As a result, I never dared send her a card, or make her a Mother’s Day gift at school (although once I wrote her a poem, which she still keeps hidden in her jewellery-box, along with some other keepsakes I’m not supposed to know about).

But my mother is contradictory. Deeply romantic in her way, she hates the trappings of romance. Red roses; Valentine’s Day; anything smacking of cliché. But she does like romantic comedies; Fifties musicals; scented candles; crooners; ball-gowns; poppy fields. Perhaps it’s something to do with being French; living in a part of the world where, after over fifty years, she is still an outsider. Not that she cares; my mother has never been one to conform to the expectations of others.

My parents met in France, where my father, who was training to be a teacher, was on a placement from University. My mother, too, was a teacher, and at first there was some resistance from the family to the idea of her marrying an Englishman. No-one in the family spoke English; even my mother had only the few phrases she remembered from school. The family was very close; and the prospect of my mother moving away to a foreign country was daunting. The matriarch of the family – my great-grandmother, known as La Mémée, the greatest influence in my mother’s life – was particularly suspicious, and my father was duly invited to an ordeal by fire – or rather, by skillet – designed to gauge his suitability and to introduce him to the clan.

La Mémée believed, as my mother does, that he who eats well, lives well, and therefore placed a great deal of importance on the way in which people ate. My father was very handsome, and spoke French almost fluently, but La Mémée was sure that his character flaws would be revealed through her cooking, and therefore chose to meet him for the first time over a lavish, home-cooked meal, with all the family present.

It must have been something of an ordeal. La Mémée was a formidable presence. My father was a miner’s son from Yorkshire, unused to foreign food, and particularly to dinners that started at midnight and went on for hours, course after course, each dish accompanied by a different wine. He was determined to make a good impression, however; ate and drank lavishly, complimented the chef, made conversation with everyone. Finally, when the pace seemed to slacken, he dared to relax a little. At which point la Mémée, who had a keen sense of humour, ran into the kitchen and emerged with a huge plate of pancakes, and slapping a dozen of them onto his plate, announced with a look of defiance: “I hope you can manage a little dessert!”

My father ate the pancakes, and was duly accepted into the family. My parents were married in Vitré, my mother’s home, a beautiful mediaeval town of half-timbered houses and cobbled streets, with a castle overlooking the river. She moved to England soon afterwards, arriving there aged twenty-two, speaking virtually no English, and leaving behind not just her loved ones, but also all her wedding presents, which were confiscated by British Customs. It was good that she was tough (and very much in love, of course); because the England she knew from geography-books was not the England to which she came.

Barnsley in the Sixties was not a place that especially welcomed foreigners. Most people were friendly enough, but reserved; some were curious; some openly hostile. She remembers how the mothers waiting outside the nursery school heard her speaking French to me, and moved away with their children, as if we might present a threat. We were the only foreigners living in our village. French was my first language, and my mother made no concessions to her host culture; we were French – openly, even defiantly so. We must have seemed very different. My mother was wholly undaunted.

For four years we lived with my grandparents, who ran a sweetshop in Barnsley; a terraced house with an outside toilet and no central heating. I was born in that sweetshop (which bears no resemblance whatever to the French chocolaterie which I was to write thirty-five years later), and my parents both taught at the Girls’ High School, a conservative institution that viewed my mother’s arrival with all the clucking anxiety of a group of hens facing their first flamingo.

Jenni Murray (one of her pupils) remembers the moment well. My mother, who was beautiful and glamorous in a slightly surreal movie-star way, like Jeanne Moreau or Sophia Loren, had been raised in the boys’ school in which my grandfather had taught. Her approach was to-the-point and robust. She addressed the girls in her strongly-accented English, saying: “I worked hard to learn your language. Now you will learn mine.”

And they did; my mother was a natural teacher. My father was Head of Department, but she took care of the paperwork; organized his timetable; kept him on an even keel. The same was true in home life; though I was close to both of my parents, my mother always seemed to be the one who ran the household; looked after my education; made the important decisions.  She became the dominant influence in my life, as La Mémée had been in hers. I admired her (I still do). I wanted to be just like her.

I remember my great-grandmother very well, although she died when I was small, because my mother spoke about her so much; cooked her recipes (including those famous pancakes); taught me her maxims. He who eats well, lives well. Men are like melons; you have to feel a couple before you get the right one. Never be a victim. You can do anything you want if you’re willing to do what it takes. Never forget a kindness. It’s better to give someone flowers in their lifetime than a dozen wreaths when they’re dead. My mother lived by La Mémée’s rules. In her way, she was equally formidable. I never saw her cry, or lose control in any way. And yet she was warm, fierce, passionate. With me, she was strict, a perfectionist. Praise from her was extremely rare. Homework had to be flawless, regardless of how many hours it took. Summer holidays by the sea included a daily maths lesson from my grandfather, and handwriting practice on graph paper (I never really got the hang of that lovely, typically French, copper-plate script). The books I read were strictly vetted; comic-books, science-fiction and horror novels were banned from the house. TV was reserved for weekends, or on those few occasions when I had finished my homework before bedtime. As for dates, I didn’t go out until after I was sixteen, and even then, just one night a week, and I had to be home by eleven o’ clock.

Yet she was free and unconventional in so many other ways; as unlike the other mothers as I was unlike their children. She liked bawdy songs and scatological humour; swore freely in French (though never in English); and could be pitiless with anyone she considered hypocritical or snobbish. (She still is: at a recent black-tie event, she shocked a group of snooty guests by talking sex over cocktails.) She had no qualms about speaking her mind; and despised false displays of emotion as much as she did Hallmark holidays. She was effortlessly beautiful; never wore make-up (never needed to); but dressed with a very French elegance I have never managed (or even tried) to duplicate. As a teacher she was far tougher than any of the men on the staff, and when she became Deputy Head of a local ex-grammar school, she made her mark on the place and its staff so that now, years later, she has become a creature of legend.

It’s ever so slightly daunting to be the child of a legend. I wasn’t a rebellious child, and I craved my parents’ approval. Being the child of two teachers, everyone expected me to enter the same profession. I did, and unsurprisingly, I found that I was a natural. But I didn’t stay in teaching. Instead I wrote books – the first one being a vampire story that might have been deliberately designed to annoy my mother, who hated the genre. She still refers to my writing (with her typical humour) as “your late adolescent phase”, and, though I have reason to believe that she doesn’t dislike my later books as much as she hated The Evil Seed, she has never admitted it. I don’t think the phrase “I’m proud of you” is really in her vocabulary, but maybe it doesn’t have to be. Like that little poem, written when I was seventeen and hidden away in her jewel-case, inside a little sewing-kit I made when I was eight years old, it can be our little secret. We understand each other too well to need to say some things aloud. I no longer want to be exactly like her – although we still have much in common. And I, too, dislike Mother’s Day –although my daughter once made me a card when she was still at nursery school, which I keep in a secret drawer and just look at occasionally. I’ve never told my daughter this. And yet, if she’s like me (and she is) I suspect she already knows.

Microsoft �(P�& 

Theresa Randle as Wanda Blake in Spawn (1997)

“I read the script and fell in love with it. Any time a man is going to die and go to hell for the character I play, I’m there!”

‘Spawn’ leaps from comic books to silver screen - August 1, 1997

Source: http://www.cnn.com/SHOWBIZ/9708/01/spawn/

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Movie Art by Blake Armstrong aka Space Boy Comics