When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.
I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.
You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.
Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”
I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”
After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.
The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.
Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.
And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.
“No blades!” he screamed. “Wick, put that knife …” … away, he meant to say. When Wick Whittlestick slashed at his throat, the word turned into a grunt. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He cut me. When he put his hand to the side of his neck, blood welled between his fingers. “Why?” “For the Watch.” Wick slashed at him again. This time Jon caught his wrist and bent his arm back until he dropped the dagger. The gangling steward backed away, his hands upraised as if to say, Not me,
it was not me. Men were screaming. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard. Then Bowen Marsh stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks. “For the Watch.” He punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it.
“No blades!” he screamed. “Wick, put that knife …”
…away, he meant to say. When Wick Whittlestick slashed at his throat, the word turned into a grunt. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He cut me. When he put his hand to the side of his neck, blood welled between his fingers. “Why?”
“For the Watch.” Wick slashed at him again. This time Jon caught his wrist and bent his arm back until he dropped the dagger. The gangling steward backed away, his hands upraised as if to say, Not me, it was not me. Men were screaming. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard.
Then Bowen Marsh stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks. “For the Watch.” He punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it.
When Germans, Americans, French, and Slavs fought together during World War II
The Battle for Castle Itter,
On May 5th, 1945, only 5 days after Adolf Hitler’s suicide, a reconnaissance force under Capt. John “Jack” Lee was sent on a special mission to a town called Itter in Austria. Itter was home to Itter Castle, built in the 13th century, it was a luxurious alpine prison for famous French POW’s including former French Prime Ministers, military generals, trade union leaders, resistance leaders, even a tennis star named Jean Borotra and Charles de Gaulle’s sister. Also present at the castle were a number of Russian, Czech, Polish, and Yugoslavian prisoners who were used as maintenance workers. The commander of the town was Major Josef Gangl, who took command when his superior shot himself after learning of the death of Hilter. Gangl ordered most of his men to return home, sending a message to American forces that he was going to surrender the castle. Him and 10 German soldiers stayed behind to defend the town from SS reprisals. In the last months of the war, fanatical German SS units would often murder and execute those who surrendered, regardless if they were soldiers or civilians.
Capt. Lee arrived at Castle Itter shortly after being met by an SS recon force. It was quite clear that the SS had learned of the surrender of Itter, sending a force of 150 SS soldiers to kill or execute everyone in the castle. Immediately Capt. Lee set up defensive positions and radioed for reinforcements, however he was not able to raise anyone with his malfunctioning radio. The ten German garrison troops agreed to stand and fight. The French and Eastern European prisoners were ordered to hide, but most refused, taking up rifles from the castle’s armory and manning the defenses. Even the wives and girlfriends of the French prisoners took up arms to fight and hold the line. Major Gangl contacted the Austrian resistance, who sent two German soldiers who had surrendered a few days before, and a teenage Austrian resistance fighter to join the fight. Altogether, the castle was defended by a motley hodge podge group consisting of 14 American GI’s, 12 German Wehrmacht soldiers, a teenage Austrian resistance fighter, a number of French and Eastern European former prisoners, and a Sherman tank named “Begotten Jenny”.
On 11 o'clock in the morning, SS troops surrounded the castle, opening fire with machine guns, rifles, and an 88mm artillery piece. The defenders held their ground, repulsing each and every assault. In the midst of the battle tennis star Jean Borotra pole vaulted the castle walls, and ran as fast as he could, braving the gauntlet of enemy fire to deliver a message to Allied forces. The battle continued. By 4:00pm, after 5 hours of hard fighting, the defenders ran out of ammo. Capt. Lee ordered the defenders to retreat to the castle keep, preparing to fight the SS in hallways and stairways with rifle butts and bayonets. When the SS prepared their final assault, American reinforcements arrived and ended the battle. Jean Borotra had survived and successfully made his way to the 142nd Infantry Division. Around 100 German SS troops were captured.
The battle cost the lives of 7 American soldiers, 6 German soldiers, and a number of former prisoners. The tank “Begotten Jenny” was destroyed as well. Among the dead were Major Gangl, who was killed by a sniper while helping one of the former prisoners to safety. Today, he is considered an Austrian national hero. Capt. John “Jack” Lee was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery and gallantry in defending Castle Itter. Three days later, the war officially ended, and Europe was at peace.
“Well, this is nothing like the last time,” Blaine observes rather casually as Kurt slams a broom across the closet door, panting from the dash down the hall, gangling and uncoordinated because, well, he’s kind of graceless at times, but also because foam, and Blaine on his knees, and these things don’t combine very well. He sort of gets it against the doorknob, and sort of doesn’t, and neither of them care.
“Last time,” Kurt breathes, falling back against the particle board as Blaine kisses his hips frantically.
“In the warehouse, with the Warblers–”
“I remember last time,” Kurt says, shoving his fingers through Blaine’s hair. Blaine knows that he likes it this way, right now, because he can get to the scalp and draw Blaine in without digging through the usual gel crust and this means so many more seconds doing what they want to be doing. “I remember every second of last time.”
“Me too,” Blaine pants.
It’s kind of gross, because everything tastes like soap and also, he doesn’t care, like, at all, because he can see Kurt’s thigh hairs, and Kurt’s dick jutting sideways against the hip of his soaked pants, can see every ridge and dip and the head swollen up and he can’t think at all, even though half of their friends are like, three feet away.
being torn between your desire to hold Michael’s hand and your adoration of his lil sweater paws. so instead of making a move, you indecisively stare at his hand hidden inside his long, gangling sleeve (which is probably stretched out from him playing with it so much because he just can’t keep his hands still). after a while, he notices you staring and smiles. he grabs your hand, the tippy-tops of his fingers poking out to intertwine with yours and giving a small squeeze.
Since that CG confirms Siegbert is tall (and only going to be
taller)… Just… Corrin as the smol one. Height differences
everywhere. Kana growing like a weed and ending up as tall as Xander.
These three giant men just towering behind Corrin with protective
suspicion on their faces whenever anyone so much as looks at her funny.
awkward tall Siegbert just… not having a good concept of how tall he
is? Flustering himself by walking into low-hanging lights/decorations or
smacking his head on door frames or accidentally tripping people (or
himself) with those gangling legs. Or swooping Kana up on his shoulders
only to smack Kana’s head on a doorframe and agonizing about it for days (Kana’s happy bc haha that was fun and now Siegbert keeps treating him to fruit but Siegbert is dyyying).
being super careful with bby Kana and Corrin bc they’re just? so smol?
What do you do with such a tiny individual? What if he breaks someone?
Bonus points if Siegbert swoops in and fetches anything Corrin’s
reaching for if it’s located anywhere above her shoulder bc he’s
obligated as a tall person, and Corrin has to lecture him on not!!
mothering her like that!! She’s the mom, and she’ll reach for whatever
high things she wants!
“I ken ye mourn Claire.” His sister’s voice came softly from behind him. “D’ye think I could forget Ian, if he doesna come back? But it’s time ye went on, Jamie. Ye dinna think Claire would mean ye to live alone all your life, with no one to comfort ye or bear your children?”
He didn’t answer for a long time, just stood, feeling the soft heat of the small fuzzy head pressed against the side of his neck. He could see himself dimly in the misted glass, a tall dirty gangle of a man, the round white bundle incongruous beneath his own grim face.
“She was with child,” he said softly at last, speaking to the reflection. “When she - when I lost her.” How else could he put it? There was no way to tell his sister where Claire was - where he hoped she was. That he could not think of another woman, hoping that Claire still lived, even knowing her truly lost to him for good.
he’s the greatest dancer//a mix for everyone’s favorite gangling robot who is actually a terrible dancer
music sounds better with you//stardust - le freak//chic - spinal scratch//thomas bangalter - give life back to music//daft punk - touch the sky//kanye west - he’s the greatest dancer//sister sledge - hard to explain//the strokes - i’m coming out//diana ross
Perkins haunted eyes and gangling spire of a body mix ‘American Gothic’ with a quality of solemn thought, and one can believe that here is a rustic-neurotic sense of woe-begone duty. He could hold his own against Hollywood’s 'hickory faces’ – Henry Fonda, Raymond Massey, Walter Huston – though more weakly anxious, mischievous, wicked. Fonda’s stare, reserved but penetrating, suggests a slow, reflective but deadly accurate, moral intelligence; Perkins’ look is darker, weaker, unsurer, more modern.
girl was trapped in an abusive relationship and had to watch her son escape to a magic castle every year while she stayed behind
she was a bigot and raised her son a bigot and yet she married a muggle???
super powerful witch probably because look at snape, who whatever you may think of him, was an undeniable badass
she was most likely at hogwarts at the same time as tom riddle but she wasn’t in his fan club in slughorn’s memory so yeah
and she won potion awards and shit like wow she wasn’t conventionally pretty or popular and screw that why should men have a monopoly on being gangling sociopathic assholes and still having tons of sex appeal?
how about more female characters who have kind of shitty personalities because they’re hard as nails because for some people that’s what you have to be to get by
Anonymous said to epsilongrif:
I just love how you draw South buffer than North. I just picture them as young, foolish teenagers and him being some scrawny nerd whose brawny twin sister defends him to her dying breath
Look at how gangly he is. Look how he gangles. South probably had to protect him from getting shoved in a lot of lockers and she probably shoved him in a few lockers herself.
Sometimes happiness is found in the most unexpected of places.
Maybe it’s just
because you’re new to the city, or maybe the country in general, that you
overlooked the fact you were sitting next to an idol for about forty minutes.
Idols are… You’re
still not quite sure what they are. Famous, of course, and most of the time
musicians. Most of the time singers, really, because apparently most idols
aren’t actually musically inclined. Which is also confusing and a fact you
don’t think should be overlooked but most people do, anyway.
Idols are attractive,
slim with perfect proportions most of the time. They like to smile and wave and
care about their image.
At least, that’s the
lowdown you got from your friend when you asked why there was an overwhelming
number of girls in white leather daisy dukes dancing across the mega screen of
The buzzer rang again this
morning and I jolted awake. Carefully, I poked my head out of the window and,
once again, there was no one there; yet, the buzzer continued in ferocious
repetition. I held my gangling body closer as I sunk back into my bed. Minutes
passed before the sound finally relented, but it took hours to feel at ease. I
whispered a quiet prayer, hoping that one day it may stop and that I may sleep
This had been happening every
morning for weeks now. There was never anyone there, but I could never shake
the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Even when the buzzing ended the feeling still
remained. Now, even the sight of my apartment door leering over me is enough to
send a tremble through my veins; my mind running the rolodex on what horrors
could be lurking behind it. I haven’t left my room in days.
The landlord tells me that it is
likely faulty electrical wiring, but I know better. The sound was rhythmic;
almost human, but angered. It had to be something out there, though my eyes
could not see it. Much more, there was the unmistakeable sensation that I was
being watched. It gave me a terrible feeling and I could never be at ease. I
wondered if they were getting tired to waiting. Still, the door must never be opened.
The next morning I awoke to the
ringing of the buzzer. I hid under the covers, hoping that it would be over
with soon. The sound echoed around the inside of my skull, etching away a piece
of me with every ring. There seemed to be hardly anything left as of late. My
mind will either be the first or last to go.
I had run out of food a few days
ago. My bones trembled and I was constantly light headed. I could feel my body
growing frail, but I couldn’t stand the thought of what might be waiting for me
outside that front door. It was there, I just knew it. I could wait a little
The buzzer seemed to ringing a
lot longer than usual. The sound was also much louder, as if it were closer. Today
felt different, but I couldn’t figure out if it were for better or worse. I
pulled the blankets closer. I hoped to God that it would be over, that the
buzzing would soon stop.
Sure enough, it did stop and I
breathed a sigh of relief. I hoped to get just a little bit more sleep, but the
uneasy feeling linger and tired eyes shot open with the sound of a knock at my
apartment door. I gasped, praying that it hadn’t been let in. Oh God, please
My heart pounded as the doorknob started
to jiggle. It found me. My eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out.
The sound of the lock unlatching sent my body jolting upright.
The window was my
only option. I forced open the rickety pane and climbed through. As the door creaked
open, I jumped. I heard the call of my landlord behind me as my body met the
gust of air. The last thing I saw was the growing pavement.