i would love to hear this story

Thank you Joe for this ...

“I’ve never had that, so I wrote that song about things that Lena has told me about her and Jack,” Swift shared. “That’s just basically stuff she’s told me. And I think that that kind of relationship.” ”God, it sounds like it would just be so beautiful.”  - Taylor Swift on ELLE about You Are in Love in 1989

NOW SHE DOESNT HAVE TO BE TOLD, SHE IS LIVING A BEAUTIFUL LOVE LIFE RN WITH JOE AND I AM SO HERE FOR THISSSS 

Hearing Gorgeous and seeing the SS say…

MAKES ME WANNA CRY AND HUG JOE AND THANK HIM FOR SHOWING MY BBY THAT SHE TOO COULD HAVE AN AMAZING LOVE STORY LIKE LENA AND JACK 

Likes yesss girl drown in his ocean blue eyesss girlll!!!

That is all. :^)  

Love you @taylorswift and Joe <3333

Chris Pine had been a student of mine in a senior English seminar at Berkeley. I have to admit, he was one of my favorite students. In part, this was because he wrote well. In part, it was because he was a complete nut. The last time I had seen Chris, he had run up to me in Aroma cafe in LA, a few days after the end of the semester in May 2002, begging to know his final grade. At the time, I was cupping a latte in one hand and trying to hold a poker face. It lasted about 0.68 seconds.

“Hi Chris,” I took a sip. “It’s nice to see you, too.” I looked around to see if anyone was there to witness me revealing a grade before the official end of the term. The coast looked reasonably clear, and Chris seemed SO eager to hear his grade. I lost the battle and broke out in a grin. “Oh, and I’m pretty sure you got an A.” In an instant, the man who would later be James Tiberius Kirk was jumping up and down, doing a frenetic fist pump and shouting, “Yes! Yes! WHOO HOOO!” at the top of his lungs.

— 

Back to the (Near) Future by Sheyna E. Gifford

huffpost.com/us/entry/8366032

And I hope to find you,
sitting in a coffee shop,
to where I’ll go,
I hope to see you
walking across
the streets,
while my paces
match yours,
I hope to hear you laugh,
from the corner
of a restaurant
where I’ll have
my favorite dinner,
I hope to look at you
directly in the eyes,
while I say
these words of mine,
I hope you would know,
how much I crave
for your presence,
that even if
it’s impossible,
I still look for you
in a midst
of a crowd.
—  ma.c.a // I hope You’ll Look Back At Me
2

Elevator days by Satumwah

A start of a love story

I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately but since it’s Pride month, I thought I’ll make a small comic for you guys! I decided to practice a new comic layout and it turned out quite well. It’s still up in the air if this will be a mini series, since I am still working on Be my Prom Date, but we’ll see :)

To love me means also loving to hear all the raging thoughts in my head at one in the morning when all of my frustrations suddenly burst; it also means embracing all the quirkiness wrapped around my entirety like adoring how beautiful the stars up above midnight or how the clouds move in a slow motion to form warriors and knights; it may as well mean coming with me at Mcdonald’s when I crave for some fries and sundae at two in the morning; it’s also defined as listening to my senseless and repetitious stories about my dreams, fantasies and everyday life. To love me means swearing that you would listen to the songs I would tell to you in the middle of the day because I assure you, you’d be hearing from me talking about them from time to time.

Loving someone like me isn’t easy for I am someone scarred badly in the past. My whole system is composed of heartaches, pains, sorrows and miseries—I am imperfectly flawed but that made me who I am. To love me is to embrace those imperfections stitched through my veins. To love me means allowing me to have solitude once in a while since I have these moments that I want to shut my world down from everybody else; I have those dark times that I never wanted to talk to anybody at all and just want to lock myself in my own world. Just give me some time to think, at the end of the day I will come back to you. To love me is to tell me how much you care for me even in the slightest way—I will surely appreciate that even my form of appreciation and gratitude is to tell how corny or annoying you are, but deep down, your words mean a lot and warmed my heart. To love me means staying with me no matter how messy and difficult I could be. All I ever want is someone who will stand right behind me during my darkest and worst moments of my life.

To love me is to tell me your thoughts and opinions about the things I keep on telling you about even they mean nothing to you. To love me is to allow me to grow with you as a being physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

I am a complicated and difficult person. I am crazy, wild, freak, easily hurt and gullible. So tell me you love me when you only mean it. I don’t have time for some franks or what. I have had enough of heartbreaks in my past. I am aging and all I ever want for now is a stable and long-lasting relationship that would make me choose to stay no matter how many rocks were thrown at us or no matter how turbulent and bumpy the roads may get.

To love me means a little bit of sacrifice. But I can guarantee you that I could make you feel you’re the best person in the world and you didn’t make the wrong choice by choosing me over them. With me, I can make you feel disconnected from the rest of the galaxy. I will surely make tons of efforts for our relationship to keep going and last. It will be a tough ride for the both of us but I can assure you that it will be worth it and filled with so much fun. To love me means needing and wanting me like the way I do to you.

—  redserpent42, To Love Someone Like me

I don’t remember September 11, 2001

It was my sixth day of First Grade at Beaumont Elementary in Devon, Pennsylvania 
I was a 5-year-old new kid 
Mrs. Kowalski was still learning our names 
The School Board decided not to tell the students what happened
Didn’t want 7000 children in a panic
Thought we were safer in school
Than with distraught and distracted parents on highways
It was just another Tuesday

I don’t remember 9/11
I remember the weeks that followed 
The red eyes of adults around me 
The fantastical and horrific stories
The tears and denial of friends who lost loved ones
All burned into my psyche

I don’t remember 9/11
I remember my parents going to New York a month after the attacks for their anniversary 
They brought back gifts from the Toys R Us in Times Square 
And stories of dust covered cars that would never be reclaimed

I don’t remember 9/11
I remember hearing that we were going to war 
I remember my fear for children like me who would get hurt
I remember resigned acceptance 
“We’re just getting the bad guys,” people said 
“You’re too young to understand”

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember my confusion when my father couldn’t walk my mother and I to the gate at Philadelphia International 
“But the last time we visited Aunt Theresa you waved goodbye” 
What I would’ve given to go back to 1999

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember the dead 
Young Americans fighting out of grief and misguided patriotism
Iraqis and Afghans and Pakistanis slaughtered out of revenge 
I remember pushing a bully down a slide on a playground when he asked my friend if her parents bombed buildings
A week later he tripped me going down the stairs, spraining my ankle 
“Al Qaeda supporter,” he whispered

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember a war 
I remember being desensitized to images of gore and destruction 
I remember a norm of hatred and aggression in the name of patriotism and security
I remember learning of the ever-mounting debt being saddled on my generation 
Debts that my grandchildren will still be paying off
Debts of money and of blood

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember traveling to other countries 
Being reminded to exercise caution when telling people we’re Americans 
I remember the surprise on their faces 
“But you’re so nice” 
“You don’t look like war-mongers”

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember the nausea I felt when we learned in school that we armed and trained Al Qaeda and the Taliban
That we caused the Iranian Revolution 
That we fund corruption and war when it fits our needs 
That we’ve murdered millions in the name of freedom
That we are a nation of terrorists ourselves

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember years of teachers glossing over the early 2000s
“You know this already” 
I remember finally speaking up
Asking Mr. Palmatier to go over the events of that infamous day
I remember his stunned silence as he looked at his 2nd period AP US History class
“Sir…we were 6…we don’t remember”

I don’t remember 9/11
I remember the fear I feel every time I fly 
Every time I ride public transport
Every time I’m in a crowded area 
Every time I’m at a national site

I don’t remember 9/11 
I remember visiting memorials on a frigid day in December 
Sleet masked the tears on my face 
So much death and destruction
An endless war 
A generation that grew up on fear
A generation that could learn
Learn to empathize
Learn to love
Learn from the mistakes of those who came before us

I don’t remember 9/11
But I can’t forget everything since
I won’t forget

- Shadowed Memories [9.11.2017]

Please remember that Skam was supposed to have 2 more seasons

I see a lot of people disliking that stuff from previous seasons get dragged into this season. But you have to remember that Skam was supposed to have 6 seasons, which means that there would have been 2 more seasons to give us answers.

I don’t think Julie or anyone else working on the show could ever anticipate how much impact this show would have. “Fans” have invaded the school and stalked actors, and the pressure on Julie must have been tremendous. I went to a lecture with one of the producers of the show and she said that not only did Julie write and direct every episode herself, she was also involved with almost every single detail in every episode (every song you hear is chosen by her).

This has been a labor of love for Julie, and I think she would have wanted to give the show 2 more seasons, but I understand why it all became too much for her and everyone else involved and why they felt they had to end it all now.

Ending the show 2 seasons before it was supposed to end, 2 seasons before the story was supposed to end, means they have to give the show’s most important storylines a proper ending - right here and right now. Like give Noorhelm a proper resolution. And give us insight into Even’s back story, and show us how it affects Evak.

Yes, it is Sana’s story, but it is also Julie’s last chance to tell us all about this world she has created and give the entire series a proper ending. Does Sana’s story suffer from this? And would it have been better if we would have gotten 2 more seasons to spread out these answers? Of course, but given how things are, I think Julie is doing the best with what she has been given.

I love Skam. I am grateful that we have been given this wonderful show and this wonderful world. And I am grateful to Julie Andem. (But I still hope we get a movie next year that gives us the russebuss experience.)

Here’s to 4 more episodes and a hopefully magical ending to a magical show. Alt er love.

The Upside of Falling Down

Originally posted by captain-pizzamaster

Warnings: Language

Pairing: University!Peter Parker x reader

Word count: 4.3k

A/N: Hey guys!!! I’m so excited to finally be able to post my next series!!! Skyline received so much positive response and I really really hope you guys like this next story as much. It’s going to be pretty different, but I hope you enjoy it.  Also, while I have you, let’s just cover some housekeeping stuff: I do not have a tags list, so please please please stop spamming me with requests to tag!!! I appreciate how much you like my writing, but I have it in my bio and put it on almost every update.  I try my best to respond to every message I get, and sorting through all those messages just makes it harder!! Secondly, I don’t think I am going to be opening up requests.  I’m going back to school in a week, and I have eight classes as well as three jobs.  I’m going to do my best to update once a week, but I really just want to focus on the longer stories that I love, so I can give you guys the quality you deserve.  I’ll make a longer post about this all later.  Let me know what you think about this story!!! I would love to hear some feedback.

{masterlist}

You never expected university to be easy.

When you walked up the steps of Columbia University for the first time freshman year, you had known that the path ahead of you would be hard.  Extremely difficult, even.  But nothing had prepared you for the hurricane that would be your life for the next ten months.  Between the all night cram sessions, endless term papers, lab studies, and regular class hours, you were emotionally, mentally, and even physically drained by the time you finished your final exams.  As you packed up your freshman dorm, you remembered how excited you had been while decorating it for the first time, and shook your head at how naïve you had been.  Freshman year left you beaten, bruised, and with permanent bags under your eyes, but at least it was done.

Now, walking into your sophomore year, you knew what to expect.  You knew what had to be done to manage your time and your life.  You knew what study methods worked for you, and what didn’t.  You knew when it was wise to go to a party and when to stay in to finish your English literature essay.  You knew which friends to avoid during exam week so they wouldn’t whisk you off to a frat kegger, and which friends would hold up flashcards to help you study. You knew what profs gave retests, where the best snack places were on campus, the best study corrals in the library. You knew the name of the librarian that would spend his time helping you find all the resources you needed for your chemistry write up, and the emails of every TA for every one of your classes. Unlike last year, you were prepared. You were ready.

But you weren’t ready, however, for the biology fieldtrip to Thatcher State Park, the fall you were about to have, and the unexpected consequences that would follow. There was no way to study up on how to keep a secret.  There were no flashcards on what to do if one of your classmates entrusts you with their life.  There was no way to prepare for Peter Parker.

Keep reading

“Please,” she cried, her head hanging, “don’t ever forget me.”

A moment passed. He didnt know what to say, so she continued.

“Don’t forget me, okay? Don’t forget me, the girl who worked so damn hard to make you happy. The girl you thought would be forever. Please, I’m begging you, don’t forget about me.”

“I’d never.” He whispered, almost as if he didn’t want the world to hear. Almost as if he didn’t want her to hear.

“Why would you ever think I would?” He broke the silence, filling it only to temporarily stop her tears from falling until she finally answered.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

—  forgetting is a habit of the human brain // the story of a new us | a.m

id honestly give so much to see a b99 episode of the squad going camping together one day. like, mayhem ensues, gems include:

  • rosa telling scary campfire stories and jake lowkey clinging onto amy for dear life
  • charles attempting to cook a gourmet bbq for the squad but something inevitably catches on fire
  • hitchcock and scully getting lost and jake and rosa attempting to search for them in the woods
  • gina building a Luxury Tent ™ and filming people for her blog 
  • terry relaxing in the corner playing kwazy cupcakes, oblivious to everything that is going on 
  • holt knowing a shocking amount of professional wilderness survival skills and prepares to chip in with lifesaving advice at the last minute, every time
  • however he surprisingly doesn’t account for amy bringing and memorising two binders’ worth of wilderness skills herself
  • holt and amy end up having a lowkey mentor mentee competition as to Who Knows What To Do Best in every situation that comes up. rosa ends up winning due to girl scout experience
  • bonus: 3 am and the entire squad rests peacefully around the campfire together after an Eventful day. jake is huddled close to amy for warmth, rosa is chatting with gina, charles is proudly serving everyone food (hitchcock and scully openly love it), holt is curiously watching terry’s kwazy cupcakes game. everyone can hear holt periodically saying things like “that was an error, i would swipe up instead of left.” 
  • the whole squad swap old stories and inside jokes, and all silently agree that this trip was a success. 
Black Girl, NYC

Greetings people. I identify as a Black female who was born and raised in NYC. I am slowly progressing through my study of education and history in college. Other then that, I spend (probably) an unhealthy amount of time reading and writing sci fi and fantasy. But by high school, I got sick and tired of the same story featuring blonds and brunettes saving the day with their straight, lean male heroes so I turned to my librarian seeking something new. She pointed to Octavia Butler and the rest was history. I’ve been seeking diversity in media ever since.

Family life and Culture

I grew as the middle child of six siblings with my single mother and grandparents. Yes, my working-class household fits the stereotype. We even have an absent father *sighs* But, hey shit happens. And with the biological father turns out not to be the best father figure, shit had to go right out the door. Yup. But make no mistake that this is a norm. Most households on my block do have both parents involved in their children’s lives. Our circumstances called for us to have one. That’s all.

The house was full, loud and rambunctious. We made up a good portion of the children on the block (unsurprising) and basically ran it. There’s a whole novel that could be fleshed out of my childhood if I wanted to. Our neighborhood is very tight knit. Next door neighbors were treated like Aunts and Uncles. When summer came around, we were sometimes divided into groups as the parents who were off from work overlooked us while braiding our heads. Blackouts became an all night bbq and sleepover on each other’s porches. Crooklyn by Spike Lee was a good representation of what it was like in fact. Somewhat. Minus the brownstones, plus a couple more fights (lol).

My grandma was a nurse who’s pretty big on us knowing our family history. She made sure to talk a lot about our Gullah Geechee roots. We also had some Dominican culture influence since her closest friend and our Madrina was, well, Dominican. But she is fairly strict on gender norms and how my sisters and I should act especially with brothers. She antagonized me the most growing up because I continued to ignore this. We don’t get along but i can’t say i don’t get why she’s the way she is. She has a pretty dark past. My mother, a latchkey kid of the finest stock, is more laid back and gives all of us free range to make our own mistakes. Most times. Other times, she’d rather lecture us. Depends on our crime.

I don’t know what my grandpa used to do. He retired waaaaay before my grandmother. I also don’t know much about his culture. He’s 1st gen Jamaican who fully assimilated into American culture. Well, beside his food choices. Now, he gambles and goes to church. When I was younger, he used to teach us how to gamble too. And how to cheat and not get caught. We got a lot of free fast food while he taught us. He has gotten more frugal the older he got. And more isolated.

Dating and Relationships.

I don’t date. I have no interest. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. I’ve considered it but I rather have not seek out anything outside of platonic right now. I have a tight knit circle of friends and several other groups of friends I associate with depending on the activity. I’m realizing it seems like I’m using the term “friends” loosely but I swear I’m not. I’m a virgin and I feel nothing about being one until someone goes “*gasp* You’re a virgin really?” and then I end up on high defense saying “So?” Believe or not, that messed with me a lot.

My love life and lack of interest in having one has always been a struggle. In middle school, the group of friends I hung with were becoming more infatuated with love and sex. Yes, middle school, fifth through eighth grade, ages nine to thirteen. But, when they would talked about who’s hot or not, they would look at me funny when I didn’t join in the discussion. Instead of explaining myself, I simply copied other’s reactions and gushed along with them. This instinct followed me through High school til stopped out of annoyance. I became a listener and adviser in their relationships because I really do love stories in many shapes and forms. And I would never turn down hearing a story.

Language

My primary language is English and AAVE. I’ve been living in a neighborhood filled with Blacks and Latinx. Most of my friends are Black and Lantinx. I didn’t meet a white person my age until college. Okay that’s a partial lie. I’ve been in a summer camp that was made up of predominantly white children. But as the only black kid in my age range, I was sorta uncomfortable. I never made lasting friends there. After High School, I spent a year abroad in Tena, Ecuador where I learned Spanish and Kichwa. I still suck at both languages.

Clothing

Lots of my clothes when I was younger were borrowed or hand-me-downs. Half of them still are. It’s like thrift shopping without the hiked prices thanks to its popularity by rich white people (Thanks rich white people!) All my siblings’ taste varies. In my case, I’m fond of combining loose and tight clothing (tight jeans and a loose sweater/ baggy jeans and a tight top). No makeup. Silver accessories.

I used to have a short bob cut permed. I hated it. But I rather a perm then getting my hair straightened with a hot comb because the back of my neck and big ears would always get burned. It wasn’t until I made a friend with a natural afro that I realized my natural hair was even an option.

Academics

Lol I was a nerd with bad grades.

Religion

My family practices Santeria, which has historical roots in both Catholicism and Yoruba thanks to slavery (Yay slavery!). However, because the religion is not fully accepted or well-known, I tend to say I’m simply Catholic if asked. Apparently, a Black Catholic is hard to believe. It is assumed all Black folks are Baptists or some branch of Christianity. I have no idea where that stereotype came from. But I can give some guess. (*cough cough* Tyler Perry….).  

As I stated before, I love scifi and fantasy. I especially love urban fantasy involving witches. I blame this love on Practical Magic and Eve’s Bayou, my childhood faves. It’s because of this love that I wish to see more stories with witches of color. And no, I don’t mean that one evil/mysterious southern/Caribbean Voodoo/Hoodoo witch hollywood loves to portray so much. That always plays into the “Black is evil” trope. Give me some damn variety!

I would squeal so hard if the mythology involved in a story isn’t even Eurocentric. I’m not joking. This is serious. When my religion was simply hinted at in the Raven Boys series (It was also a great way of making even more obvious that the character was definitely not white.) and Kenya Wright’s Habitat series, I squealed. All the authors did was write the names of some of the Orishas and I couldn’t help but put my phone down for a moment and inwardly scream with glee. That being said, if a writer does decide to use afrocentric or any religion involving “witchcraft” as a basis, I would personally ask that they make sure is is not a closed religion.

Santeria is, in fact, a closed religion. And while I don’t mind mentions of it in fantasy and even a main character stating they practice it, do not go any further than that. Don’t even research the practices within the religion other than what is public knowledge (And if you don’t have any public knowledge, just ask) Respect that there’s a limit. Anything further spelunking  is consider rude, disgusting, disrespectful and dangerous. There’s things that I don’t even know because I haven’t been properly initiated. And the internet has a lot of these practices exposed when it shouldn’t be so please don’t look into it. Please.

Food

Most of the cooking in the house has been done by my grandmother. Because of her various relationships, our food has always been a mixture of Black American, Gullah, Lantinx and Caribbean influences. It is so good. So, so good!

The only thing I don’t eat of hers is her seafood gumbo because I don’t like shellfish. One of my sisters said I should have my “black card” taken for my distaste. I said she could take it if she can name more black movies than me. She still can’t take it. My other sister wishes we could switch places because she loves crab but is allergic. The crazy girl actually sends her husband to buy some benadryl so she can eat some if we ever have some on the table. Smh. Siblings.  

Holidays

My family on both sides are quite fond of reunions. On my grandpa’s side, the family uses Fourth of July and Christmas to get together. On my grandma’s side, they tend to host annual summer reunion and send out RSVP invitations complete with schedules of the whole two to three day event. I didn’t mention this under my family life, but both sides of my family are boujee to different degrees. Lots of black sorors and frats members on both sides. I can’t believe that slipped my mind typing.

I’m a little iffy with Christmas. It’s more of a holiday for the older generation and our niece and nephews. The younger generation, however, don’t particularly care for the holiday. For some of us, it’s because it’s not really Jesus’s Birthday and Santa was whitewashed. For others, it’s because we don’t care to feed into the corporate holiday. For most of us, it’s a combination of the two. But we do love getting together when we can. My older sister and I have conspired to celebrate kwanzaa instead for the past two years. So far, it hasn’t grasped the interest of anyone else in the family.

Struggles

  • Being nerds from a young age, my siblings and I have been called “Oreos” or“Not really black” by kids in school on more than one occasion. We shut them down by fighting. Probably not the best strategy but it was best one I could think of in middle school and below. Made it easier to go back to reading my manga.

  • I got compared to my sisters a lot. It was the absolutely most annoying thing ever. And a major source of my insecurities growing older.

  • Need I address colorism? My highschool was filled with it. #TeamLight v #TeamDark. I was on neither team, because in the region I live, skin color was a pretty long spectrum. I fell in the between. Who came up with this?

  • I’ll admit it. I hate my own tears. They make me feel weak. Which isn’t true…I know. But, it is a mentality I always had. I have depression and PTSD. This isn’t really a secret. I tell people if I’m asked. But have you ever had someone look at you and say, “Really? You don’t seem like the type.” ……

  • I am a black female. I’ve been labelled “Strong” and “Independent” the older I got. By my mother. By my siblings. By my peers. And I get those labels. Even from friends. I loved those labels. I call myself by those labels. I mean, who doesn’t want to be seen as strong and independent? Those are positive affirmations, right? I think they would be. If that wasn’t all the positive labels we could get. Somehow, society has decided we are beings that are incapable of being multifaceted. I was indirectly taught to hate my own tears because black girls don’t cry. You can’t cry and be strong. What a terrible mantra fed to black girl at a young age. So, instead you tell everyone “It’s fine.”

I told my therapist it was fine. Until she told me straight up it was not fine. And it was okay to cry. I don’t like to cry. But I still (involuntarily) did it.

Things I’d like to see less of/Things I’d like to see more of:

  • I’m sick and tired of seeing black and latinx folks being portrayed as only fantasy gangs members. We are not only gang members. That’s a terrible popular myth the media put out there and I hate it even more so when it’s portrayed in SFF genre..

  • I’m tired of having one black person in a novel being described as having skin the color of “midnight.” And he’s (it’s always a he) not even that important to the story

  • I hate how every time someone decides to add a person of color, they have to be ambiguous brown. I’m not saying ambiguously brown don’t exist and don’t need representation but is it really that had for a dark brown skin person to play a major role in a story that’s not about slavery? Speaking of which….

  • Why we always gotta be slaves? Or better yet….

  • Why don’t we exist at all in High fantasy stories? Urban fantasy? Brooklyn wasn’t always the gentrified white town it is now. Still isn’t. How are you erasing people of color from NYC??? We make up way too much of the population to be completely erased

  • Stop racial coding other creatures to surround your white human characters. Especially as the bad guys. That’s just shitty writing. Step up your game!

  • I love Black love

  • I love Gay love. I wish more would follow moonlight’s example and show poc are gay too and gay doesn’t always equal to stereotypical femininity.

  • I love interracial love HOWEVER, can we pair people of color with other people of color as well? I’m starting to hate seeing it always a white person paired with a Poc. Variety damnit!

  • Friendships between boys and girls that don’t transform into love.

  • Friendships between girls that didn’t start out as a rivalry.

  • Different body types besides the skinny and tall. Make a main character that’s fat for once. It’s not a problem.

  • Magical characters of color that aren’t “Noble Savages” or “Wise Monks” that used their magic for personal gain for once instead of waiting for the white hero to come.

  • Nerdy black characters who aren’t 100% competent and cries. One that isn’t in a five token band that always gonna be compare to the white main character. Make the nerd the main character!

That’s all I can think of at the top of my head. But my list really does go on. 

Read more POC Profiles here or submit your own.

okay but tbh lgbt etc people are more likely to come out in moving vehicles (i would know) so like… trans percy coming out to sally on one of the car rides to their special place, that beach where she met poseidon.

its fugliano’s shitty car and percy hates it, of course, but his mom is there and its so easy to forget all the bad things in their life when its just him and his mom. theyre talking, just catching up because hes been at school, and he says, suddenly, “mom, can you ask you something weird?” and she nods her consent.

percy asks “if i was a boy, what would you have named me?”

its a pretty standard question, lots of kids ask it, so she doesnt think anything of it. she thinks for a long time about it, going through the names she considered before the sex reveal, trying to decide, but then says “perseus” and he hears the name and he loves it so much. he asks her why and she explains, tells the story of perseus the hero, the tale of the hero that survived. when the story finishes, all thats left is the sound of the tires on the road, the wind rushing around them from speed. its a comfortable silence, mostly, but percy is fighting to find resolve and sally can kind of tell.

suddenly, he asks, in a voice so quiet she can barely hear him, “will you call me perseus?” and his voice still breaks and it surprises him more than it surprises sally somehow, who looks over with wide eyes before looking back at the road. she agrees, no matter what, but she asks why. he tries to explain, but he doesnt have the vocabulary beyond “because im a boy.” she agrees again, says yes, of course, anything for my baby boy, and then suddenly percy is crying and hard too.

percy’s tears startle a wet laugh out of her and her voice is thick when she says “oh baby no, no crying, we’re okay, i love you” and percy cant find the voice to tell her thats hes just so fuckin happy so he just smiles as big as he can, laughing too.

im just. really emotional rn

The Blue Princess and her Red Rose

Pairing: Jungkook | Reader
Word Count: 34.8k (ooops someone’s got a bit carried away hehe)
Genre: PrinceJungkookAU, Angst, Fluff & Smut.

A/N: This is the first story of the five “short” (if you can call them short lmao) stories about Greyria that I’ll be posting during summer. Probably I won’t be posting the next one until a couple of weeks from today, because I have the idea of them all, but none is completely written yet.
I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think of it! 
Because It’s really long, I fear you won’t be able to read it from your phone or tablet, sorry :(

Summary: After all, he was her red rose, while she was just another one of the many blue roses that grew in the dying gardens of Greyria. 

Tales of Greyria


The best stories - those that speak about past lovers, about untold stories and broken hearts, about beautiful promises of future and happiness that got lost in the wind; those that make you feel happiness, loss, hurt, love, hate, fear and sadness all at once; those that live in your heart for the rest of your days - always have sad endings, my love,” her grandma had always told her when she was just a little girl in a baby pink dress.

Keep reading

You know what makes me really happy?

Thinking about Draco playing the guitar and Harry finding out about it.

Draco would always write his own little songs, just for his own ears to hear, in the icy night on a tower.

And usually he was alone, but that specific night Harry came up as well and heard it.

And he fell in love with his voice and came up to the tower every since.

Until one night, Draco whispers “I know you’re there, Potter.” and Harry gets really scared, but instead of just leaving he sat next to the Slyherin and told him that he had a beautiful voice.

And from that moment on, they would meet up every night and listen to each others stories or songs, and for the first time in years, both of them could finally sleep again.

you’re not alone anymore
I know that it felt like all you had was you
so you made your skin your armor, your face a weapon
you built up walls around your heart


because you have so much love to give
but no one who took the time to truly know you
and you slowly stopped believing that anyone would


but, my darling, I’ve always got you
we’ve been in this together since the very first fall
and that’s not changing anytime soon
because I swore a vow to you and I always keep my promises


and yeah, you need me, need me to keep you from losing all feeling
I need you too, don’t you understand, I need you
to keep me breathing when the air gets sucked out
to keep me hoping when the odds seem stacked against us


and I won’t say it, because you aren’t ready to hear it
because it would sound too much like a goodbye
but when the universe grants us time it’ll be the easiest thing 
oh beloved, you are the love of my life

—  Unfinished Stories #407 by Abby S

you can still love someone who’s broken your heart, just like you can still love a parent who hurts you. we’re all human, and if we stopped loving each other, the world would fall apart, you know.

saying “i love you” is making a promise to someone’s heart. if you break that promise, you break that heart. it’s simple.

i know that one day i will move on. one day i’ll wake up and not remember what your laugh sounds like. one day i’ll hear our song and feel nothing.

one day, i swear, i won’t write about you anymore.

—  my journal- 7/15/16
Writing Advice: At the Heart of Your Plot Lies a Question

I’ve been thinking a lot about story structure lately. It’s the thing I struggle with the most, as an author, and judging from a lot of stories I’ve read (and blurbs I’ve helped to write), it’s a big issue for others, too. A lot of times, people don’t realize that there are fundamental structural issues with their stories until they get to the marketing phase, when they go to write a blurb or query letter and realize they cannot condense their story. 

I have some bad news for you: If you can’t elevator pitch your book, there’s a good chance that the problem is the book’s plot, not your innate blurbing skills. 

I know. That’s a hard thing to swallow. And maybe I’m wrong - maybe you just need to work on your blurbing a little bit and it’ll all be just fine. 

But maybe I’m not wrong. In which case, just humor me for a second. Your story will thank you for it. 

Thing #1: Your world-building is not your story. 

It doesn’t matter how much careful thought and planning you’ve put into figuring out the logistics of your world’s science, economy, government, etc. The intricate backstories and family histories might be totally important, but they’re probably not the plot. Until you have characters who want things and obstacles in their path, you don’t have a story. 

Thing #2: Your character arc is not your plot 

Characters should change. Your character should be transformed by the events of the story. This is, ultimately, where the story lies. It’s not, however, the plot. Why, you ask? Because plots are actually pretty generic. A plot is a framework, a set of expectations and structural beats that hold up the story. The story is the character’s development between Point A and Point B. 

Thing #3: Plots are tied to genre 

In the sense that I’m using plot here - expectations and structural beats - I would argue that “plot” is the essential defining characteristic of genre. Which is to say, the thing that unites books within a genre is that they all have essentially the same plot. But how can that be, you ask? Because…

Thing #4: “Plot” = The Story Your Reader Asks (and you have to answer)

What is it that keeps a reader turning the page? What compels a reader to finish a story? Compelling characters, cool settings, sure, ok maybe. But I would argue that at its heart, the thing that makes any reader keep reading (as opposed to, say, watching TV or playing soccer or giving their cat a bath) is curiosity. 

Humans are naturally curious. We love gossip. We find it irresistible. There’s something in our genetic makeup that craves answers to questions, to gathering insider knowledge. 

Which means that if you ask a question, and it seems like a fairly interesting question, the person hearing it won’t be satisfied until they know the answer. 

So based on that assumption, I would argue that readers keep reading stories in order to find the answer to a question. I would also argue that, for the most part, the nature of that question is the same or pretty similar for all stories of a particular genre. 

Some story questions: 

  • Who did it? How did they do it? Why did they do it? (mystery) 
  • Will they succeed in time/before bad thing happens? (fantasy)
  • Who will come out on top? (epic fantasy) 
  • How could these two unlikely people possibly fall in love? (romance)
  • What actually happened? (thriller) 
  • How will they get out of this? (adventure) 
  • Are they going to survive? (horror)

Etc. etc. 

Different stories will have different flavors of these questions, but at its core, every story should have a central question that drives the narrative onward - everything else eventually feeds in to answering that question. 

You’ll note, too, that sometimes the question asked by the narrative itself is not really the question asked by the reader. For example: Ostensibly, the mystery in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is “What happened to Harriet?” But I think the real question is “How is the PI connected to the reporter? What’s actually going on here?” (which, you will note from our handy-dandy chart, makes this book a thriller and not a mystery). 

“What actually happened the night of the murders?” <- Dark Places by Gillian Flynn. Definitely another thriller. (See also: “What actually happened to Amy?” at the heart of Gone Girl.) 

“How is Katniss going to survive the Hunger Games?” (adventure! For all that it bills itself as a dystopia, Hunger Games is at its heart a survival story that calls back to Jack London). 

There are more questions than the ones I detailed above, but those are some starters to whet the appetite.. 

The important thing to remember is that if your story doesn’t have a central driving question, it doesn’t actually have a plot. It may have a character arc! Lots of things might happen! It may have a story. But it will have no plot. And your readers might not know that’s what’s wrong with it, but they’ll notice it. They’ll pick up on it. 

And when they do, what they’ll tell you is: The book is boring. 

So the next time you’re struggling to write the elevator pitch for your story, or the story just isn’t coming together for you, stop and ask: What is the main question? What is the question that’s going to keep the reader turning the page? 

3

For a long time, most intersex people thought of their physical differences as something akin to a disease. Indeed, rather than using the label “intersex,” most physicians and many parents still prefer to talk about “disorders of sex development” — in other words, problems for doctors to fix. In 2000, the American Academy of Pediatrics went so far as to declare the birth of an intersex child a “social emergency.” (Since then, the AAP has grown more circumspect. “DSD may carry a stigma,” states a position paper adopted in 2006.)

But now activists are turning that argument around: Instead of talking about intersex people as medical subjects, they are speaking the language of identity, human rights and pride. They want doctors, parents and society at large to take a less rigid approach to sexual identity — and especially to reconsider the assumption that, to identify as a man or a woman, a person needs the gonads, genitals and chromosomes to match. “There is a much bigger focus now on intersex identity politics — on letting the world know that we are intersex people, as opposed to people with medical conditions,” says longtime activist Hida Viloria, a chair of the Organization Intersex International and author of a new memoir, “Born Both.” To Viloria, surgeries that aim to make children more conventionally male or female are “a gendercide, an institutional effort to erase us from society.”

There have been, in recent years, signs that the activists are making progress. In 2011, the United Nations’ Committee Against Torture released a statement critical of nonconsensual intersex surgeries; two years later, the panel went further, declaring that the surgeries often “arguably meet the criteria for torture.” […]

These developments are in step with the larger disability rights movement, which argues for replacing assumptions of “bad-difference” with acceptance of “mere-difference,” in the terminology of philosopher Elizabeth Barnes. And they likewise echo the gay and transgender rights movements, which have risen to the surface of American politics and culture over the past generation. Now, in an era when society has proved open to revisiting other identities that were once considered shameful or taboo, is the intersex community finally on the brink of its own revolutionary moment — one that could transform what was a disorder into just another way for a person to be?

ICYMI, the Washington Post recently published a prominent feature story about the intersex rights movement and the folks leading it. Intersex pals, I would love to hear from you about this: what did you make of the story? Was it fair and thorough? What would you have liked to see changed or added? 

What’s your favorite thing about him?” she asks me, expecting me to have to think about it and put together an answer that someone would want to hear.
But I don’t think about it, the second the words leave her lips I know my answer.
“His heart. He wears it on his sleeve, even after everything he’s been through. After all of the heartbreak and pain he’s experienced you would expect him to be protective over that fragile heart of his. But he’s not, he doesn’t guard it, he doesn’t build any walls. He’s vulnerable, he’s an open book. He loves the way that everyone should love, the way everyone dreams of being loved. With his whole heart, mind, and body. He loves until he can’t, and then he does again.
—  When he says he loves you, he means it. // Am Excerpt From A Book I’ll Never Write #36