since george on dead like me

For the past year there’s been more and more people talking about Marcia Lucas and how important she was to Star Wars and how it’s because of her the series is what it is but

It also makes me sad because we talk about her like she’s dead but she’s still alive

After the divorce George didn’t just take Star Wars from her he took EVERYTHING from her

She won an Oscar for Best Editing for Star Wars and she hasn’t worked since the divorce.

He blacklisted her.

People she thought were her friends stopped talking to her

She dropped off the face of the planet.

Literally I wrote a little essay on her a few months ago and the only recent news about her was that there was a house in Southern California up for sale under her name

And I just think about how fucking unfair it is that this woman who made Star Wars no longer gets to be involved and the redemption arc for the new trilogy that I REALLY want is Marcia Lucas coming back to edit again.

the screaming staircase in lockwoods pov - prologue

Disclaimer - I do not own Lockwood and co or any of the characters, or even the dialogue. The only original things about this are Lockwood’s thoughts and the occasional added scene. 

Hey guys! So, this is my attempt at creating a Lockwood and co fanfic. It’s pretty much just TSC in Lockwood’s point of view. I’ve never seen this done before, but if it has been, just tell me who started it first and I’ll check with them. I might add some scenes when Lucy isn’t there to make it interesting. I know it’s rough, but it’s been forever since I’ve properly written, so stay with me. I really hope you enjoy! 

“Next, I’d like to show you the contents of this jar.” The girl sitting in front of Lockwood had already failed the test; she had make up some nonsense about George’s cup being a dead girl’s prized possession. Even if he hadn’t known that was rubbish, he would’ve sensed she was lying. It was extremely obvious. 

Even though Lockwood still had hope that there would at least be one more candidate, this could’ve easily been his last chance to test the scull out. He never got around to it when George was around; he usually sent the clients out as soon as they said one false word about his toothbrush holder. 

Let’s just say, the skull got an interesting reaction out of her; one Lockwood was coming to expect out of everyone. She screamed incredibly loudly, and it wasn’t very pleasant. Without saying a word, she gathered up her things, and left. 

Lockwood stood up, and sighed. Yet another day wasted on lies and screams. The company really needed another client; he needed another client. Two people simply weren’t enough. He heard two sets of footsteps walking into the living room, and he grinned. “I win, George. I knew there was one more.”  The girl walked over, and stuck out her hand. He happily shook it, noticing how she took initiative. 

“Hello, I’m Anthony Lockwood.” She was rather beautiful. That was the first thing he noticed; everything about her fit into place like clockworks. Her hair framed her face amazingly; her eyes contrasted her skin. It just worked. She held herself confidently, but not arrogantly; the perfect mix he often failed to achieve. He could tell by the way her face was that she was using her talents already. “Lucy Carlyle.” 

“ Very good to meet you. Tea? Or has George already offered you some?” He knew he hadn’t the moment the two of them walked in. George was obviously annoyed that he had to sit through another interview, and he didn’t seem to like Lucy. He shrugged, and answered “I thought I’d wait until the first test is done. See if she was still here. I’ve wasted too many tea bags this morning.” 

“Why not give her the benefit of the doubt, and go put the kettle on?” Lockwood was getting parched, and he wasn’t in the mood to have to wait for tea. George gave him a look that said he wasn’t in the mood to move, and grumbled “all right - but I recon she’s a bolter.” Lockwood motioned towards the chairs, and said “You’ll have to excuse George. we’ve been interviewing since eight, and he’s getting hungry. He was so convinced the last girl was the final one.”

“Sorry about that,” she gave a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t brought you any donuts, either.” He furrowed his eyebrows. Donuts? How did she know about those? “What makes you say that?” She quickly explained. He had temporarily forgotten about the donuts. “Oh. For a moment there, I thought you were psychic.” 

“I am.” 

“I mean, in an unusual way. Never mind.” Lockwood sat down on the couch opposite of her, and started messing around with papers. He could feel her eyes on him. “I see from your letter, that you’re from the north of England. From the Cheviot Hills. Wasn’t there a famous outbreak in that district a few years back?” He wondered if she had anything to say about it. “The Murton Colliery Horror.”  Looks like she did. “Yes. I was five then.” 

“Fittes agents had to come from London to deal with the visitors, didn’t they? It was in my Gazetteer of British Hauntings.” She nodded. “We weren’t meant to look, in case they took over our soul, and everyone had bordered up their ground-floor windows, but I peeped out anyway.” So she had guts even when she was a kid. Interesting. “I saw them drifting in the moonlight down the middle of the road. Wee slips of things, like little girls.” Now that was interesting. “Girls? I thought they were the ghosts of miners, who’d died in an accident underground.” 

“To start with, yes. But they were Changers. Took on many shapes before the end.” Anthony Lockwood nodded. “I see. That rings a bell… Okay, so you obviously knew from early on that you had a Talent. You had the Sight, of course, more than most of the other kids, and the bravery to use it. But according to your letters, that wasn’t your real strength. You could listen, too. And you also had the power of Touch.” She seemed powerful, and that was what they needed. Someone strong that they could lean on. 

“Well, Listening’s my thing, really.” she said. “As a kid in my crib, I used to hear voices whimpering in the street - after the curfew, when all the living things were inside. But I’ve got good tough, too, though that often merges with what I hear. It’s hard to separate them. For me, Touch sometimes triggers echoes of what’s happened.” 

“George can do a bit of that,” he replied. “ Not me. I’m tone-deaf when it comes to Visitors. Sight’s my thing. Death-glows and trails, and all the ghoulish residues of death…” Lockwood grinned. She hadn’t flinched. “Cheerful subject, isn’t it? Now then, it says here you started out with a local operative up north…” He glanced down at the paper. “Name of Jacobs. Correct?” 

She smiled blandly, her body tensing up. It looked like she didn’t like talking about her past, either. “That’s right.” 

“You worked for him for several years.” she nodded. “So he trained you, did he? you got your Fourth Grade qualifications with him?” she shifted slightly, and he knew something was off. “That’s right. Grades One though Four.” 

“Okay…” He thought for a moment, and saw she didn’t have any papers with her. “I notice you haven’t actually brought your final certificates. Or indeed any letter of referral from Mr. Jacobs. That’s a little unusual, isn’t it? Official references are usually provided in these situations. She took a deep breath, and muttered “He didn’t give me any. Our arrangement ended… abruptly.” 

Lockwood remained silent. he was interested in what she had to say. “If you want the full story, I can give it,” she said reluctantly. “It’s just… it’s not something I like dwelling on, that’s all.” She was tense; it was almost as her life depended on the answer he was about to give. “Some other time, then.” She breathed a sigh of relief, and he smiled. she seemed happy. 

“You know, I can’t think what’s keeping George. A trained baboon could have made the tea by now. It’s really time for the tests.” she seemed nervous all of a sudden, something he hadn’t seen on her yet. “Yes, what tests are these tests? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. It’s what we use to assess the candidates. Frankly, I don’t set much store by people’s letters or referrals, Ms. Carlyle. I prefer to see their Talent with my own eyes…” He glanced down at his clock. George had been gone for around ten minutes. “I’ll give George another minute. In the meantime, I suppose you want the rundown on us. We’re a new agency. Been registered three months.” Two and a half, really.

“I got my full license last year. We’re accredited with DEPRAC, but - just to be clear - we’re not on their payroll, like Fittes or Rotwell or any of that mob. We’re independent, and we like it that way. We take the jobs we want and turn down the rest.” This was true, but most of the time, they had to take any job they got. “All our clients are private customers who have a problem with Visitors, and want it sorted quickly and quietly.” That rarely happened. “They pay us handsomely.” That never happened. “That’s about the size of it. Any questions?”

She leaned forward, back straight, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was the epitome of confidence. “Who are your supervisors?” she asked. “Do I get to meet them too?” Lockwood frowned; he never enjoyed explaining this to people. “No adults. It’s my company. I’m in charge. George Cubbins is deputy.” They made eye contact. “Some applicants had a problem with this set-up, so they didn’t get very far. Does it bother you?”

“Oh no,” she said. “No, I like the sound of it fine.” there was a small moment where neither of them said anything. “So… has it always been just the two of you? Just you and George?” He cringed internally. “Well, we generally have an assistant. Two’s enough to deal with most Visitors, but for tough cases, all three of us go along. Three’s the magic number, you know.” She nodded slowly. “I see. What happened to your last assistant?”

“Poor Robin? Oh, he… moved on.” His smile faded. “To another job?” Lockwood looked away; he wasn’t sure what her reaction would be. “Perhaps ‘passed on’ would be more accurate. Or, indeed, ‘passed over.’ Ah - good! Tea!”

George opened the door, carrying a tray full of tea and sweets. He was much more disheveled than before. He must have been doing something. He placed the tray down, and glanced over at Lucy. “Still here? Thought you’d have scampered by now.” He turned his attention over to George, and said “Haven’t done the test yet, George, you’re just in time.”

“Good.” George was waiting for her to dart out like the others, but he also knew George would be disappointed. Lockwood believed in Lucy, even in the very beginning. Everyone settled in, grabbed their mugs, and fixed their tea. Lockwood pushed the tray of cookies towards Lucy. “Come on, take a cookie. Please. Or else George’ll eat them all.”

She responded by taking a one. Lockwood took a bite of his own, then brushed the crumbs away. “Right, just a few tests, Ms. Carlyle. Nothing to worry about at all. Are you ready?” She set her plate down, and said “Sure.” George’s eyes were fixed upon her. Lockwood paid no attention to him, though. He was ready to see what she was capable of. He nodded, and replied “We might as well start here, then.”

He reached his hand towards the skull jar and smoothly pulled the cloth away. The jar was primarily thick, clear glass. It was sealed at the top with a red plastic plug, and it had small handles at the top for transporting, not that they did much of that. There was yellowish-green smoke swirling around inside of the jar, concealing the skull. “What do you think this is?” She bent forward, examining the object more closely. He could tell she noticed every detail, from all of the hinges to the symbol engraved on the glass.

“It’s silver-glass,” she finally said. “Made by the Sunrise Corporation.” He nodded, giving a small smile. She bent in even closer, reached her hand towards the jar, and tapped it with her finger. The smoke broke away from the place she had tapped. After a few seconds, the smoke revealed the main attraction the jar had to offer; the skull. Soon enough, the ripples of smoke changed and twisted into its version of a face. She immediately jerked back, putting some space between her and the ghost. Not even Lockwood enjoyed being close to the jar. He wasn’t entirely sure what George was thinking when he chose to bring it with him.

She cleared her throat. “Well, it’s a ghost-jar. The skull’s the Source, and that ghost is tied to it. Can’t tell what sort. A Phantasm or a Specter, maybe.” She was incredibly calm while saying all of this, which immensely surprised George. She leaned back nonchalantly, like this was the average ghost she dealt with daily.

Lockwood, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what to feel. He had unconsciously toned his smile down while analyzing her reaction. If he was a stickler he would’ve accounted her apprehensiveness heavily, but he was surprised when George first showed him the skull, too. Plus, this was the first time someone wasn’t visibly afraid of the jar. 

“Yes, that’s right, well done.” He replaced the cloth and carefully moved the jar from the table to underneath it. George was annoyed not only at Lucy, but at Lockwood, too. He took a loud sip from his tea, and argued “She was shaken. You could see it.” Lucy chose not to respond to him, and turned to Lockwood. “Where did you get that jar? I thought only Rotwell and Fittes had them.” 

“Time for questions later,” he responded. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small red box. “Now, I’d like to test your Talent, if I may. I have some items ready. Please tell me, if you can, what supernatural resonance you detect here.” He opened the box that contained the cup, and pulled it out. It was George’s toothbrush holder, a nasty one at that. He had come up with the idea to give it to clients to make sure they weren’t lying. 

She studied the cup with a hint of disgust on her face so faint that George didn’t even notice it. She held it with two hands and closed her eyes, rubbing it with her fingers. Quickly, she shook her head, as if trying to clear away thoughts. She knew there wasn’t anything psychic about the cup. Lockwood was impressed that she found out this quickly. Normally it took the others ten to twenty seconds, but she realized almost instantly. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t detect anything.” Lockwood nodded. “I should hope not. This is the cup George keeps his toothbrush in. Good. Onto the next.” He wasn’t that surprised when she realized it was a normal mug, but he most certainly was when she actually confessed it. Even the old clients they had accepted were hesitant, but she didn’t seem to falter. He picked the cup up, and tossed it to George, who caught it unhappily. 

Her neutral expression changed after she comprehended what he said, and her cheeks flushed. She abruptly gathered her things, and stood up. “I’m not here to be made fun of. I’ll find my way out.” Lockwood raised his eyebrows. This girl was full of surprises. “Ooh, feisty.” George remarked. She instantly glared at him, taking him in. “That’s right. Step over here, and I’ll show you exactly how feisty I am.” George blinked. He wasn’t expecting her to retaliate. “I might just do that.”

“I don’t see you moving.” He scoffed. “Well, it’s a deep sofa. It’s taking awhile to get out of it.” Lockwood decided it was a good enough time to intervene. “Hold on, both of you. This is an interview, not a boxing match. George: shut up. Ms. Carlyle: I apologize for upsetting you, but it was a serious test, one you passed with flying colors. You’d be amazed how many of our interviewees this morning have made up some cock-and-bull story about poison, suicide, or murder. It’d be the most haunted cup in London if the mildest of their tales were true. Now then, please sit down. What can you tell me about these?”

Lockwood, while saying all of this to Lucy, gathered three items carefully and sat them in front of her. A gentleman’s wristwatch, a piece of lacy red ribbon, and a slim, long-bladed penknife with an ivory inlay handle. These were the three items that would make or break the future. Her face softened as she studied the three items. She gave George a steely glance, and sat down. Once she was seated, she spread the three objects apart. It was exactly what Lockwood would’ve done.

She spent around thirty minutes while examining the objects, ten minutes for each. She had examined each item three times. The magic number. George had temporarily left the room to get a comic book, but he had stayed put, only interested in watching her. She took a long drink of her tea, which was bound to be cold. “Did any of your other applicants get this right?” she muttered quietly. Lockwood smiled. “Did you?”

“The echoes were hard to disengage, which I suppose is why you threw them at me all together. They’re all strong, but distinct in quality. Which do you want first?” He automatically replied “The knife.” She straightened her back. “Okay. The knife had several conflicting echoes: a man’s laughter, gunshots, even possibly birdsong. If there’s a death attached to it - which i suppose there must be, since I can sense all this - it wasn’t violent or sad in any way. The feeling I got from it was gentle, almost happy.”  They made eye contact, but Lockwood gave away nothing. “How about the ribbon?”

“The traces on the ribbon are fainter than the knive’s, but much stronger in emotion. I thought I heard weeping, but it’s terribly indistinct. What I get so strongly with it is a sense of sadness. When I was holding it, I felt my heart would break.” Lockwood found this interesting. His eyes were fixed on Lucy. “And the watch?” She took a deep breath.

“The echoes here aren’t as strong as on the ribbon or the knife, which makes me think the owner hasn’t died - or not while wearing it, at any rate. But there’s death attached to it, nonetheless. A lot of death. And… it isn’t pleasant. I heard raised voices, and… and screaming, and -” she shuddered when she glanced down at the watch, as if it was still affecting her. “And it’s a vile thing. I couldn’t hold it for very long. I don’t know what it is or where you got it, but no one should be touching this, not ever. Certainly not for a lousy interview.” 

She leaned forward, and took the last two cookies. He thought through everything she had done and said from the moment she walked in to now. She truly was incredible; every action pointed towards this conclusion. She had captured each and every object perfectly, and she wasn’t afraid to say everything she picked up, even if it contradicted other points. She wasn’t afraid to defend herself, either; she was ready to leave when she felt insulted, and rose to a fight when George taunted her.

 He thought about their behavior, and how that could be an issue in the future. You have to be calm when dealing with Visitors; he learned that the hard way. The two of them arguing all the time could most definitely be an issue. He could always talk to them, or more specifically, he could talk to George. He had feeling this would work out in his favor. George was still reading his comic book, but he knew George wanted her on the team. His ability to listen wasn’t nearly as powerful as hers was, and there have been many cases that they would’ve solved easily if she was there. 

“Well, I guess I know where the door is.” George rolled his eyes. “Tell her about the cookie rule.” She turned her head over to face him. “What?” Lockwood grinned. “Tell her, Lockwood. We have to get this straight, or this team will fall apart.” He nodded. “The rule here is that each member of the agency only takes one cookie at a time in a strict rotation. Keeps it fair, keeps it orderly. Nicking two in times of stress is simply not allowed.” She raised an eyebrow. “One cookie at a time?”

“That’s right.”

 “You mean to say I’ve got the job?”

“Of course you’ve got the job.”

3,290 words.

So, that was the prologue. Yes, it was insanely long. Yes, I went overboard with the locklyle feels. Well, maybe I didn’t? I’m still debating on if I should make him realize his feelings in the first book. I’m pretty confident he liked her from the beginning. I mean come on. He looked at her, like, fifteen times. I just think he didn’t realize it until later. 

So, that’s it. Sorry it was so long, it’s kinda ridiculous. You don’t realize how long chapters really are until you’re writing from them. 

Thank you so much for reading this! It really means a lot. Feel free to give constructive criticism. Thanks again! 

Mistletoe ~ George Weasley imagine

“Oh my god! That’s you?” You laughed, pointing at the picture.

“I remember that. My birthdays were always messy.” He chuckled.

You, Harry, and your sister, Hermione, were all invited to spend the Christmas break at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley had pulled out a family photo album and you were looking at the twins’ baby pictures.

“You were so cute, George! What the bloody hell happened?” You teased.

“Oh, shut it!” He laughed, pushing your arm.

You and George were not subtle with your flirting. But even though you two weren’t subtle, you were both completely oblivious to it.

George was a year older than you and has had a crush on you since he saw you at the hat sorting ceremony. Even though you were sorted into Hufflepuff, you two had a few classes together, and he made sure to talk to you whenever he could.

And now, he was your closest friend. But you wanted to be more, because you also had a crush on him.

Hermione looked over at you and saw how happy you looked with George. Suddenly, an idea popped in her head,

“Fred? Can I speak to you for a moment?” Hermione whispered, motioning Fred to the other side of the room where you wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation.

“What’s up, Granger?” Fred asked once they were out of hearing distance.

“Look at them.” She said, motioning over at you and George. You were laughing at another one of his pictures, and he was just looking at you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Do you see the way he looks at her? He obviously loves her-”

“He does. I know my brother. And your sister obviously likes him too.”

“So, what are we gonna do? (Y/N) is too shy to confess.”

Fred looked back over at you two and grinned. “They just need a little help is all.”


“George! (Y/N)! Come look at this!” Fred called out from another room.

You looked over at George and gave him a questioned expression. He just shrugged his shoulders and stood up. You followed him into the room where Fred was calling you.

But he wasn’t there.

“Fred?” You asked, looking around.

Fred and Hermione were hiding. Hermione quietly pulled out her wand, gave it a small wave, and a mistletoe began to form over you and George.

George looked up and began to turn red.

“Oh, bloody hell.” He mumbled, running his fingers through his hair.

You looked up as well, and then turned your gaze back to George.

“Alright, (Y/N), it’s a Christmas law. Pucker up.” Fred laughed, coming out of hiding, Hermione also following.

“Hermione? What-”

“Just do it!”

Before you could even begin your sentence, George had cupped your face in his hands and pushed his lips against yours.

It felt as if time was frozen all around you, and it was just you and him. You felt the spark that everyone talked about when you kiss someone.

When the kiss ended, you looked up at George and smiled.

“Alright, we’ll leave you to sort things out.” Fred said, motioning Hermione to leave as well.

When they were both gone, you turned back to George.

“Would you care to join me on a walk, milady?” George smirked, holding out his arm. You giggled and gladly took it.

The two of you walked outside for a little while, watching the sun set as you talked.

“Since the hat sorting ceremony, huh?” You grinned.

“Yeah. Your face was just too pretty to miss.” George said, smirking once more.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“(Y/N), you are quite honestly the most amazing girl I’ve ever met, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship with my feelings.” He paused.

“But, I am seriously in love with you. I know you wouldn’t want to be caught dead with a git like me but I’d love it if I could have the honor of being your boyfriend.” George said, taking your hand in his.

Your cheeks turned red again.

“I love you too, Georgie.” You said. You stood on your tippy toes to reach his lips and gave him a quick peck. “I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

“God, you’re cute. You don’t even have to try,” George chuckled.

“I know.” You teased. He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you close to him.

“Merry Christmas, (Y/N),” George said softly, kissing your forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Georgie.”

~The End~
•Thank you for requesting!•

George Weasley imagone

You sighed as you turned the page in your book. It was another christmas holiday you were spending at Hogwarts. Your parents were famous muggle celebrities, and they had yet another tour to go on, leaving you alone. You didn’t mind though. You were used to being alone, as sad as it was.

 Tucking a strand of  your (H/C) hair behind your ear, you shivered slightly. You were currently sitting on a window sill in one of the many corridors in Hogwarts. Not many people were around, so it wasn’t as if you were going to be judged or bothered for that matter.

 “Cold?” A voice asked making you jump. “Whoa, calm down (Y/L/N), It’s only me,” You turn to see a Weasley twin towering above you. “Merlin, don’t sneak up on someone like that!” You snip lightly, dramatically taking deep breaths. 

George laughed, “Oh come now, you aren’t dead.” You shrug helplessly, “True… . but you could’ve given me a heart attack!” You say and lightly punch George’s shoulder. “Ow! That hurt!” George pouted. 

 You roll your  big (Y/E/C) eyes, and a soft smile played at your lips. “Quit being so dramatic, anyway, what’re you doing here?” 

 “That, is exatcly what I’d like to ask you (Y/N).” George said smartly. Your shoulders slumped, “Ehh, just trying to get some light reading in, since there isn’t anything to do here without Angelina, Katie, and Alicia gone for the holidays.” 

 “Why aren’t you with your parents?” He asked, as he offered you a hand. You hesitantly take it, and let him pull you off the windowsill. “My parents had a world tour to go on. Being famous and all, they left me behind.” You answer, but add, “As usual,”

 “They do it often?” George asked, you nod, as the two of you began walking down the corridor, your arms were swinging awkwardly at your side.. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. I’m used to it. Anyway, why are you here Mr. Weasley?” 

 “Mum and Dad went off to Romania to visit my brother Charlie. He’s studying dragons.” This perked your interest and you look up at him excitedly. “Dragons? Is he really? Wow, that’s really cool!” George laughed lightly, and you frown slightly. 

“What’s so funny, Weasley?” You asked him. He shook his head waving you off, “Sorry, don’t mind me, it’s just–I never thought (Y/N) (Y/LN) The hufflepuff would be into Dragons of all things.” 

 You huff, “There nothing is wrong with being a hufflepuff! We’ve got excellent seeking skills, and we’re very diligent and hardworking!” You say defensively. “And what’s wrong with me liking Dragons? They’re very fascinating if you ask me, and–”

 You were cut off by even more laughter, “Geez, You’re so sensitive! I was just saying you break the stereotypical Hufflepuffs. You’re rebellious. You got spunk. I like that about you,” You blushed slightly, and let George continue on, 

“If you want I’ll even introduce you to Charlie. You two can have a whole conversation about dragons,” You narrow your eyes, “What’s the catch?” You ask George suspiciously, as you two walked through the corridors.

 “Why (Y/L/N) would you ever think there’s a catch to anything?” George asked innocently. “Because your George Weasley. There’s always a catch when it comes to you and your brother Fred.” You said shrewdly. George shrugged grinning mischievously. 

“Alright, you got me, The catch is, that you’ll agree to have a butterbeer with me at Hogsmeade.” You shrug, “Alright, next Hogsmeade trip it is.”

 George smirked, “No, I meant now.” Your eyes narrowed in confusion. “What do you mean now? We’re not allowed to go now. We only get to go during the trips. Those are the rules.” 

 “Rules are more like guidelines in my eyes.” You widened your eyes, “George!” You scolded. George smirked, “Now or never love,” He said holding a hand out to you. “But–But you don’t even know how to sneak to Hogsmeade.” 

 “Actually, I do know a way. Come on, we’re going to the common room so you can grab a jumper, then we’re leaving.”

 “You can’t be serious about this!”

 “I’m being dead serious.” 

 “We could get in trouble!”

 “Don’t you trust me?”


Interviewer: Are you guys willing to say your real names?

J-Dog: No. At least I’m not…

Me: Your name is Jorel Decker, you were born May 1, 1984. You’re engaged to Vanessa James . You’ve been in 3 bands including, 3 Tears, Dead Planets and now currently, Hollywood Undead. You went to boarding school for 4 years, and you’ve known both Johnny and Charlie (also known as George and Jordon) since pre-school. Would you like me to continue? 

To the anti-TFA people

I love The Force Awakens.

I have been a Star Wars fan since childhood.

I’m perfectly well educated on literature and mythology.

I still love The Force Awakens.

(Because your ~*~perfect~*~ Original Trilogy mythological space operas systematically exclude people like me, and frankly? You can pry my Star Wars LEAD CHARACTERS of color from my cold, dead hands. Wank off over as many essays about the mythology of the OT as you want, but acknowledge that that this much-vaunted mythology WAS NOT UNIVERSAL TO EVERYBODY. The Star Wars mythology is firmly Western (except for the bits that George Lucas appropriated and butchered from East Asian culture, but did any Asians actually show up in Star Wars? Not until FORTY YEARS LATER. Unless you count the Neimoidians, who were thinly veiled stereotypes that were offensive as FUCK.)

(Oh, Lucas did research, did he? He was so careful to get the Greek myth structure right, was he? Well, evidently he didn’t care enough to get anything Taoist or Buddhist remotely right, or any of the costumes ripped straight from China and Mongolia, and instead felt that he was entitled to carelessly appropriate them as aesthetic set dressing and put them on white actors because…well, we know why.)

So anyway. Those movies are still a product of their times, and those times were white and male.

And yeah, I love Princess Leia and I love Carrie Fisher and I love the step forward it was for Princess Leia to be there. But no commentary from you OT stans about how women of color have been systematically excluded from lead roles or even roles with any depth or agency whatsoever, eh? People of color have been Star Wars fans this whole time, and it still took THIRTY-EIGHT FUCKING YEARS for a male character of color to get the lead. It’s going to be FORTY-ONE FUCKING YEARS for a woman of color to get more than a couple lines and a background scene.

I mean you can go masturbate over your oh-so-white Han/Leia/Luke OT3 as much as you want - in my non-ranty moments, I do like that ship too - but fucking hell. Fuck off and let us enjoy our movies - the movies that actually include us and acknowledge our existence in a futuristic space galaxy - in peace.)

Edit to add: I would die for Lando Calrissian and Mace Windu. But 100% of Mace’s characterization came from EU novels and TV shows, not the movies. And Lando’s supporting role is simply not sufficient representation anymore. I will NOT roll over and be appeased by token representation in the year 2017.

(Part 2 and Part 3, because my brain kept thinking thoughts.)

I’ve talked about Gandalf [in The Lord of the Rings], and how the impact of his death was enormous. When I was a 12-year-old kid reading The Fellowship of the Ring and ‘Fly, you fools!’ and he goes into the chasm …  it was ‘Holy shit! [J.R.R. Tolkien] killed the wizard! That’s the guy who knew everything. How are they going to destroy the ring without him?’ And now the ‘kids’ have to grow up because their ‘daddy’ is dead. If Gandalf could die, anybody could die. And then just a few chapters later Boromir goes down. Those two deaths created in me the ‘anyone could die’ thing. At that point I was expecting [Tolkien] to pick off the whole Fellowship one by one. And then we also think in The Two Towers that Frodo is dead, since Shelob stung him and wrapped him up. I really bought it because he set me up with those other deaths. But then, of course, he brings Gandalf back. He’s a little strange at first, but then he’s basically the same old Gandalf. I liked the impact we got from him being gone.
—  George R. R. Martin 
This, again

Tonight I remembered that my mom’s birthday is a couple weeks away. It’s weird that I forgot, but then again, it’s not. She’s been dead since 2007, almost as long as I’ve been on Tumblr. George Bush was President in 2007. Drake was Aubrey. I had yet to scream “GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF ME” during childbirth. Time goes and goes and goes. 

My mom would be turning 65 on November 15.

I feel sad, but I don’t. I just feel…something. It’s an empty feeling, I think. A spot in your gut where the memories would have gone had she lived. 

I googled “Dreading my dead mom’s death” in Google image search because it’s 10:39 and I don’t feel like going to sleep. Most of the pictures were of other dead moms, but this wonderful photo of Wendy Williams marveling at Jillian Michaels’s ass was wedged in there, between the dead moms and pictures of birthday cakes with sad quotes pasted above them. 

I love this. My mom would love this. So if I do start to get sad, if instead of sleeping I think about how I would be flying out to Boston to surprise her at a party with all her friends and she’d still have that same old bob but with more grey and she’d probably be wearing all black and patent leather clogs and she’d smell good, that Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue spritzed on her hair…I will look at this picture, and I’ll laugh. I will think of her laughing, too. And I’ll keep on going and going and going.

The Ghost of John

Have you seen the ghost of John?

Long white bones and the rest all gone

Ooh,ooh-ooh-oh, oh, oh

Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on?


Behind folklore and legend, lies truth. Sometimes it is pretty truth. Sometimes it is partial truth. Sometimes it is ugly truth. Many folk songs have ugly, disturbing truth hidden behind their seemingly innocuous facade.

Consider the nursery rhyme, “Rock-a-bye baby.”

It starts out nice enough:

“Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock”

And then it turns subtly sinister.

“If the bow breaks, the cradle will fall

and down will come baby, cradle and all”

Death. It finds its way into even the most innocent things. It’s woven into the very fabric of life; the one thing that every person on earth will experience at one point or another is DEATH.

I tell you this story, not because I want to, but because I have to. You see, some curiosities are better left unresolved. As the old adage goes, “Curiosity killed the cat.” Of course, the standard rebuttal is that “Satisfaction brought him back.” However, cats have nine lives, don’t they? We don’t.

Odd, how you can begin reading deeply into myth and legend, folklore, and it all begins to unravel itself. Curiosity of course killed our feline friend, and of course satisfaction brought him back, considering that folklore claims that he has nine lives. Folklore intersects and contradicts until it all begins to unravel at the seams. Or perhaps it knots and tangles itself up?

Behind folklore and legend, lies some sort of truth. It’s rather terrifying if you consider the implications of that. Something existed at some point to cause these stories. Why, in every part of the world, were there ancient stories of dragons? From whence sprang the terror of the bloodsucking vampire? If you read between the lines, it all begins to come undone. I fear that we may one day truly unravel these fictional tales, and find the fact behind them.

And I fear that the truth will be worse than the fiction.

I’m rambling. I apologize for that.

I’m thirty-seven years old. The events of which I’m about to tell happened twenty-seven years ago. They rendered me blind, until two years ago when I became the candidate for a corneal replacement surgery. The surgery was successful.

Oh, how I wish it hadn’t been. I’m in no direct hurry to complete this memoir, but nonetheless I don’t want to waste time; time has a rather nasty habit of running out faster than anticipated when you do. And I am on a schedule. My deadline by my count is this evening, around eleven o’clock. Or perhaps one o’clock tomorrow morning. These things don’t have a set of guidelines I can follow or read through. Eleven is the safe number to assume. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. You may be wondering what is setting this deadline; I’ll get to that soon enough. For now I’m going to explain the circumstances behind me losing my vision for the better part of three decades.

When I lost my sight, I was only ten years old. The hospital said it was corneal burn trauma. They didn’t believe my story. The shrink assumed I had subconsciously made up my story as a coping mechanism, and simply blocked out the “true” accident.

I can say now just as I could twenty-seven years ago that it was not corneal burn trauma. I did not make this story up to cope with an accident that didn’t happen. This is the true story of how I lost my sight, and how I am going to die tonight at either eleven o’clock or one o’clock.

The first time I heard the song Ghost of John was about a week before Halloween, when I was nine. I loved it. The sense of melancholy, the hint of dread. For that week, the song was all I could think about. I hummed it constantly. Sang it under my breath often. I was a child who grew up reading everything horror from Poe to Lovecraft to Stephen King. The song spoke to me.

Halloween came and went, as it does, and I forgot about the song soon after. A year went by. I became ten, and acquired a vested interest in learning to pilot. I read books about it, I watched movies about it. It became my absolute dream to become a pilot. I tell you this not to illustrate the bitter irony in my losing my vision not long after that, but to explain just how obsessive I could become over one subject when it captured my interest.

Halloween drew nearer. My best friend, Ivan, and I would stay up late on weekends telling each other horror stories. Ivan had the first two Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark books and I had the third one and a collection of Edgar Allen Poe short tales, so there was almost always material to draw upon. Sometimes his Dad would set up his four-person tent and a couple of cots and a campfire and we would tell stories around it. Most times we were in my living room or his telling our stories to the light of the TV. Sometimes we watched horror movies, but they didn’t have the same magic as a good scary story.

I heard the song again a couple of weeks before that Halloween. Back to singing it. Ivan had moved in from Illinois in November of the previous year, so he hadn’t been privy to my previous obsession with the song. It wasn’t as bad this time around as it was the previous year, but I sang it often enough for him to notice. It turned out that he had heard it back in Pawnee as well. It was a common song.

We were sitting in his living room when he noticed me humming it.

“Are you humming Ghost of John?” he asked.

“I am,” I said, “it’s a great song. Creepy.”

Ivan smiled. “I thought I recognized that. It’s really creepy. But I bet the real Ghost of John is even creepier than the song.” I grinned a little and said, “I don’t think he’s real. But even if he were, he seems nice enough in the song. He’s not sad. It says so in the song.” Ivan eyeballed me for a second, and then quietly said “not being sad doesn’t mean you’re nice. I heard from my uncle that there’s a way to summon the ghost of John.” I gave a rather loud snort of laughter at that, and then asked “yeah, but didn’t this same uncle also say that Bigfoot and werewolves are real?”

Ivan, looking affronted, opened his mouth to reply but before he could make a sound the hallway light came on. We turned to look at it. Ivan’s Dad walked down the hallway and, looking annoyed, said “hey guys, it’s almost two in the morning. I think it’s time for you two to go to bed. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Alright Dad,” “Goodnight Mr. T” in unison, and then I was laying on one couch and Ivan the other.

Here’s the part where I’m supposed to say that Ivan dropped right off to sleep while I tossed and turned for hours wondering if the Ghost of John really was real.

Keep reading

The last thing he remembers is Jim screaming for him. And it’s the broken sound that makes Bones’ heart break and echoes through his ears as he opens his eyes. 

It’s white wainscoting and ceiling that his eyes see and as he struggles to sit up, Jim’s voice echoing gets dimmer and dimmer. 

“Hello, Leonard.” A voice to his right says and Bones whips his head around to see a smiling George Kirk sitting on a blue couch, holding a glass of sweet tea in his hands. 

“I’m dead or having a fucked up dream.”

“You’re not dead.” George Kirk says. If Bones didn’t know it, he could be staring into the face of his husband. But Jim’s eyes don’t have the same laughter lines around them or quite the same innocent mischief. 

George gestures to a chair of a similar color next to the couch and pours Bones a glass. “If I’m not dead, then this is one crazy dream.”

“Consider it a break.”

“I don’t need one.” What he needs to wake up, to reassure Jim that he’s okay. Not have a conversation with his very dead father-in-law. 

Bones eyes the glass that George hands him, knowing that it’s not right to play into a delusion or dream but the other man raises his eyebrows in an expression that’s pure Jim. “Humor me? Not everyday a dead man gets to talk to his son-in-law.”

Bones snorts and takes a sip. It’s refreshing and delicious, a kind of taste he hasn’t had since his Nana made Sweet Tea fifteen years ago. 

“Stop thinking so hard. You start getting into your head how all this is possible, how it must not be real and you lose some of what it’s worth.” George tells him, his eyes losing a little of their mirth. 

“Am I going to wake up?”

“If you want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like I said, Leonard, consider this a break.” George stretches out on the couch and Bones looks around, taking in the rest of the room. He realizes that he’s in the Riverside farmhouse that Winona Kirk raised her sons in after George died, or mostly raised them in. He remembers Jim saying once when they visited, the first and last time, that it belonged to George’s family. 

“I wanted to thank you.” George said. “I’ve got to see a lot of Jim’s life and it hasn’t been easy and I’m sorry for every day that I didn’t get to spend with Jim, Sam, Winona. But I wouldn’t regret that decision I made.”

Bones looks down at his hands, at the the wedding band sitting securely on his finger and then he looks over at George’s hand and at the one there as well. 

“I know and thank you for making that choice. Wouldn’t have met him if you did.” He gives George a small sad smile. 

“You help him, Leonard. You saved him. I cannot thank you enough for that.” George stands and offers his hand. Bones stares at it for a second before taking it. On a list of things he thought he’d do in his life, shaking hands in some purgatory dream with George Kirk. 

“You’re welcome but you’re thanks…it’s not necessary. He helps me to, saved me more than I can count.”

George doesn’t say anything but nods.

“Some would say it’s too late. That once you get here,” George releases his hand and gestures around the place. “That you’re gone. But you brought my boy back. And I’m going to do the same for you.”

Bones takes a step back. “What do you mean?”

“Just going to help you get back to Jim. Just if you can remember, tell him, I’m proud of him. I wish I was actually there to say that.”

Bones swallows and swipes at his eyes. “Thank you.”

“No Leonard. Thank you.”

George Kirk smiles, a sad and watery smile, before reaching out and giving Bones a push. He falls back, surprised by the action and tries to catch onto something but there’s nothing to grab. 

He wakes with a jolt. 

Bones.” Jim gasps, and he realizes that he’s in Medbay, Jim’s hands locked tightly around his own, half of his body nearly on the part of the bed that isn’t occupied. 

“Jim? What happened?”

Jim wipes at his eyes. “Bastard. Thought I lost you.”

Bones can’t help the laugh that comes out more raspy and he chokes on it. “Now.” He says after Jim hands him some water. “You know how I feel.”

Jim moves onto the bed, resting their foreheads together and their lips meet. “Never again.”

“Okay, darlin’” he says and squeezes Jim’s hand. 

[NEWS] FULL "Feel It All" Questions & Answers Session on Twitter by Tokio Hotel [04.05.2015]

Q: I don’t know which series to watch anymore, so which ones would you suggest me ?
A:You have to see House of Cards!
Q: Argentinas floor is asking for Bill, when will you visit Buenos Aires?
A: Not announced yet but YES!!!!
Q: ???
A: Well guess… ;)
Q: R u still planning on releasing a new album by the end of 2015?
A: of course you are!!! #Aliens
Q: What’s your favorite Disney movie?
A: Bill: Lion King Tom: Fox in a hound Gustav: Lion King Georg: Arielle ;-)
Q: What’s the song/artists you’re currently listening to ? :)
A: MAX ELTOQ: Would you be happy to meet some europe fans in the USA, too?
A: yes. we want to see you all on part2
Q: Georg, when will we have a new video of your sport sessions?
A: I need to practise a bit more…:-)
Q: ??? A: Love Me Like You Do. I’m Christian Grey (Tom) in the relationship
Q: Is Pumba with you? :>
A: yep… sitting right next to me
Q: Bill&Tom, did you have fun at Coachella?:D
A: It was our best Coachella so far!
Q: Tom put a picture of you naked and you can open your IG !
A: you post a naked one first and then i’ll think about it :-)
Q: Bill,if u could swap ur voice w/ any other singer for 1 day,who’d it be?
A: Steven Tyler
Q: TOM TELL ME your favorite characters from Sons of Anarchy!
A: Jax Teller
Q: Bill, did you have sometimes secret account on facebook? Greetings from Czech Christie.
A: no! i’m not on facebook.. only IG
Q: Bill, Tom are you still planning to write a book ? :)
A: yes. we already started…
Q: which song was the hardest to play live on this tour? ;-) ;*
A: for Georg pretty much every song was impossible …
Q: Hey guys, in this Part 2 Georg will pole dance?
A: Maybe! Is this a portrait of Georg? looks so much like him
Q: Georg and Gustav don’t you want to write a book
A: Georg and Gustav can’t write… that’s the problem
Q: ???
A: We had waffles
Q: Do you already have some new song ideas? I feel like this tour was full of inspiration.
A: yes. we were in the studio.. can’t wait for you to hear it
Q: Does Pumba have a girlfriend?
A: no. he’s still a puppy
Q: ???
A: i love it! ;-)
Q: Stupidest thing you did on Gustav’s wedding? :D
A: dance to Eiffel65 …
Q: ???
A: auf alten Schiffen…
Q: what is your fav meal?
A: curly fries… is that a meal?
Q: ???
A: Brazil is included
Q: if you guys were a candle, what scent would you be?
A: Gustav: Garlic…
Q: which of you guys is the worst in cooking? :D
A: Bill and Tom
Q: Hiii guys! Who do you think should take the throne in Game of Thrones? ;)
A: Jon Targaryen !
Q: hi guys! Today is my birthday! Could you say “happy birthday” to me? :)
A: Happy Birthday!!!
Q: Gustav, did you do some duckface since the tour?
A: the whole time
Q: Bill, what was your favorite tour costume? I loved seeing you as a king!!
A: Yeah I liked that too…
Q: ???
A: mit Sahne
Q: why Georg without a beard?
A: Tom likes it shaved
Q: why didn’t you play DIDT?
A: DIDT? Don’t know that song ;-)
Q: I want a shirtless tour !
A: We want a topless audience tour!
Q: ???
A: soon
Q: Georg, have you played the Walking Dead videogame?
A: not so far… is it good?
Q: sweets or fast food?
A: fast food for sure!!!!
Q: Are you planning to tell us SOON the dates for Latinamerica concerts?
A: that’s gonna be next