kyraneko:

fortheloveofplaid:

the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger

I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.

Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.

And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.

The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.

They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.

Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.

The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.

*

The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.

The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.

They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride. 

They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.

There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.

You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.

*

When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.

When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.

*

The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.

There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition. 

You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.

*

It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.

You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.

*

A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.

In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.

You nod to him, and he offers you a cupcake.

puppetwithapistol:

I say no worries a lot for someone who worries 101% of the time

copperbadge:

othersideofforty:

copperbadge:

quasi-normalcy:

Yet another reason I’m sad Terry Pratchett is dead is because I just know that the Discworld novel he would have written in response to recent developments in Britain and the world would be fucking scathing.

“A small but growing number of people believe we should magically summon a new world turtle and place Ankh-Morpork on its back in order to leave the Disc entirely, sir.”

“Intriguing.”

“It can’t be done, sir. Especially not the…” Drumknott consulted his paperwork. “…bit where, and I quote, Obviously we’ll leave all the foreigners behind. They seem divided on the precise definition of foreigner but it seems to include anyone who doesn’t look like them, and most people who do look like them but speak funny.”

“Ah, we’ve reached that part, where we define foreigner so we know who to give the boot to,” Vetinari sighed. 

“It’s obviously not really plausible, sir, we’d lose a lot of good trade routes if there were no longer any external portions of the Disc attached to us, and having consulted with the alchemists there’s a strong sense among them that we would shortly run out of air to breathe should we leave the Disc’s protective weather systems.”

“Ah, but they can vote on it, you see,” Vetinari said. “They can campaign for it. And just knowing we ought to do it…”

He pulled a report across his desk, one in the crabbed, unmistakable schoolboy handwriting of Sir Samuel. “Crime is up, Drumknott.”

“I wasn’t aware we’d increased the Thieves’ Guild allotments this month, sir.”

“We haven’t. Nor the Assassins’ Guild. Unfortunately the crimes on the rise are of the go-back-where-you-came-from variety and there is, as of yet, no Bigots’ guild.”

“Do you think creating one would stop them, sir?”

“Not in this case, no,” Vetinari murmured. “I suspect we shall have to leave it up to human decency and the efforts of the Watch.”

Drumknott gave him the most horrified look he’d seen since the first time he suggested promoting Sir Samuel. 

“Not really, sir?”

“Of course not. Good lord, Drumknott. I shall have some errands for you today, however, and you’d best fetch the Commander. And Mr. De Worde. Get De Worde here first, then bring in Sir Samuel when he’s had just enough time to get nervous in the waiting room. If Sir Samuel is at home, do bring her Ladyship along, otherwise I’ll see her at the dinner tomorrow night. Ah yes, and I believe I shall pay a visit to Mr. Von Lipwig tomorrow afternoon; please notify him of the impending surprise inspection of the mint.”

“But sir, what will you – “

“That will be all, Drumknott,” Vetinari said.

In the crevices of Vetinari’s mind, gears began to turn. Disorder, of course, was a natural aspect of any city, but unpleasantness of this sort led to much too much and the wrong kind of disorder. After all, at one time Ankh-Morpork had simply been a swampy plain; trace a family back far enough and everyone was an immigrant. The kind of thinking that led to one saying they were taking their city and leaving sooner or later led to metaphorical shoving matches over who looked a little too igneous to be allowed, or whose mother sent funny food with them to school, or who exactly was allowed to wear what kind of cloth on their head. 

And the whole thing, as he knew from personal experience, could very well lead to unpleasantly large dragons. 

Perhaps it was time to set some spinning tops in motion. 

@copperbadge – what would we need to pay you so you could write that book … 🙂 ?? 

I might already have written an outline. It includes a Star Wars allegory and the phrase “vimes joins the resistance”, also “the return of our beloved long-fingered despot”.

blue-author:

mslorelei:

jessamygriffin:

eternalrisingphoenix:

ceruleancynic:

naamahdarling:

seananmcguire:

animatedamerican:

eriakit:

morkaischosen:

naamahdarling:

thepoetrycollection:

The Raven

There once was a girl named Lenore
And a bird and a bust and a door
And a guy with depression
And a whole lot of questions
And the bird always says “Nevermore.”

Footprints in the Sand

There was a man who, at low tide
Would walk with the Lord by his side
Jesus said “Now look back;
You’ll see one set of tracks.
That’s when you got a piggy-back ride.”

Response to ‘This Is Just To Say’

This note on the fridge is to say
That those ripe plums that you put away
Well, I ate them last night
They tasted all right
Plus I slept with your sister. M’kay?

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

There once was a horse-riding chap
Who took a trip in a cold snap
He stopped in the snow
But he soon had to go:
He was miles away from a nap.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

There was an old father of Dylan
Who was seriously, mortally illin’
“I want,” Dylan said
“You to bitch till you’re dead.
“I’ll be pissed if you kick it while chillin’.”

I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud

There once was a poet named Will
Who tramped his way over a hill
And was speechless for hours
Over some stupid flowers
This was years before TV, but still.

THE ONE FOR DO NOT GO GENTLE

IM CRYING

A chap from a faraway land
Said two big stone legs (topless) stand
An inscription fine
Reads “this shit’s all mine”
But all there’s to see is the sand.

OMFG,

The Second Coming

The falcon flies wider in scorn
All things fall apart, or are torn
And now, what rough beast
Will arise in the East
And slouch Bethlehemward to be born?

Edgar Allen Poe, “The Raven”:

Enthroned on the bust by the door,
The raven exclaims “Nevermore!”
It’s rather annoying,
For I was enjoying
My mourning for dear lost Lenore.

Edgar Allen Poe, “The Bells”:

Bells are quite noisy, it’s true,
And each has a quite distinct hue,
From silver and gold
Different stories are told,
Foretelling both glory and rue.

W. H. Auden, “Funeral Blues”:

Shut off the clocks and the phone,
And let no dog bark with his bone:
Let the planes overhead
Only say “he is dead”…
Now I’m sorry, there’s nobody home.

T. S. Eliot, “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”:

A man can walk down on the beach
Roll his pants up and munch on a peach;
He isn’t deluded
And won’t be included
By mermaids that sing each to each.

T.S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”:

You called me the hyacinth girl
When you gave sweet Shakespeare a whirl;
The city’s unreal,
And the dead men don’t feel,
So let’s let the storm warnings twirl.

Lewis Carroll, “The Jabberwock”:

‘Twas mimsy out there by the wabe
And all of the momewraths out grabe.
The Jabberwock’s dead
(Some kid took off its head,
And his father said “You’re my best babe!”).

Beowulf:

Terribly troubled, the Thane
Demanded defense from a Dane
For fierce in the fen
Mighty monsters maimed men
Great Grendal gave plenty of pain.

William Butler Yeats, “Stolen Child”:

Come on, human kid, and let’s go,
There’s so much to see and to show.
Run off with the fae,
Hurry fast, skip away,
And you’ll never a mortal life know!

John Keats, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci":

The sedge is all dry; spring has sped,
And the birds that once sang have all fled.
The merciless dame
Goes on making her claim
To young hunks who keep winding up dead.

Lord Tennyson, “The Princess”:

The echoes keep fading away
With the splendor that ebbs with the day,
But the castle is grand
In this bright fairyland,
And there’s not that much else I can say.

Christina Rossetti, “Goblin Market”:

At goblin men we mustn’t stare,
And we shouldn’t go to their Fair.
Their fruit may seem tasty,
But we can’t be hasty,
And don’t let them play with your hair!

Oh my god, the Beowulf one.  Oh.

holy shit, the merciless dame is perfect

I love the jabberwock!

Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Have I called you a summer’s day yet?

Like the sun, and ur makin me sweat

Even Death is dismayed

Cuz you castin’ no shade

An I wrote this so peeps won’t forget

I’m in awe.

The Tygre
William Blake

A tygre with dread symmetry
did burn so brilliantly 
that I asked with a fright
in the forest of night,
“Did God make the lamb and thee?”

Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms
Thomas Moore

My love whom I gaze on today,
if all your looks faded away
I would love you still more
than ever before
and in love with you always I’d stay.

The Lady of Shalott
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A tender young lass from Shalott,
was forbidden to spy Camelot.
But within her mirror,
Lancelot did appear,
now the lass from Shalott is not.

Catullus 16
Catullus

To the old queens, Aurelius and Furius:
your criticism leaves me quite curious.
Do you think I am weak
because soft words I speak?
‘cause I’ll fuck both your faces, I’m serious.

jennypen:

“Ew you’re an adult why are you in fandom”
Kid, if being mocked for fandom shit wasn’t enough to stop me when I was an actual 15 year old, hearing it from a 15 year old when I’m 30 is genuinely hilarious

labelleizzy:

kyraneko:

ma-at-thought:

cuttydarke:

fernacular:

Y’know, I really enjoy the concept of Clark Kent.

Like, minus the whole superman aspect.

because, like, okay I can buy that maybe he can disguise himself well enough to hide the fact that he’s superman, but i doubt any amount of slouching and glasses wearing can truly disguise that he’s a very tall EXTREMELY muscular man with a jawline that can cut glass.

So basically this newspaper office has this guy who looks like a weightlifter/supermodel just hanging around but he wears glasses and acts like a huge nerd and everyone just goes with it???

Like “Oh yeah, that’s Clark. No no he works here. Oh no don’t bother being intimidated by him, talk to him for five minutes and he’ll devolve into a lecture on proper tractor maintenance. We like Clark.”

 I wonder if the ladies in the office ever drag him with them to bars so they don’t have to worry about creeps trying to harass them like “back off creeps our friend here is 6′4″ and grew up chucking hay bales” 
And then it’s funny because (as far as they know) Clark is like, the meekest lil nerd around. (He don’t look it though!!!!)

It’s just incredible to me that Clark Kent can pull off being a quiet harmless dork while still looking like, well, superman. 

Do you think he occasionally turns up to the office Halloween party wearing a really shitty Batman costume?

Well, I do now.

He is a very good character in the tradition of people being unique in ways that don’t always make sense. A big supermodel-looking dude in a newsroom talking about tractors makes as much sense as a forty-seven-year-old female bassoonist who collects Clint Eastwood memorabilia being the editor-in-chief or a teenage Quaker with a penchant for Regency novels and mountain biking being the intern.

That said, have you considered him showing up at the office Halloween party wearing a really good Batman costume, that he may or may not have borrowed from Batman?

Clark Kent the epic cosplayer. Seriously.

“oh my goodness, Clark, do you SEW on top of everything else? What an amazing costume!”

Clark aw-shucks his way through explaining that when he can certainly do bachelor sewing – his mother would never have let him leave home without basic survival skills – the costume was sewn by a friend…

It was sewn by Alfred. Alfred sews all of Batman’s costumes.

bakerstreetbabes:

cumber-kitty:

I was trying to remember why this picture of this cat looked so familiar

then I realised

Bless.