96,334 notes

seananmcguire:

digitaldiscipline:

seananmcguire:

HE WHO WALKS BEHIND THE ROWS IS NOT FUCKING AMUSED.

Blood Pit Supply Chain & Maintenance Local #91 looks up from the latest Grainger catalogue and glances out the window, draped prodigiously with cobwebs and spider nests this time of year, into the golden late-afternoon sunlight slanting along the green-falling-to-dessiccation of the Corn Maze.
He frowns slightly at the thought that has just been flung his way by Herself, with the force of thousands of others behind her. It is a strong thought, and a right thought, but it is not a happy thought.
He puts down the catalogue, bookmarking it with a small-handled fillet knife and stands, pulling on sprung workboots and gloves that have outlived dynasties, more comfortable than anything with so many scars would be expected to be, and steps outside.
There is a very surprised man in a sport coat, his jewel-toned polo shirt open at the neck, standing there. It is almost always a man when a summons like this is raised, and BPSC&ML#91 is still disappointed by men.
"Who? What? Where?" The man looks around in shock, the beginning of fear kindling far too slowly.
YOU WOULD MAKE A HALF-ASSED JOURNALIST, NOT ASKING ALL THE QUESTIONS LIKE THAT. HOW DOES NOT MATTER. WHY IS OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE BUT YOU.
The man makes to run, but smooth-soled office shoes do not offer much purchase in the dry grass, and he cries out when the hands descend on his shoulders, holding him with inexorable inevitability.
LOOK AT THE CORN.
The man stares. Gapes, really.
The corn, helpfully, rustles in the light breeze off the blood pits. Faintly, so faintly, one can hear the joyous cries of the birthday celebrants playing tag with the shark, or perhaps playing fetch with the bats, or maybe watching the kraken tentacle-paint. But, much closer, is the corn. It rustles like a greedy old miser rubbing dry hands together at the prospect of taking something they don’t like from a person who loves it. Because that is what the corn does, at least when it isn’t laughing at crows.
IS IT SEXY?
"Nuh nuh nuh no…."
WHO WOULD DRESS SO?
"I… I don’t know. It was just a—"
IT DOES NOT MATTER. IT WAS DONE. IT IS A THING YOU DID. AND THIS IS THE THING WE DO.
There is a shove. A scream, quickly torn apart and silenced. An impractical shoe that will need to be put into the bin. And a door closing afterward.

<3 <3 <3

seananmcguire:

digitaldiscipline:

seananmcguire:

HE WHO WALKS BEHIND THE ROWS IS NOT FUCKING AMUSED.

Blood Pit Supply Chain & Maintenance Local #91 looks up from the latest Grainger catalogue and glances out the window, draped prodigiously with cobwebs and spider nests this time of year, into the golden late-afternoon sunlight slanting along the green-falling-to-dessiccation of the Corn Maze.

He frowns slightly at the thought that has just been flung his way by Herself, with the force of thousands of others behind her. It is a strong thought, and a right thought, but it is not a happy thought.

He puts down the catalogue, bookmarking it with a small-handled fillet knife and stands, pulling on sprung workboots and gloves that have outlived dynasties, more comfortable than anything with so many scars would be expected to be, and steps outside.

There is a very surprised man in a sport coat, his jewel-toned polo shirt open at the neck, standing there. It is almost always a man when a summons like this is raised, and BPSC&ML#91 is still disappointed by men.

"Who? What? Where?" The man looks around in shock, the beginning of fear kindling far too slowly.

YOU WOULD MAKE A HALF-ASSED JOURNALIST, NOT ASKING ALL THE QUESTIONS LIKE THAT. HOW DOES NOT MATTER. WHY IS OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE BUT YOU.

The man makes to run, but smooth-soled office shoes do not offer much purchase in the dry grass, and he cries out when the hands descend on his shoulders, holding him with inexorable inevitability.

LOOK AT THE CORN.

The man stares. Gapes, really.

The corn, helpfully, rustles in the light breeze off the blood pits. Faintly, so faintly, one can hear the joyous cries of the birthday celebrants playing tag with the shark, or perhaps playing fetch with the bats, or maybe watching the kraken tentacle-paint. But, much closer, is the corn. It rustles like a greedy old miser rubbing dry hands together at the prospect of taking something they don’t like from a person who loves it. Because that is what the corn does, at least when it isn’t laughing at crows.

IS IT SEXY?

"Nuh nuh nuh no…."

WHO WOULD DRESS SO?

"I… I don’t know. It was just a—"

IT DOES NOT MATTER. IT WAS DONE. IT IS A THING YOU DID. AND THIS IS THE THING WE DO.

There is a shove. A scream, quickly torn apart and silenced. An impractical shoe that will need to be put into the bin. And a door closing afterward.

<3 <3 <3

(Source: catfrend)

195,107 notes

So, my friend is stage managing Macbeth and made this status today…

the-enochian-starchild-earendil:

fuckingmultiverse:

letsgivethesekidsashow:

honeychildplease:

image

I’m quite pleased with this.

Rapping this out loud in my empty classroom like swag.

WALK INTO THE CLUB LIKE WADDUP I AM A BIG SCOT

I’M SO PUMPED ABOUT SOME VISION THAT THE WITCHES GOT

I WILL BE THANE, SO SAYS THE PROPHECY

THAT PEOPLE LIKE “DAMN, MACBETH DESERVES GLORY”

I reblogged this so fast guys

(via seananmcguire)

2,077 notes

If I had the power, I would ask all the authors in the world to do Yuletide or something like it every year. Sign up for a fic exchange and write some porn for a stranger; tailor your stories to an audience of one, let go of the long-form plots and the careful wide-spectrum appeal, embrace the joy of spending a hundred words on Carlos’s perfect hair or Buffy’s perfect shoes or Jo’s perfect knives. Remember the joy of waiting for one person to open a story and see what it contains.

Because fanfic is joy. Fanfic is fixing the things you see as broken, and patching the seams between what’s written and what is not, and giving characters who got cheated out of their happy endings another chance. There was a time, not that long ago as we measure things, where all fiction was what we would now call “fan fiction.” Shakespeare didn’t come up with most of his own plots. He wrote plays about the stories people already loved. We didn’t get a thousand versions of “Snow White” accidentally: people changed that story to suit themselves, and no one said they weren’t storytellers, or looked down on them for loving that core of red and black and white, of apples and glass and snow.

Seanan McGuire, “Let’s Talk About Fanfic.”

(hat tip to kassrachel for the link!)

(Source: fanculturesfancreativity, via seananmcguire)