#holt does that to folks apparently

[nixotinix]

More G3 Holt art because I have problems and I love this design!! Last one is a lil outfit meme hehe

Anyways, him!

[badassindistress]

No Vampires Allowed - Session 5

Ireena has to deal with far too much creepiness, Clara makes a teenager cry and Everard gives the best (and last) bagpipe performance of his life. It’s time for No Vampires Allowed!

Tagging the party: @aporeticelenchus @pioup-pioup @guineamaina​ @ratheralark​ @somuchbetterthanthat​

The party pay a call to Baron Vargas Valkovich, the Burgomaster of Vallaki, who is happy to shelter Ireena. A little too happy, since he seems intent on marrying her off to his son. They all smile far too much.

Calliope offers to help with his festival, so the party go to Blinsky’s toyshop, where they find a disturbingly like doll of Ireena, but with red hair. It is Izek, the creepy lurker in the Baron’s employ, who ordered it. This is the latest versions, the earlier ones weren’t good enough. Izek is paying for this lifelike doll by not setting Blinsky’s shop on fire.

Thoroughly disturbed, the party continue on to the Church, where Clara gets a Holy Mission from Father Petrov (The Baron’s Brother in Law). The Extremely Holy Bones of St. Androl are missing. This relic made the church holy ground, so there’s currently no protection. Clara interrogates the teenager who works in the graveyard and she is so persuasive she makes him cry and gets the truth out of him immediately. Henrik the coffinmaker paid the boy to take the bag and he needed money to send the wolfhunters in search of a missing orphan, Rasha a 12 year old girl.

The party is determined to find the bones, but first they must go to Baron Valkovich’ dinner party.

Everard and Calliope go to the library where they learn Wereravens area  thing, werewolves can be in a hybrid form, vampires are weak to running water and above all that this biography is really fascinating.

Clara uses Divine Sense to make sure no one here is celestial, fiend or undead. The dinner party is a bit unpleasant, the Baron never stops smiling and when Everard brings up Blinksy’s plight the Baron is extremely sinister about it. Apparently, malicious unhappiness is a crime. The criminal status of arson is left undetermined. Mr Vasili von Holt, the Baron’s accountant and party guest, tells a story about Borovia when it used to be the Delmore Valley. Calliope has actually heard about that, but never been. It’s not in Faerun. Von Holt speaks about St Androl, who was friends with the Count. St Androl called own the light of the morning lord when he and Srrahd had a falling out. The Church is original to that time.

Izek has been working for the Baron since he was young. He was an orphan, he did not have the arm then. Izek did not come to Borovia with the Baron when he visited Ireena’s father and Ireena doesn’t think she met him before.

The Baron and Baroness do not want to talk about the Watchers, aside from the fact that they are a very old family, that Fiona Watcher wants to run the town and that an engagement between Stella Watcher and Victor Valkovich did not end well.

When they leave, Mr von Holt confides in the adventurers that the Baron does not intend to pay his taxes to the Count this year. Historically, when the Count defeated Warlord Delmore when he first came here, the Burgomaster Del? Did not pay taxes so he cut his head off. The taxes are due the day before the next festival.” Von Holt seemed to actually want to help, but he may have had an ulterior motive. (NB: Vasili mentioned Berez, this town is not on our map)

Everyone goes back to the tavern and splits up to cover more ground. Clara wins the respect of the wolf hunters and gains some useful information. You can’t kill a werewolf with a normal weapon, if you want to avoid werewolves, stay out of the west. For 5 gold, the hunters will guide folk, but not at night. For silver weapons, go tot Dragomir at the Cracked Anvil. If you were mad enough to want to hunt werewolves, setting up base in Kresh would be your best bet, that’s close to where the werewolves roam.

Raisa shows Danika the innkeeper the drawing of Gertruda, the lost young woman. Danika wants to help and will make a poster.

Emily and Calliope try to gently break the news of the doll to Ireena.  Ireena explains she dies her hair because red hair is seen as a curse. She has no memories before her 6th birthday. There was a werewolf attack, she doesn’t remember anything before then. Emily wants to go steal the doll, but Calliope and Ireena don’t want to make trouble for Blinsky.

Everard goes to see his buddies the Watcher bros. There’s a hint there might be something interesting in the stockyard. Aside from that, Everard learns that Stella Watcher broke of the engagement to the Baron’s son because she went home thinking she was a cat. Everard gets an invitation to dinner at the Watcher’s house for him and all his friends. He tells the Watchers a little bit about the Baron’s “money troubles”.

The party decides to stay at Vallaki at least until the festival. The Baron has repeatedly said that they will be his honoured guests and also that attendance is mandatory. ALL WILL BE WELL!

The next morning, they leave Ireena at the inn and trudge out to a disreputable part of town to confront the coffinmaker about his relikstealing habits. The door is locked and Clara’s shouts only get denial back. Everard gives the best show of offensive bagpipe playing ever witnessed to smoke out Henrik. Emily picks the lock, but it is barricaded from the inside. Henrik tries to slip out the back but Raisa brings him down like a wounded gazelle and is so incredibly intimidating he spills his guts immediately. A man in a cloak and a tall woman with dark hair and skin in a gold dress paid him to steal form the church. This does not match the description of anyone the party knows. Henrik doesn’t dare go to the second floor, so the party immediately goes there. Clara senses 6 undead upstairs. Everard inspires Clara, Calliope blesses Emily and Clara shows off her negative stealth ability.

In the attic they find moving crates and very quickly ALL IS NOT WELL. Clara gets grappled, weapons don’t seem to work properly and before too long, Everard gets bitten and falls unconscious. Calliope uses Spiritual Weapon, which has more effect but hardly enough. Raisa carries Everard out, but they can’t stabilise him. Emily figures out there is a trapdoor and finds the extremely holy bones. She immediately takes cold damage because it is warded. Clara gets bitten, but uses luck. And then Everard gets murdered. Literally actually murdered by a vampire spawn. Rest in peace, you were a wonderful character. You and you flirtatious ways will be missed.

Except he wakes up in the dark, running from wolves and a beautiful woman says he’ll make a good champion and makes him an unclear offer which he accepts. He wakes up completely healthy, but feeling very strange. They all run to make it outside the house, but two vampire spawn follow.

Calliope channels Divinity and one vamp flees. Clara Smites another. Emily sets the house on fire.

Guards come running and Emily throws herself in their arms crying about vampires and how not of this is their fault and how terribly she’s in need of protection. Luckily, she’s extremely persuasive. Sadly, Izek the creep is not caught in this circle of persuasion. The last fleeing vampire spawn runs towards some children and gets dusted by Riktavio the storyteller.

And that’s all for this session of No Vampires Allowed, which as our gracious DM said before might become a very awkward campaign title from now on…

(Vampire Count: 7 vampire spawn, which is entirely too much. Possibly 8, because who knows what Everard is now)

[sleepymouses]

tagged by @littlepetbee, thank uuuu <3 i spent way too long thinking about htis lol,

Rules: pick 5 shows, then answer the following questions, tag a bunch o ppls to do it too (if y’all want to, supes no pressure or anything!)

Natsume yuujinchou  (a teenage orphan who sees spirits/monsters sets out to free the spirits who were bound in magical contract by his grandmother after he inherits a powerful book, aided primarily by a spirit who appears as an exasperated fat cat (who is just as fun as he sounds). Titular character is like my Fave boy in the whole world, he’s so kind and soft despite all the hardships he’s faced, the series has very gentle pacing/character development, and each episode is a carefully crafted lil story that have often moved me to tears, chuckles, or outright chinhands of fondness as u watch natsume slowly find a home in the world and amongst the humans &spirits around him. big focus on friendships, there’s like no romance with any of the main characters, lots of cool different creatures (most of whom arent all that scary once u get to know them), its just literally everything i could ever dream for in a show and it exists! <3)

Leverage (team of modern day robin hoods ruin rich peoples’ lives via  delightfully crafted spy cons to give back to the regular folks the rich people hurt. Extremely good, strong found family vibes, and v cathartic)

Brooklyn 99 (follows diverse cast of character who make up a NY precinct. Hilarious, immensely wholesome & groundbreaking, & probs the most lighthearted crime show besides like psych tbh)

Blackspot/Zone Blanche (spoopy french/belgium crime series set in a small village way out in the mountains surrounded by misty, mysterious and murdery woods. eerie and atmospheric, but also like one of my fave characters (everyone calls him teddy bear) keeps a pet guinea pig at work, so it’s not entirely grim and bleak)

Longmire (a modern western crime drama centering around the titular sheriff and others in their small town wyoming county, well written and lot of chracter development revealed alongside some really good case mysteries bc i love trying to figure out whodunits apparently based on a book series well adored by dads btw)

who is your favorite character in 2? (leverage) ahhh,,, this is hard... Eliot maybe? like Hardison is baby ofc, but i relate to elliot a ton (i think if i was on a team i would want to be the hitter tbh?) and love the subversion of so many action hero tropes that he is, also endlessly amused by how very put upon he is despite all his rad/random skills

who is your least favorite character in 1? (natsume yuujinchou) oh seiji matoba for sure, he can go eat a mouldy tree stump. absolutely evil nasty dude

what is your favorite episode of 4? (blackspot) the end of the road. great opening, didnt end up too devastating unlike a lot of the cases, Hermann was gr8, cool twist i hadnt super expected in the plot which was neat.

what is your favorite season of 5? (longmire) probs 1, walter reeally started to piss me off being Such A Man in later seasons, also me being extremely anxious about Henry and his life choices later, that creepy stalker storyline starting up with Someone and when Someone else in the main cast got died really suddenly and upsettingly later on as well, also when a weird relationship started between some of the characters that i really aint feeling so. before all that happened was nice (also sorry if this is super vague, im trying to avoid spoilers)

who is your favorite couple in 3? (B99) Besides Jake/Amy and Holt/Kevin (bc oviously theyre gr8) uh.. i know it was a long time ago and didnt last very long, but i thought rosa and marcus were really sweet? it brought another layer out to her character, even when they broke up that helped rosa starting to show emotional vulnerability and all, even tho it ended it was still just, idk, i liked them.

who is your favorite couple in 2? (leverage) Does trio count, cos Parker/Eliot/Harding 4 life yo

what is your favorite episode of 1? (natsume yujinchou) i have sooo many faves ahhh!!! i dont think i could pick just one on pain of death, every episode is acrefully cosntructed gem all on its own and i have too many that i love and adore to pick jsut one :((

what is your favorite episode of 5? (longmire) Dog soldier!! ive rewatched that one a ton, so so many good bits, really satisfying resolution of the case despite the shitty system that was revealed, and i rmr getting chills by the end the first time i saw it.

what is your favorite season of 2? (leverage) i guess season 1? just, idk, everything being set up and watching all these grumpies/less grumpies who have no plans to stay together start working together as a baby team, and just the joy of seeing their first heist together with the first plot twist, just.. such a delight, but all seasons that ive seen so far were all excellent, it’s a stellar show

how long have you watched 1? (natsume yujinchou) oh idk exactly, like years and years man... defs the longest out of all on this list

how did you become interested in 3? (b99) i think it was just on netflix way back in season 1 and i started watching it, loved it and never stopped? i think that might have even been before it got rlly popular lol

who is your favorite actor in 4? (blackspot) i dont rlly know any of these french peeps? but teddybear’s one of my fave characters, so hopefully the person who plays him is also cool, in which case hubert delattre (if not, Suliane Brahim does a v good job as the lead)

which do you prefer, 1, 2, or 5? (natsume yujinchou, leverage or longmire) um... real torn between natsume and leverage here, they’re both such lovely gems that do found family so, so well.. leverage is a team of modern robin hood-esque spies with brilliant writing and exciting heists and multiple delightful plot twists every episode and great character building and so much catharticism in ruining evil rich peoples lives.

but natsume’s title character is one of my very favorite characters ever, hes been through so much but he becomes the most kindest and thoughtful boy ever, and its so, so soft and gentle in its development of characters and their slow build of getting to know each other and becoming friends, and the interactions with the paranormal world are very rarely entirely malicious/scary, and there’s pretty well no romance, at least like no romance for plot/with the main characters anyways, and there’s lots of female characters who have important roles but arent sexualized/killed off for man feels/exist for romo (which sadly cannot be said about a lot of media, especially manga/anime tbh, even leverage does not win entirely on that front).. its defintiely my favorite anime ever (i dont watch loads, but literally no other one can ever come close to topping its perfection),

i guess tho, leverage is over, and natsume is still technically ongoing, so i guess for that then i have to go with natsume?

which show have you seen more episodes of, 1 or 3? (natsume yuujinchou or b99) Natsume for sure, they’re so short its easy to power thru like half a season in an afternoon

if you could be anyone from 4, who would you be? (blackspot) i would probably want to be someone who didnt live in villefranche actually haha uh, it’s a pretty spoopity place.. even some of the characters i do like make some Bad decisions that are v bothersome. Dr. Leila barami seems to have a good head on her shoulders tho, so if i Must be a character here then let’s go with her

would a crossover between 3 and 4 work? (b99 or blackspot) oh god... the cheery upbeat department at the 99 meet up with a grim, misty tiny mountain forest village with bleak day to day life, solving crimes amidst small town paranoia and weird maybe cult-related conspiracies and honestbhly something/s paranormal and menacing going on in the woods?? i just... cant see any of the characters even interacting lol, im just picturing jake’s confused befuddled face when he hears something weird but like x 10000

pair two characters in 1 who would make an unlikely but strangely okay couple? (natsume yujinchou) hm... i mean, one of the things i love about Natsume is that there arent really any romo relationships tbh? at least not with any of the main characters in the main storyline (so far), just like the odd one-off of minor characters (and takashi’s adopted parents ofc, but that’s different). so, yeah, i cant really think of one (although i think the big fandom fave ship of takashi and his worst enemy is rlly.. nope, and i dont know what’s going on there? takashi and tanama however, that would make sense, tho it is not unlikely so i cant answer this question with them)

overall, which show has the better storyline, 3 or 5? (b99 or longmire) b99! cos ya know my annoyances with some of the stuff happening later on in longmire lol, b99 just got better n better as it went along, and it’s still going :’)

which has the better theme music, 2 or 4? (leverage or blackspot) blackspot has a real good eerie atmospheric theme which is gr8 and i love it <3 (leverage’s tune is like, elevator music/cheesy jazzy spy tune, which does suit it tho lol)

and idk, anyone bored and stuck at home who wants to do this? no pressure if ur like nah but if u wanna go ahead.... @creepy-friend-of-darkness @anna-wa @rhinky-thingz @rexbasileus @aeolian-harp @warrenkoles @softbrobarnes @damnitttana @cluelesswolf @moondoggiestyle @blloodorangeisthenewblack @my-nail-beds-suck @frankiecolours @savvylikeyeahhh @lake-effectkidx @justhugharry @casualmisandry @j4ya @galaxygalpals @thesecondwarm @dealwright @knipperdollin @curlycombover @kaspbrakeddie (and if i didnt tag u and u still wanna do this, consider yeself tagged)

[oscar-mildes]

elvira you know I always see what you're hiding in the tags,, I will always read it if you answer all of them abhsjdbs

nev you asked for this and im going to go thru with it bc im an oversharing idiot like oh you asked me how’s the weather i will tell you about all my trauma instead :D 

What do you identify as and what are your pronouns? i’m cis yo i’m she/her. i’m biromantic ace. thats the label i would put on it i guess. i really just refer to myself as gay bc i like pretty boys who look like girls and pretty girls and pretty nb and queer people and basically i just like pretty people ajsfbjf

How did you discover your sexuality, tell your story? theres no story to it. no epiphany or realization. i just always was ok with thinking that girls were pretty and that gay people are cool and it wasnt until recent years that i was like oH SHIT AM I GAY

Have you experienced being misgendered? What happened and how did you overcome it? no i guess bc i’m a girl and id as a girl and have a very obvious girl body

Who was the first person you told, how did they react? i guess my best friend. we’re both very ok with gay shit and we just always made comments about pretty girls and now we’re both pretty gay. i like my big tiddie anime girls and she likes her pretty kpop girl bands

Describe what it was like coming out, what did you feel? i’ve only “come out” to some of my friends. i would NEVER in my LIFE even imagine telling my mom i like girls. shes homophobic Like That

If you’re out, how did your parents/guardians/friends react? uhh see above. my mom, stepdad, family members are all homophobic. hispanics in general are Like That rip. i think my dad would be the most ok with it but he lives in mexico and i dont talk to him often anyway. doesnt matter

What is one question you hate people asking about your sexuality? i hate when people ask me about the ace part. like they have a bigger problem about my not wanting to have sex over the liking girls part tbh. sometimes it’s difficult for me to even describe where i am on the ace spectrum. it’s honestly the more difficult part 

Describe the style of clothing that you most often wear. basic nerd. you know those fics like “she dressed in a black t-shirt, skinny jeans, and all star converse” yea that she is me

Who are your favourite lgbt+ ships? ajkfj this is a good question and canon wise i love Ash and Eiji from Banana Fish, Uenoyama and Mafuyu from Given, Nezumi and Shion from No. 6, and Simon and Baz from Carry On. Not canon i love Kurama and Hiei from Yu Yu Hakusho, Izuku and Todoroki from My Hero Academia, and Inosuke and Tanjiro from Demon Slayer. Note how most of them are anime i

What does makeup mean to you? Do you wear any? i dont really wear any bc im lazy. if you like it you do you but idrc for it? except for lipstick i LOVE lipstick i have all the colors. i wear it so it distracts people from the rest of my face

Do you experience dysphoria? If so, how does that affect you? ...no

What is the stupidest thing you’ve heard said about the lgbt+ community? i live in the south so ive heard tons of shit talk about gay people. i dont really have any that stand out. my mom just likes to say that we’re going to hell :D so let’s give em a show ay

What’s your favourite thing about the lgbt+ community? i guess i like how we find solidarity in each other just bc we’re not straight. most of the lgbt+ folks i know are pretty chill about everything

What’s your least favourite thing about the lgbt+ community? terfs but they dont count

Have you ever been to your cities pride event? Why or why not? i live in a small town and i could never sneak out of my house for that bc i still live with my mom so no

Who is your favourite lgbt+ Icon/Advocate/Celebrity? theres so many big celebrities now that id as lgbt+ but im going old school and loving my man, my tumblr url namesake mr Oscar Wilde. my man got put in jail for sodomy 

Have you been in a relationship and how did you meet? lmao never bc im mean, ugly, and terrible at talking to people irl. i had a bf in middle school? but bc i was 12 i dont count it 

What is your favourite lgbt+ book? Carry On and the sequel Wayward Son. (very anxiously waiting for book 3 Anyway the Wind Blows come on Rainbow Rowell)

Have you ever faced discrimination? What happened? for being gay? no. bc im not really out. ive faced discrimination for being a brown woman tho :)))

Your Favorite lgbt+ movie or show? yall i love gay anime: Given, Banana Fish, No. 6, Yuri on Ice yeee. i dont really watch tv with real people but i think that Brooklyn 99 does a very good job with Holt and Rosa yall im love Rosa

Who are some of your favourite lgbt+ bloggers? theres bloggers??? um idk i love u nev so you count right @why-do-you-pick-flowers

Which lgbt+ slur do you want to reclaim? for a while everyone was mad as hell about “im gay for ___” and idk im gay for everything so thats a “slur” i use for myself

Have you ever gone to a gay bar, or a drag show, how was it? ive never gone omg i’d probably be intimidated as hell like i have a lot of problems just existing so to be existing around very flamboyant and extravagant people like that makes me break into a nervous sweat

How do you self-identify your gender, and what does that mean to you? ive always felt like a girl even tho my mom always said “oh you like boy things??? you should have been born a boy” but like, your likes and dislike dont determine your gender. i like “boy” things and “dress like a boy” but i dont FEEL like a boy. ive never had any desire to become a boy or id as a boy. gender is a social construct fuck society

Are you interested in having children? Why or why not? i have a very complicated relationship with children. babies are ugly and toddlers are annoying but i feel like if i had children i would love them obviously because theyre mine. this is gonna be a weird analogy but like i dislike cats. BUT  i have cats. and i love the fuck outta them. so i feel like thatd be me with kids. but im ace so like.... who would even have kids with me. i could not. pregnancy seems like a hassle and adoption is... i have thoughts on that but thats for a different post. also i can see myself being married and not having children OR having kids without a spouse. theres just something complicated about having both??? maybe im just fucked in the head idk bro

What identity advice would you give your younger self? you dont hate girls you like them, dumbass

What do you think of gender roles in relationships? fuck gender roles. get pegged, bros. i also have a very specific dynamic if i ever got into a relationship (which you know. wont happen) but like if i dated a guy i feel like i’d be very top. a MAN telling ME what to do??? fuck that. but if i dated a pretty girl??? top me pls

Anything else you want to share about your experience with gender? i think ive already said too much oh god someone is gonna look at this and be like what the FUCK but like lmao dont be afraid to ask me i apparently have no shame

What is something you wish people know about being lgbt+? it’s scary at first because you think “im not normal” but like pray tell me what is normal. do what makes you happy. fuck society

Why are proud to be lgbt+? i’m comfortable with the people i like. i might not be very confident and i have depression, anxiety, self esteem issues, probs adhd or ocd idfk but at least i know if i see a pretty girl or smth im gonna be like wow that girl is pretty and have no bad thoughts about it. it’s just how it be. after a lot of dissecting my past behavior, ive always been this way. you cant change who you are. just accept it

[jennybolte]

WRITING TIPS FROM RELIABLE SOURCES

Number One: BAD ACTING

Source: Barbara Jones’s (Henry Holt & Company) workshop on the Editor’s Perspective, Tinker Mountain Writers Conference, Roanoke, Virginia, Summer 2019

Bad Acting. Uggg, my manuscript is apparently riddled with it. And the way Barbara explained Bad Acting was that it would appear hokie if you saw it on the screen or stage. Some of the key words to look out for are nodding, laughing, smiling, chuckling, shrugging. Yep, she was right. My actors need to go back to school, and their writer does as well. I’ve been wrapped up in self-pity for the past month since leaving that conference, but today I decided to put myself out there (as awkward as this feels) and hopefully help others.

Please note that what you’re seeing is an early draft of my manuscript. Based on what I’m learning, I have much work ahead of me. I’m pulling excerpts to focus on the lesson of the day, so the revision may still have weaknesses I've yet to understand. I'll first share the original, calling out my bad actors. I'll then provide my first attempt at helping my actors get nominated for Academy Awards.

I searched for nod. Good grief. At a whopping 127, my Navigation reported that I had too many to display on screen. How embarrassing. 127 freaking nods in my manuscript. Yikes. Alright. Calm down. This is me putting my ego in check and dissecting my writing as an editor.

In the first example, my protagonist, Scot Marken, is at his third parole hearing with his lawyer/friend, Simon O’Connor. Scot’s been in prison for 21 years, and Simon’s the one pushing to get him out. (There’s a reason disclosed later in the novel.) They’re waiting for the parole board, and Scot’s attention is elsewhere.

Original:

He elbowed Scot in his ribs. “What’s gotcha so captivated?

“They changed the painting.” Scot nodded up at it. “I recognize it but can’t remember its name. Or the artist.”

 I was trying to show that Scot had momentarily turned to Simon then shifted his head to the painting so Simon would see what he was looking at. I wanted that sentence of narrative description to give the reader pause between his two response sentences. It sounded better to me that way. But, what I've learned is that readers don’t need so much explanation. They’ll fill in the blanks. I’m going to delete the sentence and see how that sounds.

 Revision:

He elbowed Scot in his ribs. “What’s gotcha so captivated?

“They changed the painting. I recognize it but can’t remember its name. Or the artist.”

Okay, no biggie. Sentence gone.

My next big nod (LOL! Pun not intended) is also in chapter one when the state’s attorney gets up to address the parole board. Oh, yeah, just so you know, my novel is narrated by an older woman, Junia Rousselle, who’s lived most of her life in the Appalachian region. Southern fiction is my favorite genre, and my goal is to one day be published on the same shelf as some of my heroes. Sorry, I diverge. Junia calls the state’s attorney Marilyn Wannabe because she looks like Marilyn Monroe "with her platinum blond hair, ruby-red lipstick, and orange glow that come right outta a can."

 Original:

Marilyn Wannabe stood, her dress plumb up her thighs so everyone seen all but the Promised Land. “Good afternoon. I’m Stacy Aritolli from the West Virginia Attorney General’s office. I’m here to represent Campbell Rathbone’s family.” She nodded at the board. “Present is Campbell’s mother, Cora. And his father, Secretary of State, George Rathbone.” She held on to the rest of her words like a cat waiting for a mouse to peep its head outta a tiny hole in the wall.

Again, I was trying to put a pause in the middle of her sentences and have her literally nod at the three board members. I’m seeing a pattern here in my style. Because nod is on the hit list, I have to think hard about this. Do I need to describe that action? If so, what’s another way to do that? I do want her looking up at the board. She’s perched and ready to drop a big one. (The father of the boy Scot had murdered 21 years ago is a state politician—not just any ole run of the mill father but someone of importance.) Again, I don’t think that sentence is really necessary. As a reader, can you actually visualize it without me telling you? I think so. I’d love to hear your response, though.

 Revision:

Marilyn Wannabe stood, her dress plumb up her thighs so everyone seen all but the Promised Land. “Good afternoon. I’m Stacy Aritolli from the West Virginia Attorney General’s office. I’m here to represent Campbell Rathbone’s family. Present is Campbell’s mother, Cora. And his father, Secretary of State, George Rathbone.” She held on to the rest of her words like a cat waiting for a mouse to peep its head outta a tiny hole in the wall.

 I can live with this edit.

Alright, so the next one. And this one’s a doozy. These next two sentences follow pretty closely after Marilyn Wannabe has finished addressing the board. Junia refers to the clerk of the court as Miss Beedle because she’s mousy like the character on the Little House of the Prairie television show. You can also see that I used “then,” another no-no. Full confession here, I've actually used then 991 times. That one’s going to be a pain to deal with. Maybe my next lesson, eh?

 Original:

Marilyn Wannabe nodded again at the board then at Miss Beadle and lowered her hind-end back down into her chair.

Miss Beadle nodded back. “Mr. O’Connor, is there anyone here for Mr. Marken?”

Since I took out the earlier nod, the first sentence no longer fits. It’s got to go. But, I’m not sure how to cue the reader that the next sentence is spoken by the clerk. Maybe I’ll just describe a different action. It feels that I need something here.

 Revision:

Marilyn Wannabe lowered her hind-end back down into her chair.

Miss Beadle pulled the microphone closer to her mouth. “Mr. O’Connor, is there anyone here for Mr. Marken?”

  What do you think? Better? Tighter?

My last nod example today brought with it other weaknesses with my writing (in bold). The woman is a new member of the parole board. The man Junia calls Methuselah, along with another man, are the two other members who had presided over Scot’s first two hearings and denied his parole. Junia sees the woman as sympathetic to Scot and the two men as being in cahoots with George Rathbone, the father of the dead boy who’s protesting Scot’s parole (after all, he's a grieving father, but he is quite an asshole). Junia isn’t always a reliable narrator, but there is a lot of truth to what she’s telling us.

 Original:

The woman’s head shot around to Methuselah. “Yes.” She turned back to Scot. “But we protect our citizens by ensuring that our offenders are reintegrated back into society as law-abiding citizens.” She flipped around to the other man then back to nod at Scot. “So, Mr. Marken, would you like to start with a statement?”

 With so many poor word choices, nod seems a little anticlimactic, eh? I’m thinking her head shooting around is also on some Bad Writing list somewhere, too. Hum, what am I going to do? I want to show that the woman is perturbed and is physically responding to what Methuselah has just said. The word "turned” seems bland to me, but for now, that’s what I’m going to use.

 Revision:

The woman turned to Methuselah. “Yes, but we protect our citizens by ensuring that our offenders are reintegrated back into society as law-abiding citizens.” She straightened the files in front of her. “Mr. Marken, would you like to start with a statement?”

 My gut tells me that the revision is stronger. I do like that I was able to cut 13 words. I’m trying to edit down my manuscript (it’s currently violating the word count rule, too. LOL!

In these four examples where I’ve edited out the word nod, which makes for bad acting, (along with a couple of other weak word choices) the excerpts feel tighter. I certainly cut them with no remorse. In doing so, I cut a whopping 75 words from my manuscript. Folks, when you have as much to cut as I do, this initial cut makes me happy. I’m now going to finish cutting the remaining 122 nods and read the revision aloud to hear the cadence. Honestly, my gut tells me that my manuscript is going to get better.

That’s it for today. I’ll focus on another problem area in my next entry. I’d love to hear from you.

 Write on!

[roseskulls]

isa’s actual bio is long as hell and also in a really weird format idk why I did that to myself but anyways here is the quick and dirty of it! also here is her pinterest board.

isa lived in a small town in nebraska pretty much all her life until she came to lockland. she was raised by her (horrible, neglectful) mother alone until she was six and her mother abandoned her. isa’s mother was the type to ignore isa when it suited her, leave her by herself for days or weeks when she decided she didn’t want to be around her anymore, leave her with pretty much nothing to eat and a eviction notice on the door until she decided to waltz back in. isa didn’t know why her mother never loved her, she didn’t know what she did wrong, but eventually her mother just stopped coming back and isa was taken by the police and given to her grandmother because her father has never been in the picture

her aunts and grandma literally never knew who this man (her father) was either??? like literally no one knew who he was and everyone was honestly convinced that even isa’s mom didn’t know for sure either if you know what i mean (she was a bit of a hoe tbh). i have a headcannon that he’s a rich guy, like Hella rich guy but he doesn’t even know isa exists tbh, he thought her mother got an abortion and isa has never met him. also on that note, isa’s mother left her and started a brand spankin’ new family in the surburbs. she’s married and has two beautiful children. isa found out around the time she was sixteen and just,,, some part of her froze over i’m not gonna lie. because apparently that horrible woman was capable of love, just not love for her. 

isa was taken in by her grandmother (gemini or gem for short) and aunts ( persephone and venus) and pretty much raised by the three women above their family shop. her aunts and grandmother were pretty much the only people who understood her

the sosa’s owned a fortune telling shop that also sold new age merchandise like crystals and talismans etc. isa actually comes from a family of ‘psychics’ (like her aunts are fortune tellers, her grandma was one, her great grandma was one, etc. the only one who really broke the pattern was isa’s mother) so she was always kinda surrounded by weird things and told weird things.

she worked front desk at her family shop since she was about six (kinda illegal but yk dkjdskj) and was the worlds worst receptionist for years and may still be (she might be working for a cousins new age shop here in lockwood maybe folks because i love that for her) for a while was  the world’s worst secretary too. after she graduated high school she worked for an actual businessman who owned an art exhibit and was a major douche canoe. he literally was the worst person, cheating people out of their art, being an asshole, hitting on isa inappropriately multiple times. she hated him with a burning passion, so she broke into his house, stole a bunch of his shit, and decided to move cross country in an rv to leave the scene of the crime. she just enrolled in uni for art last semester because of that, like she stopped in lockwood, figured it’d be as good a place as any to lay low for a while and figured she finally might try the secondary education thing because hey now with all this stolen money she can afford it. she’s kinda always lowkey on guard and dodging the cops but she’s mostly sure she’s not gonna get caught at this point. tbh isa has little fear of the police, more on that later folks. 

anyways isa was bullied pretty heavily during school when she was younger because she was different. she didn’t really act or dress like the other kids did so they picked on her until isa basically put a stop to that by pretending to cast a spell on a girl who was bullying her. she used pigs blood (that her grandma brought her to their local butcher to get, we love a supportive family) and some really impressive acting for an eight year old in her little performance (her grandma and aunts also helped her come up with the spell for that if that gives you any idea of what kind of family they were sdkjds) so yeah people left her alone after that pretty much for the rest of her school career.

so yeah never really had many friends through school, a bit of a social pariah, you know how it goes

isa’s closest confidant was actually her grandmother growing up and she died a couple of years ago. it hit isa really hard. she didn’t cry at the funeral, and she hasn’t really cried since, and??? you’d never be able to tell because isa doesn’t really Emote but she’s kinda wondering wtf is wrong with her at this point

isa is absolutely planning to reunite with her aunts as soon as things die down. she’s just temporarily in lockwood until the police officially close the case. 

CLIFFNOTES

born io salma sosa! has gone by isa since her aunt venus gave her the nickname as a kid though. uses she/her pronouns although she doesn’t fully identify as a girl.

Isa true love is art. she sells her art and you can pretty much consistently catch her doodling. she’ll draw these kiddos and give them little doodles of themselves.

Speaking of doodling, lets talk about doodling on things you shouldn’t (what a smooth transition amiright), Isa is lowkey a graffiti artist. She’s one of those people who thinks that art shouldn’t be contained and that it should be free, so she tends to spray paint and draw everywhere. She has yet to get caught, but she has probably caused a bit of a fuss around town considering that Isa’s art tends to be creepy to say the least. She tends to go for the gory and freaky over the pretty. and recently since moving to a bigger city than small town nebraska people actually care? like people tend to take pictures of it, put it on instagram and twitter and the like. Isa’s actually made quite a name for herself in the online community, with people commenting on her art and discussing it (kind of like banksy but nowhere near as big). They tend to refer to her by a few different names (scythe, tweek, creep, etc) and they have really yet to decide on one. Isa, being the troll she is, occasionally joins the online debates for fun (if you were wondering, Creep is her favourite)

Honestly Isa is a bit of kleptomaniac as well (she used to steal out of necessity (so she’d have clothes without holes in them or art supplies yk, and she still kind of does that, but sometimes she also does it for fun), and she doesn’t actually have the healthiest relationship with her emotions (which is what tends to happen when you know, trauma happens shout out to her mother) but like catch this girl at therapy over her Cold Dead Body, she’ll die before talking about her feelings she really will

Like I said earlier, the Sosa family are psychics and sell new age retail (you name it they have it and they’ll at least try to con you into buying it.) that said, honestly, they aren’t real psychics. One of Isa’s aunts (Venus or Aunt V) knows she isn’t and has gone full con artist with the whole thing, and the other (Persephone or Aunt Percy) thinks she can really see and sense the future which is just a whole other thing but ANYWAY isa is kind of in between them. she doesn’t fully believe in everything but she will charge you a twenty to read your aura yk

apparently chaotic evil according to a test i did one time so there’s that. also an aquarius

has the emotional range of captain holt but like if captain holt was a tiny latina yk

also only 4″11?? not even five foot?? amanda arcuri is tiny af y’all

fun facts: loves aliens, is bi as hell, is also a vegan, very liberal as you might guess, has picnics in cemeteries and might lowkey seem kind of emotionless but i promise she wants to be your friend. truly doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, just likes to mess with people. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS ;

exes 

friends 

a muse (someone who lets isa draw them all the time tbh)

party friend (someone who will go clubbing and drinking with isa, a true ride or die who’ll help her try to break into area 51)

enemies (someone who hates isa that isa is just kind of ??? about because isa doesn’t understand conflict a lot of the time tbh)

[creativepoole]

Forbidden - Part Four - Fire: The Battle Book

‘Who?’ Asked Drake, as was usual for the beginning of a duel. His voice echoed loudly.

‘Markiah Holt. First of District Twenty-seven.’ The man was a giant. Bare chested, with a fluff of dark brown hair between his pectorals. His arms were as muscular as could be possible, but his stomach was fat and his legs thin. Across his back was slung a heavy iron mace with a haft of two metres in length. The man stood one head higher than even that.

Drake sat his grey stone throne on the dais of the great hall. This was the ground floor of the tower of the Fifth City, a hall so large that the flaming braziers that uniformly lined the room from dais to door could not illuminate the walls, which were lost in inky blackness.

‘Come.’ The Guardian commanded, standing from his seat, black and green robes falling about him. A large hood concealed his face in shadow.

The giant of a man reached for his weapon and made to charge the long distance, but darkness suddenly surrounded him. A wind ran cold through the room, the fires were extinguished, and then emerald flame was loosed across the hall. A scream lost itself to the gloom.

The flames of the braziers returned with a flash of green, and then their hot tongues turned golden once again. Drake was sat on his throne, his right hand smoking from beneath his long sleeve. Far across from him, near the large bronze doors of the hall, was a smouldering heap of bone and flesh, burnt blood and bubbling fat.

The Fifth City was one of hard stone, hard steel and harder men. Once it was the City of Flowers, some called it the Fifth Petal. But when its previous Guardian had died, fallen from his tower, the city soon became the City of Flame, the Rotten Petal.

Drake had been chosen as the next Guardian. He had entered the city with an army, fresh from battle beyond the walls of the Fourth City. With these dark men came a dark culture, brutal and without mercy. These were soldiers who had fought and seen death, won a great war, yet gained no prize for themselves. Drake awarded them the city, honouring each captain of his military with leadership of each district. The gentle folk were driven from their homes, and only those with the will or skill to survive remained.

The battle hungry Drake turned the city into the arena of a great game. Each district would present to him their strongest warrior, decided through deadly combat, and a duel between Champion and Guardian would commence. The loser would perish, the winner would sit the stone throne until death, commanding a great host and ruling a rotten city. Many men travelled to the Fifth City, many men became Champion, known as the First, but each were ended by the emerald flame.

He sat his throne day and night, ate at the throne, spoke from the throne, commanded from the throne, killed from the throne. Since his time in the city, Drake had never once explored the other floors of the tower, nor performed the sacred ritual that all Guardians should. He remained mostly seated. A day would come that would be different.

‘My lord commander!’ The stout man entered the hall, his boiled leather and ring mail armour coated in the blood of others. ‘The city gate has fallen and District One is under attack.’ His shouts echoed about the room as he quickly marched toward the dais.

Drake leant onto his knees and spoke with interest. ‘Whose army?’

‘No army, my lord.’ The stout soldier coughed. ‘Just a man.’

The Guardian sat back into his throne and thought for a moment. ‘Any warrior from District Thirty and onward could do the same. Let this man come, and let him break himself against the shields of the Champions.’

‘Yes my lord.’ The soldier bowed and retreated from the room. The bronze doors closed behind him.

A day passed and the soldier returned, his arm a bandaged stump. ‘My Lord Commander, Districts One through Twenty-five have fallen. Their Champions have been defeated. I led a retinue to confront the man, but we were defeated. I managed to escape here to you, even in great pain.’

‘This does not concern me. Did I not tell you that greater Champions would defeat this man?’

‘Yes my lord, however-‘

‘Silence.’ Drake’s voice was soft, but it carried a darkness in it. ‘Leave me.’

‘Yes my lord.’ The man exited.

Two days passed without word. Drake continued to sit, his silent servants serving food and drink. On the third day, the great bronze doors opened and a new face appeared. A younger man than the stout soldier, longer of leg and broad shouldered. ‘M’Lord commander.’ Fear was on his voice. ‘Districts Forty to the city gates have fallen.’ The man fell to his knees. Drake noticed bloody marks on his legs, as if bitten.

‘Have my army assembled, hunt the man down.’ He was calm.

The soldier grimaced in pain. ‘M’lord. Your army was deployed yesterday, and already a third have fallen.’

Drake sat up straight, intrigued. ‘How is this so?’

‘The remaining fighters from forty districts have rallied behind a man who they call the new ruler.’

‘Have they now?’

‘Yes M’Lord… Only…’ The soldier showed much fear.

‘Speak.’ Commanded the Guardian.

‘Well M’Lord, not only have the citizens rebelled, but there are worse things… Packs of ghostly wolves run savage through the streets, and there’s been word of other evils. Demons made of lightning, they fall from the sky and turn our ranks to ash.’ The man fell to his hands, his fingers gripping the stone floor helplessly. ‘M’Lord, we won’t last a day even.’

‘Leave me, and fight.’ Said Drake. ‘I’ll await this new Champion and his followers if you fail.’

‘But M’Lord-‘

‘Go!’ He commanded, and the soldier obliged, scurrying out of the bronze doors.

Ten more hours he sat, and then the doors to his hall opened once again. Another soldier entered, armoured in brown leather under mail, and a dark green wool spun hooded cloak over that. A dagger was strapped to his belt, a bastard sword across his back and a fine yew longbow was at hand. ‘Guardian. The city has fallen and your army is all but broken.’

‘How many of my men are left fighting?’ Asked Drake, somewhat unmoved by the news.

‘Small bands are scattered across many districts, unable to regroup and rebuild a host.’ The soldier spoke while approaching the throne with strong steps. ‘They will be defeated or captured in short time.’

‘Tell me the name of the man who has broken my city gates, raised an army from my people and smashed my own forces. Tell me the name of this Champion of all districts.’ Drake was not easily fooled by this soldier. ‘Who?’

‘Addison, son of Adam, of the Storm. Heir to the Guardianship of the Second City and slayer of traitors.’

Drake’s smile could be seen within the shade of the black hood. ‘Come.’

Darkness overcame the light of the braziers, a chill ran through the air and then a green heat made to swallow Addison. The emerald flame tumbled through the blackness, its light illuminating the stone below it. It fell against the ground were Addison stood, splashing angry and hot. When the orange fires returned to light up the hall once again, Drake sat while eyeing a pile off black ash on top of scorched stonework, thoroughly pleased.

The hall was silent for many minutes, and Drake fell into his usual habit of sitting and waiting. Perhaps the rebel army would storm his hall next, breaking through the bronze doors in the hope that their leader and champion had disposed of the Guardian. What a fun scenario that would be. He would burn hundreds with his flame, savouring the sounds and the smells. It had been years since he had burnt more than one or two men at a time, and there was nothing quite like the taste of charred flesh on the air. He allowed himself a wide grin, quite happy with the thought. His smile was then lengthened across his right cheek, a burn curling up to his ear.

From the shadows to his left came a second bolt of white and blue light, then a third and a forth, each narrowly missing Drake as he leapt from his stone seat and took to the shadows of the opposite side of the hall. When each bolt of energy sparked up, they rendered Addison in a blue glow, pulling on the string of his longbow and loosing the electric arrows at the darkly robed Guardian. When his shafts of light were in the air and away, the shadows reformed around Addison and concealed him once again.

The Guardian slipped into the shadows himself, hidden from Addison. The only light was burning between them down the centre of the hall. There was no movement, no sound, each of them waiting for the other to act. It was Drake whose impatience won out first.

With a breath and a conjuration of power, the Guardian raised his hand and allowed flames to lick up about his fingers. The magic was thrown to where Addison was thought to be, a ball of fire arcing across the hall, the light revealing Drake’s own place within the shadows.

While the magic was still in the air, the blue glow from Addison’s primed missile revealed him to be several metres to the left. On quick release he was shrouded yet again. The bolt passed by Drake’s chest as he dodged, passing between arm and body, and burning and ripping through the dark robes. The shaft of energy ended its journey against the wall far behind Drake, dispersing in a flash of light that silhouetted the Guardian. Another bolt was loosed and Drake was forced to dodge once again, evading with increasing speed.

‘I have no patience for this!’ Drake called out, annoyed. His power swelled and his will called for light. The high ceiling of the hall became awash in emerald brilliance, flames flowing over the stone, chasing away the shadows. Tall square stone pillars became apparent, spaced metres between and splitting the hall into thirds across its width. Beyond them were stone walls with jet black tapestries inlaid onto them. The black stone shimmered with the green light, the images it displayed describing some ancient battle, where five armies united to overcome some inhuman horror.

‘It was you who favoured the darkness, I simply followed your lead.’ Addison stood with bow in hand, his cloak and hood missing, part of the armour on his shoulder was singed, black but intact.

‘It is not often a man evades my fire.’ Drake spoke from beneath his hood. ‘But your magic is weak, and you will not last.’

‘Magic?’ Addison looked at his bow and back to Drake. ‘This? This is not my magic, this is simply an enchanted weapon. Silent, stealthy. Though stealth has failed me.’ Addison threw the wooden bow aside with a clatter. He raised a hand and pointed at the Guardian. ‘This is my magic.’

Drake could feel it. There was a fuzz about his skin, the air was electric. Before he knew it, he was rolling away with black and green robes spiralling around him, as the arc of lightning crept quickly across the hall and exploded with a crack against the black tapestry behind him. Another came, and Drake still moved, leaping behind one of the hall’s stone pillars. He soon found himself sprinting to the next when the first pillar exploded into dust.

Behind the second pillar was a moment’s reprieve, when Drake could consider his next move. Hit him before he hits me. Was his first thought. So Drake leant out from behind the pillar and made to toss fire. He quickly ducked back into safety as Addison’s magic crackled toward him, thundering through the location where his head had once been. Close… He sighed. Let’s try this again. The Guardian leant out, took note of Addison’s position, and ducked back behind the pillar as another bolt flew towards him. Immediately he jumped out from the opposite side of his cover, hand engulfed in his signature green flame. The hot green magic was launched across the room toward Addison who had reacted to the movement, sending another crackling bolt of electricity toward Drake.

The fire intercepted the path of the lightning, and Drake briefly thought that the magic would disrupt or cancel each other out. They did not. Both flame and electricity struck where their targets would have been standing, if not for their simultaneous evasion. The fire splashed against the ground, the lightning popped with a flash, and Drake made an advantageous discovery.

It seemed to him that the electricity could pass through the emerald flame without dispersing the fire. It would have been pleasing if Addison’s magic could be disrupted, but this would work in his favour greatly. He gathered his power deep within himself, building heat inside. His stomach burned, his body shook and then quickened to a vibration so fast that the stone at his feet was worn. The magic took him, his entire being erupted into fire. Drake became fire.

From behind the stone pillar came a shade, shadow and fire entwined. It danced across the hall towards Addison, green and black, hungering to embrace the other with a devouring heat. Lightning struck, once and then twice, but each bolt passed through the elemental being with no affect.

A deep laugh sounded from the fire, the flames rising with each bellow. Drake was untouchable. Addison turned and ran, sprinting towards the dais as Drake followed in his new form. The shade chased him to the throne and then beyond, tossing fire as he did.

Behind the stone chair was a doorway with stairs leading up. Addison darted through and up the steps into the unlit stair and on to the upper floors of the Guardian’s tower. Drake followed, his heat leaving a scorched wake on the stone floor behind him.

Addison’s footsteps echoed as he ran, washing down through the stairwell and into the floors below him. Drake followed the sound, illuminating the way with his flickering light. He passed many doors, some locked, some open, some broken, yet the echo of running continued, so he continued to follow. It was around the thirtieth floor that the other sound started. It was low at first, but then as he reached the thirty-first floor, the roaring began. It was the sound of running water coming from behind a closed door. Water trickled out from the foot of the door, and very quickly began to steam when it came into proximity of Drake. The sound of sprinting continued above, so the Guardian left the closed room alone and floated up.

Drake had reached the fortieth floor when Addison stopped running. He would only have to search two or three floors above him to find his enemy from the sound of it, and burn him alive. The forty-first floor opened up from a broken down door, its hinges rusted and torn, the wood scattered just on the inside. Empty bookshelves and tables filled a large chamber, the green light lit the room and revealed there to be nothing living inside. Drake continued on.

The forty-second floor had a door loose on its hinges. It swung open under the force of Drake’s fiery form and immediately combusted, combining with the green light to illuminate the room with orange and emerald. Inside was some sort of maintenance room, filled with brass pipes that bubbled within. They seemed to be pushing water or perhaps some other liquid about the room and possibly the rest of the tower. When Drake approached the pipes, they quickly began to shake and hiss, steam and bubbles fizzing out of the seams of the metalwork. He moved away again, satisfied that Addison was not there.

But as he turned to leave, the light caused the pipes to cast moving shadows. Drake thought he saw movement within, something hugging the dark shapes as they moved. His magic charged, the fire and his form was ablaze, flickering and burning more than before. The room was bright, the temperature intense. Steam escaped the pipes with a whistle, the brass rumbled and the sounds became unbearable. And then from the shadows Addison appeared, peering through the complex lattice of pipework, his lips moving, but his words obscured by the thunderous sound of the shaking brass and the squeal of the steam. Then came the water.

The pipes burst, gushing and steaming. The rush took Drake, and the next thing he knew he was tumbling down through the tower stair, his flame extinguished and his solid form rolling over steps with water surrounding him. The torrent forced him down and down, crushing him against stone steps and then throwing him up at the stone ceiling, but still down and down and down. By the time the water had stopped, Drake was sprawled on the stair, just outside the door of the seventh floor. His back, shoulders and neck ached, his knee throbbed, but he was otherwise unharmed. A normal man would have been killed.

The darkness surrounded him, he could feel the wet slickness of the ground, could hear the running water continue down to the floors below, and could hear the crackle come from above. The purple blue light was a din at first, but soon crept around the spiralling stone walls of the stairwell and towards Drake. He ran. He could feel the air change, the electric buzz went through his body, he was no fool, he knew what came for him. The light chased him quickly, faster than fast, and Drake could not outrun it. His robes were heavy with water, the steps were too wet to run down without slipping. He found himself correcting his balance more than once, checking himself against the outside wall.

At the Guardian’s heels came fingers of lightning, travelling through the water, grasping hungrily for his legs. Their brightness was rivalled only by their electric heat. He would be caught, but… Drake focused himself, found the centre of his internal energy and brought it to the surface. As before, his form was released into elemental fire and the electric magic found no grip on him. And so the water came again.

When Drake was next on his feet, it was after being washed down the stair and back into the great hall. He had been soaked through and dripped heavily from his robes. The black and green material hugged his head and body tightly. Before he was fully aware, his head still spinning, the crackling magic came from the dark doorway behind the dais. Again the electric power sought out Drake, using the water to find him. The lightning magic found nothing, as the Guardian transformed himself once more. Just as Drake had adapted to Addison’s lightning, Addison had adapted to Drake’s seemingly untouchable fire. This angered him.

The green flame exploded in size, demonstrating Drake’s fury. His anger grew and his power swelled. The elemental form of smoke and fire and shadow doubled in size, then doubled again, and then again and again and again. Drake screamed and burned and scorched. The great stone hall filled up with his heat, the floor began to soften and glow, edging towards molten. The orange fires of the braziers were lost to the emerald.

I have never… Drake was lost in his anger, he had never lost a battle. I will never! He forced his growing mass into the stairway, his flames travelling up the steps, licking at the walls and spreading into each and every room in the tower. Libraries burned, pumping stations burst and the water evaporated, stone melted, glass vaporised and the very air itself was heated until it exploded out of the top of the tower, raining stone and mortar down on to the city below.

The release of energy was all that Drake could manage, and he was soon left standing in the darkened hall with his fires extinguished. The tower top was gone, the power and heat had been so incredible. Addison had surely perished. Surely.

The air was light, his breathing was heavy and laboured. Drake made his way through the darkness, over the dull shimmering floor to the doors of the hall. Before he could reach the doorway, the hinges creaked and the bronze doors swung open. Light flooded the great room from outside and three long shadows crept across the hot stone ground. Growls echoed, and padded feet and claws sang out as the grey and black shapes made for Drake. Their yellow eyes aglow.

The wolves were on him, teeth shredding his clothes and gnawing at his legs. Drake kicked one off, kicked out again and struck the beast on the nose, and then again on the neck. The animal rolled away violently, and then one of its pack mates was thrown atop of it. Both animals dispersed into smoke with the impact, and the last of the three was left to have its throat torn out by Drake’s own hands, flesh and blood and fur all vanishing into dark mist in his fingers.

He laughed, amused by these apparitions. Addison was certainly creative in the use of his magic. He was also creative in his strategies, turning the city against Drake. So now he must leave the tower and take back what was his, before the entire game comes to an end.

He left the hall and entered the city streets, dark dirt roads and dark stone buildings with dark tiled roofs and dark dirty windows, all damaged by the fallen stones of the Guardian’s tower. The world was grey and blue and orange, the night sky mingling with the fires that raged below it. The sound of steel against steel could be heard and the screams of the dying too, all off in the distance. Drake walked with torn robes and aching bones, heading toward the sound of battle. It was a song to him, beautiful and an inspiration to his blood lust.

Passing abandoned houses and the abandoned dead, the Guardian took in the sights and the smells. His lungs sucked it in, his eyes wide with it all. It was revitalising. His pain subsided, his heart pumped, his energies rose. He laughed and screamed and laughed again, and then he laughed and screamed and screamed and laughed and ran and screamed! The tight dark streets opened up into a fountained square and a battle was at hand, swords and shields knocking and clanging together, armour and weapons rang, shouts lingered in the air and echoed against the buildings surrounding the square. Drake came into the fray with his voice singing a frightening song. He leapt into the air, higher than any normal man could, and landed within the fight, crushing the head of one lightly armoured soldier beneath his feet, and then striking with a bare fist against another. The second man’s armoured chest crumpled like paper, his body propelled into a couple that were dancing with steal and iron between them.

The fighting men soon stopped their skirmish, fearful of Drake, and their unwillingness to continue fighting was their doom. Drake swept into one side of the joined battle, like a scythe he cut soldiers down with feet and fists alone. He moved quickly, faster than the other men could run, and was soon standing over their writhing bodies. The other half of the square broke out of their shock and dared to run away, but Drake was on them. He charged up their rear, grabbing at shoulders and heads and arms, pulling and crushing and throwing. Bodies were tossed aside like leaves in the wind, landing heavy on the ground or inside the dried up fountain. They smashed into buildings, through windows and doors. The Guardian’s strength was inhuman… But then he was inhuman.

Drake pulled at his ruined black and green robes and ripped them from his body, tossing them aside. Beneath was a black, full body overall, with neither gloves nor boots. His head was bald, his skin pale and sickly green, and from the left side of his neck to his cheek was silver green scale. He took a breath and allowed a pleasurable shiver to run from his head to his toes, and smiling he took off again, sprinting through the city.

One street was filled with men victorious over Drake’s loyal army, the Fifth City’s soldiers lay dead at their feet. He bulled into them all, his shoulders and fists and elbows cracking bone beneath their force. The next street was not as populated, just one large man busy looting a house of stored weapons. Drake dashed past the man, as quick as a flash, leaving a broken necked doll to fall to the ground. An enemy, an innocent, or his own men, Drake engaged them all. His lust for battle outweighed his rationality.

After travelling through several districts of the city without contact, Drake began to calm, but then he came to a long and wide street, easily able to fit five carts across. Beyond the road was fire, and fighting, and the Guardian craved it. He rushed on, only to stop when a crowd appeared from alleyways and buildings ahead of him. They stood their ground in front of him, blocking the street, baring swords and maces and bows and slings. Drake laughed. ‘That’s him!’ One man pointed with his blade. ‘The old Guardian!’

‘Come!’ Drake shouted, but the men made no such attempt. He laughed and clapped his hands together, creating a green spark and a small flame between his palms. When he pulled his hands apart, a long black blade grew from them and ended with a dark green hilt. He took the sword in one hand and slid the blade through the heel of the other. His blood coloured the sharp edge and then was alight, the sword aflame in that emerald green that was so commonly used. ‘Come now, and die fighting, or die running.’ The men’s faces were fearful, and Drake loved it.

‘I never would have taken you as a swordsman.’ The voice was a surprise, and not only to Drake. The line of fighters parted at the centre and Addison stepped through them with a limp.

Drake smiled. ‘How did you survive?’

‘You blew me out of a window, luckily not so high up that I could not save myself.’

‘You are very skilled.’ He pointed with his blade. ‘But your magic is weak!’

‘As is yours, that is why you failed to kill me.’ The Guardian was enraged by that. Addison scratched his head, gave a yawn and then continued to speak. ‘I have known about you for a long time, Drake. I took part in the war beyond the Fourth City, where your name was legendary. Your army was powerful, your command unrivalled.

‘Unfortunately, I entered the war after you took your leave of it, so I never had the opportunity to meet with you. But I was able to see the results of your campaign, the death and the destruction; the charred remains of men and women; of the wildlife; the trees and the villages. You left a scarred land, where even hardened soldiers were turned back with revulsion.’ He looked Drake in the eyes. Those pale green eyes. ‘I came here with fear of you, with anger for a great many things, but that fear has gone.’

‘You will fear me again.’ Drake took a step toward Addison, and another. ‘My magic can consume you and end you within the blink of an eye, or it can burn you slowly, stretching out your death into hours and days.’ He kept walking forward. ‘But for you, I would not use my magic. My blade was made for you, Addison. I have waited for you, I have dreamt of the day that my steel would kiss one such as you!’ His quick walk turned to a jog. ‘No spells, just swords!’ His lips curled into a cruel smile. His sword aglow as the green fire curled up around the blade.

Addison answered by gripping the hilt of his own sword, drawing the weapon from over his shoulder. The blade was clean and silver blue, it’s edge well sharpened. It left the scabbard with the sound of metal scraping leather ringing in the air. ‘Just swords.’

His words must have inspired some courage in the other men. Just swords. Their fear for magic left them and they charged at Drake, leaving Addison standing alone, his blade hanging in his hand. Just swords. Metal flashed, steel clashed with steel, but only Drake was victorious. His flaming sword cut through the other men’s weapons, through their armour and shields. The Guardian in battle danced around the rest, his blade whirling and slicing. Screams sang out around him, bodies thudding to the ground. ‘You will fear me!’ Drake screamed out. He was as graceful as he was deadly, as fast as he was strong. No one could touch him. ‘You will fear me!‘

One warrior swung an axe at Drake’s head, but the Guardian was under it and cutting through the assailant with a flash of green. The blade sliced through and then into another behind. It caught the other warrior’s spine and jammed, but a kick was all it took to shove the second man away and retrieve the blade, just in time to swipe upward and block the sword of a heavily armoured giant. Drake kicked his knee, metal bent and the bone inside cracked. The man fell, Drake spun backward on one heel and brought the other foot around to the man’s helmet, crushing it and its contents like a juicy red grape. In the same motion, his sword was in another opponent, cutting from collar to waist.

The men died quickly around him, great warriors or not, and he would have it that Addison would die the same. The pale green man approached the son of Adam with speed, raising his black sword above his head, poised to strike down. Addison stood motionless, his sword at his side. When Drake came down on him, the other man stepped aside and allowed the Guardian to pass him by, the blue bladed sword parrying the black and green. Drake whirled around, his blade whistling, reaching out for the foe. The momentum when coupled with inhuman strength and speed created an unimaginable force, one that could slice a man in half with ease. But instead of striking Addison, the flaming sword flew down the street, spinning like a wheel of fire. Drake’s hand was still holding on to the hilt.

Addison had knelt below Drake’s whirling attack, cutting upwards with his own blade and severing the pale man’s hand from the wrist. Drake made no sound, but his wide eyes spoke for him. Addison rose up to his feet and slammed his shoulder into Drake’s chest, causing him to stumble. Blood ran from the open wound, and on contact with the air it combusted into green fire. A steady flow of flame poured from the Guardian’s pained and bloody stump.

‘I am a better Swordsman than I am a Mage.’ Addison proclaimed. Drake looked up in shock, his mouth opened and closed. No words came.

Addison wasted no time. He stepped forward heavily, putting his weight behind the point of his metallic blue blade. The tip took Drake between his collarbones, into the soft dimple of his throat. The deep red ran down the blade and was ablaze. When the sword was removed, scraping against flesh and bone and scale, the blood ran loose.

Drake’s eyes were still wide with shock when the emerald flames engulfed him, his life blood flowing freely from him and ensuring his death with fire. His skin blistered, his blood boiled, his life was ended.

It was painful.

[dontcallmebugaboo]

Lingering Chapter 2

In the Hangar

 A clattering of keys busily being typed away was the most prominent sound in the otherwise hushed hangar of the green lion. A comforting darkness enveloped Pidge as she focused on her work in front of her, the light from both her laptop and the soft glow of Green’s eyes aiding her sight. Her lips formed voiceless opinions and frustrations as she powered through the security systems on her screen, some of it easier than child’s play and some of it that lead her into an annoyingly complicated dance of sorts.

Tap tap t-tap tap.

Pidge barely glanced up from her laptop as she called out, “Come in, Shiro.”

“Hey, Katie.” As always, Shiro’s use of her birth name managed to gain her full attention. Looking up, Pidge burst out laughing when she noticed that Shiro was carrying a tray with two plates of food balanced on top. Keying in a few commands on her laptop before setting the device aside, Pidge gave him an amused grin and shook her head. “We’re actually having that ‘date’ in the hangar after all?”

Shiro chuckled. “I guess so, though to be quite honest, I did it more because I knew you wouldn’t be in the dining hall due to your dedication to your work.” He levelled her with a look, one that she returned without apology. “I swear, Katie, it’s almost as if you forget you’re human. I know you love robots, but remember, you’re not one.”

“Yes dear,” Pidge sassed with a mock salute before standing and taking a plate from the tray. She looked down and nearly drooled. She was hard pressed not to moan as she said, “Oh thank the stars Hunk was cooking tonight.” Shiro’s mischievous grin and raised eyebrow had her coughing out a laugh as she looked away, willing the heat away from her face. That very expression was going to do her in one of these days, she just knew it.

She took a breath, before shoveling food in her mouth, hardly paying attention to the taste as she fought off a blush. Stupid Shiro, she internally grumped. He was too cute, too kind…four years her senior (technically three years and eight months) and he was her superior officer. Pidge did her best not to slump at that. Lance was wrong. It wouldn’t be difficult at all to act like a wife in love as her earlier display had proven. The difficulty of it all was remembering that it was nothing but an act.

She was Pidge Gunderson, Paladin of the Green Lion.

She was also Katie Holt.

Matt’s little sister.

This was like an awkward angsty sitcom moment in the making.

Pidge sighed heavily through her nose before taking another bite, this time actually registering one of the spices that had been used. Swallowing before talking only so she could avoid dealing with Shiro in “dad mode” no matter how briefly, Pidge then asked, “hey…is this quartz salt? From Shay?”

Shiro grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Hunk received a small bag of it from her the last time we were visiting the Balmera.”

Pidge smiled wistfully. “They really adore each other, don’t they? They’re always seeking the other out whenever we visit.”

“I know Hunk tries to deny it,” Shiro added. “But let’s face it. They’re each other’s other half.”

The green paladin laughed at that. “Who knew that Hunk would find his soul mate all the way out here in space?”

“Let’s not tease him about it just yet.”

Pidge smirked. “I make no such promises.”

The pair lapsed into a silence, barely remembering to touch their food as they both became lost in thought. Pidge’s smirk became a grin that she tried to hide behind her water pouch as she realized just how easy and relaxed it was talking to Shiro, bantering with him. She thought back to her last sentence mere ticks ago and noticed it was the exact same line the two of them had tossed back and forth earlier when teasing each other over their fake romantic history. It had been right before she had instigated a sort of “kiss-off” between the two when trying to prove that she could be mushy and romantic when the situation called for it. Idly, Pidge wondered if she could keep it up. Her eyes flicked up toward Shiro whom was unaware of her gaze as he focused on finishing his dinner; it hadn’t been merely interesting to see him blush, it had been the heat and the connection…the spark. That was what Pidge was quickly finding herself becoming addicted to.

‘I wonder if there’s a way to recreate it…’ Pidge sipped at her water as she mused.

Shiro broke the silence, comfortable though it was. “So, any side projects going on?”

“Oh, I’ve just thought of one, actually,” Pidge admitted as she twirled her straw, not looking him in the eyes, not yet. “An experiment, actually.”

“Uh-oh,” Shiro teased. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“Gonna tell me what it is?”

Pidge looked him dead in the eye, smirked and said, “The goal is to discover how many times it takes to make Takashi Shirogane blush before he implodes?” She leaned back against Green’s paw, self-satisfaction radiating from her whole being as she took in his burning cheeks and wide obsidian eyes, his shoulders inching toward his ears. “That’s one.”

Shiro only could emit a squeak.

Unable to stop herself, Pidge continued in an as innocent of a voice as she could manage, “what? Lion got your tongue?” She shifted forward, leaning as far into her captain’s personal space as she dared. “Oh wait; I’m your pretend wife now, so maybe that should be me.”

Shiro buried his scorching face in his hands as he groaned loudly before dissolving into helpless giggles. “Piiiiiidge!” He whined. Two.

“Well my goodness,” Pidge drawled. “It looks like the Champion does have a weakness after all. And look at that folks, he blushes beautifully. I don’t think even Red looks that good.” She had to stifle a giggle herself when she heard Green’s amused rumble through their link.

Try not to kill the Black Paladin, my little one, her lion gently admonished.

Only for you, Green.

Shiro managed to compose himself enough to lift his head from his hands and glare sternly at her. A somewhat failed attempt due to the strong blush still painted across his face. “It should be illegal for you to be this much of a flirt.”

“Whatcha gonna do to me?” She whispered, ochre eyes glinting.

Ooh, apparently Shiro meant to play as well for he now leaned into her space, getting dangerously close to her lips as he lowered his voice to a whisper as well, the heat between them coming back in full force. “First, I’m going to forbid you and Lance from being friends.”

The heat faded slightly as Pidge fell back, bursting into laughter. “Well, excuse me, Shiro, but I think I’ve proven that I know how to flirt on my own without Lance’s influence.”

The Black Paladin let out a gusty sigh at that as he hoped his face was beginning to cool down. “That you do, Pidge. That you do.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked at her sidelong. “I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t boys Matt needed to ever keep away from you, it was you that Matt probably needed to keep away from boys.”

Pidge let out a snort. “Hardly. I was barely interested in anyone before leaving Earth.” Her eyes widened as her mind ran through that previous sentence and she shifted slightly in embarrassment as she realized the implication in her words.

Apparently Shiro did too, as he felt his face begin to heat once more. Geez, at this rate Pidge’s “experiment” was going to work. He tried composing himself, but his voice was still rather squeaky, much to his consternation. “O-oh? That means you’re crushing on someone? Here? In space?”

Pidge took a breath before replying with a small smirk, “that’s for me to know and for you to get annoyed over.”

Her crush feigned being upset; placing a fist over his heart, closing his eyes and lowering his head before shaking it. “Devastating,” he told her in a theatric, heartbroken tone. “You won’t even confide in your teammate. One of your best friends…” he gave a pathetic sniffle.

Pidge slowly clapped; okay, if Shiro kept up this sort of silliness, maybe the mission would be survivable after all. “Brava,” she returned in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really had me going there. It almost made me want to give you a hug.”

“I could do with a hug,” Shiro told her seriously.

Well damn, he was giving her permission. It was nearly impossible to resist that.

“Okay,” Pidge replied, shifting forward and wrapping her arms around her friend. Hugging Shiro was surprisingly easy and didn’t make her heart skip several beats unlike making him blush did.

Then he reciprocated the hug.

Oh. She was wrong. She was very, very wrong. Apparently she had made the mistake of forgetting just how muscular the man was because this wasn’t their first hug and he had in fact, carried her before. The curse of being so quiznaking short. Or was it a perk?

The way his arms curved about her, nearly ensconcing her entire petite frame, making her feel safe, reassured and dare she think it, loved. Well, sure, they did love one another; they were best friends after all. Yet Pidge couldn’t help but entertain thoughts of the other type of love, the one that brought about an intimate heat in the air between the two of them and sparks dancing across her skin whenever his hand brushed her arm…his soft lips on her cheek.

Though having his head tucked into the crook of her neck and his warm breath dancing across her collarbone wasn’t exactly doing wonders for her heart rate.

Squeezing him tighter for two ticks more, Pidge then began to pull away. “Um,” she began, her thoughts still frazzled from their embrace. “I uh, should probably apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to make you so uncomfortable.”

Shiro chuckled. “It’s okay, Katie. Sure, I’ll admit, you did fluster me…” his smile grew teasing as he arched an eyebrow. “But wasn’t that the point of your ‘experiment’? To see how often it took to make me blush before I imploded? Interesting word choice there, by the way.”

Pidge ducked her head as she felt heat begin to caress her own face. She laughed awkwardly, “Yeah, but let’s be honest, I got rather carried away there.” She traded her embarrassment for amused accusation as she lightly glared at him. “Though, I see you’ve got your own experiment going there, Shirogane.”

Shiro shrugged, a bit unapologetic as he replied softly, "turnabout's fair play Miss Holt." He daring reached out and brushed a hand against her cheek. "You do manage to sport a very fetching shade of red."

She looked up at him, taking in the look of genuine tenderness and desire in his liquid charcoal eyes, the tuft of white falling into them giving him a sort of vulnerability. His smile was as gentle as the thumb that was caressing her jawline. 

Stars, she wanted to kiss him.

Unconsciously she started to lean forward; hardly aware of what she was doing until Shiro suddenly seemed much closer. A full blush shot through her and she very nearly pulled away in order to start babbling apologies when it clicked that he had begun to lean in as well.

Tilting her head slowly toward the right, eyes closing, her lips were barely a breath away from his when Allura's voice came blaring through the hangar. 

"Shiro and Pidge to the deck! I repeat, Shiro and Pidge to the deck!"

Leaping away as the princess's voice ripped through the silence, both Paladins fought to settle their heartbeats as blushes began to fade. After a long moment, Pidge finally managed to squeak, "So! Shall we?" She gestured hastily before her.

Shiro chuckled and nodded, easily falling into step with Pidge. That had been a heavy moment, he thought. Then winced. This experiment of hers probably will make me implode. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Though it looks like I won't be the only one who will be reduced to a flustered mess.

"Wait." She paused in her walking as a question dawned in her eyes. "Are we going by our real names here or pseudonyms?"

Shiro thought for a tick before replying a little awkwardly, "I'd always assumed it'd be our real names. They're alien enough, face it, we look alien enough to other planets, I don't think fake names are necessary." His expression became teasing. "Though we are sneaking into a government facility of sorts, so I guess fake names are something to consider."

Pidge scowled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You know why I had to go by another name, Shiro."

He softened, "I know."

Letting the issue go and returning to the previous one, she shrugged and said, "Guess I can go by Katie for this one."

"Really?"

"Katie Shirogane seems to flow a bit better than Pidge Shirogane," she reasoned, not noticing Shiro's eyes widen as she attached his last name to her first. She grinned and glanced up at him. "Although, you could be Takashi Gunderson. Nah, Takashi Holt does sound a bit cuter."

Last names. It was going to be the talk of their last names as if they were truly getting married that was going to do him in if his pounding heart was anything to go by. "Wh-what about hyphenating?"

Pidge made a face, "Too long."

Well, she wasn't wrong about that. 

The rest of the walk to the bridge was silent but neither Paladin minded as they took the time to gather their thoughts and slow down their heartbeats. Things had gotten rather…heady in the hangar and truth be told, Pidge would have rather blamed the Balmeran quartz salt, but she knew otherwise. That had been all her. She took a shaky breath as she realized that had been all Shiro too. Maybe her feelings weren’t unrequited after all. Or, her accursed logical side began to point out; maybe Shiro had simply been caught up in the game they were going to play for the upcoming mission.

This was going to be messy.

Pidge just hoped the both of them came out of it unscathed.

Allura was waiting for the pair of them on the bridge, hands clasped behind her back, a gentle smile gracing her face. “We shall be planet-side in roughly five of your Earth hours,” she informed them.

“Well, that’s good,” Pidge replied, brightening a little compared to her earlier disposition.

“Guess we should head to bed then,” Shiro added as he and Pidge started to turn away. “Get some sleep.”

“Just a tick!” Allura interjected. The pair paused, then turned back to look at the Altean royal.

“Something the matter, Princess?” Shiro asked.

“Earlier we had discussed your backstory as a couple individually,” Allura’s smile grew mischievous as she continued. “I believe it is time we see how well those two tales line up.”

Both Pidge and Shiro flinched, their eyes going wide as they both began to blush. They were supposed to discuss their fake love stories? Now? The soon-to-be false husband and wife glanced at one another as they shared one thought.

Oh hell…

 Hmm…a little bit shorter than the last chapter, but I felt this was a good place to stop, I didn’t want to get too ramble-y. The next chapter will have their fake backstories. Hopefully I can make them line up a little. And I promise to involve more of Voltron. That’s a bad habit of mine, focusing on only two or three characters at a time and putting everyone else on “pause” so to speak. I hope to get better at that soon!

And for those who want to kill me for ending the moment in the hangar the way I did…well, then you won’t get chapter three then, will you?

I hope to post again soon!

[paintandashes-blog]

The name Alice Holt does not refer to a person called Alice. It is generally accepted that ‘Alice’ is a corruption of Ælfsige, the Bishop of Winchester who had rights over this particular Holt, or Forest. It is often seen rendered as ‘Alice Holt Forest’ – which would mean ‘Ælfsige’s Forest Forest’! Aldershot, by comparison, means Alder Forest, the ‘holt’ corrupted to ‘shot’.

The wood is managed by the Forestry Commission, a body first created to manage supplies of wood following the Great War, then to encourage repopulation of upland areas. Alice Holt is largely planted with pine (though parts still have oak trees) and this monoculture has had a predictable effect on wildlife. Nonetheless, pockets exist, and this is one of them – an army of foxgloves in a bright sunlit glade between stands of trees that block out the light.

Apparently, there has been much debate on the etymology of ‘foxglove’. This OUP article debunks the rather lovely idea of ‘Folks (Fairies) gloves’, but it is a suspiciously flattening piece.

As usual, this painting is about light, the contrast between the dark wood and the bright clearing. But it is also about form – the verticals of the mostly broad-leaved trees to the left and the sombre dominance of the pines to the right, and the matching upright foxgloves (I wonder whether John Wyndham was thinking of foxgloves when he wrote Day of the Triffids).

http://bit.ly/2TUBFwG

[dylansclassics240blog]

The Myth of the Heterosexual

Readings:  “The Myth of the Heterosexual: Anthropology and Sexuality for Classicists” by Holt N. Parker, “Making a Monster” by Sarah Scullin

Once, my sophomore year, the other officers of the LGBTQ+ campus alliance I help coordinate indulged my love of studying ancient queer sexuality and let me present on the topic at a meeting.  While I was admittedly a novice to presentation and research, which resulted in a talk that was mostly gushing about my historical OTPs (Hadrian and Antinous for life), I tried to ensure one point came across:  ancient queer folks did not call themselves “heterosexual” or “homosexual” the way we do.  Identity politics based on sexual orientation would not have existed, because sexual orientation did not exist.  Instead, the categories were based on power and who did what in sexual interactions.  This seemed like a given to me -- I had heard it from professors and older friends in the classics department and took it as a given.  Therefore, it is cool to visit the original research that brought us to this point.  I can only imagine what those reading such a fresh take in 2001 would have thought.  

I loved how comprehensive this piece was, and how Parker does not shy away from language that may seem crude in an academic setting but that conveys what he wants to say succinctly and well.  In addition, Parker is even more inclusive of nonbinary and intersex folks than Scott, which shows how well-thought out the research is.  Parker really makes a point of showing that sex is socially constructed, a point I think most of us forget since most of us are not intersex, do not know any openly intersex people, and therefore don’t have to think about it.  Like the Scott article, the Parker paper forces me to review my ideas of the relationship between sex and gender.  Before, I would have said that sex constructs gender.  However, Parker writes that sex depends on gender and our categories of male, female, and intersex.  Which one constructs the other?  I don’t know, but it’s an exciting question.  The paper did, however, prove to contain some confusing elements.  For example, I lost Parker when he begins talking about the idea of “emic” versus “etic.”  I understand the basic idea, that one references to people within a group and one to people outside the group, but I was confused as to why he spent so many pages talking about it and feel I might have missed something.  He also includes a graph of sex and gender relations on page 341 that may be helpful to some but that I can make neither head nor tail of.  Overall, the reading was very useful and I understand its influence, but as a classicist its sociology/anthropology take was something I wasn’t exactly used to and it therefore didn’t come as naturally to me.

And then there’s the article "Making a Monster.”  My heart sank when I learned Holt Parker was in prison, and what exactly he was in prison for.  It was similar to the way I felt when I read Gayle Rubin’s essay “Thinking Sex” and her apparent defense of pedophilia, only ten thousand times worse because Parker has actually committed a crime.  I understand the impulse to ban his work or to stop citing this article that is, again, so influential.  But I don’t agree with it.  I think it’s important to continue to read this research, as long as we constantly evaluate it with this news in mind.  Another point of view I disagree with is the idea that his crime is worse because of his scholarship.  Who cares whether or not his day job was in Homer’s use of the metaphor?  Child pornography is child pornography, and studying ancient sexual relationships does not worsen or better it.  The study of sexuality as a field is reputable and important on its own, and to suggest that someone having child pornography is somehow worse because they study is inaccurate.

[hauntsofmissouri]

Greensboro, NC

The Legend

Just outside of Greensboro, at the U.S. Highway 70 underpass there has said to have been the ghost of a beautiful young girl who has been appearing here since 1923. She stands next to the US Highway 70 Underpass in a white evening gown and waves frantically for someone to stop and pick her up. Those hapless travelers who do are introduced to a young woman who says her name is Lydia and she always ask them to please take her to an address in High Point. She always tells them that she has spent the evening at a dance in Raleigh and is anxious to get home, having run into car trouble on the way. Just as the drivers approach the house, the girl always vanishes from their car, never opening the door and getting out. There are many versions to the story but the most common one that I have heard is that Lydia was at a dance one night and was trying to get home. She was apparently hit by a car and now she hitches rides home from the bridge. When the person gets her to her house, she disappears. She never says anything other than her name is Lydia, she needs to get home, and her address. Either way, she died in 1923. The road that linked High Point and Greensboro was a different road than is there now. There are train tracks that are the reason for the bridge. The bridge now is called the graffiti bridge, for obvious reasons. To the left of this bridge, about 40 ft away and hidden in massive amounts of kudzu, is where the original bridge is, and it’s Lydia’s bridge. One report of a group of friends in the 80’s; that would venture there had two girls in this group and every time they would get close to the bridge, the girls would pass out. Some say that Lydia is merely an urban legend but more information has come out recently that proves that Lydia was a real person.

There are many variations of this story. Some say that Lydia was in High School and that the dance was the prom. Others say that Lydia was a student at High Point University. Either way, the story of Lydia’s Ghost is a spooky one that has been passed down over the years. Lydia’s Bridge is also a popular attraction where locals and tourists alike hope to catch a glimpse of the infamous Lydia. The bridge is rumored to be the spot of the accident that snatched Lydia’s life. Many people have reported seeing a woman in white standing by the bridge. Screams have also been heard from beneath the old and now overgrown bridge. The bridge is now nearly 50 ft from the new overpass that leads into Jamestown, which makes Lydia’s efforts to get home even more difficult. But Lydia remains. At least that what many locals will tell you. Some say Lydia is still trying to get home from the dance. They believe that one day she may find her way home.

On certain rainy nights, where US 70-A twists around a sweeping curve that passes by an old, overgrown underpass, drivers will see a young woman in a white evening dress standing by the side of the road, desperately trying to flag down a passing car. If anyone pulls over to help the young lady, she climbs meekly into the back seat of the car and explains that her name is Lydia, and that she’s just been to a dance and now she’s trying to get home. She gives the driver an address not too far away, and he kindly agrees to take her there. The driver may try to engage Lydia in conversation, but she seems distracted and in a world of her own, so he just leaves her in a respectful silence and concentrates on the road ahead.

When the car pulls in to the address that the young woman gave, the chivalrous driver invariably hops out to open the door for her only to discover that she has vanished. Perplexed, the man goes to the door, where an old woman answers. The man explains that he’s picked up a young lady named Lydia by the overpass who asked to be brought to this address, but she’s no longer in the car. He wonders if she may have run out before he could open the door, and he just wants to know if she’s safe and if everything is as it should be.

A faint, pained smile of recognition passes over the old woman’s face, as she reaches for a picture in a silver frame sitting on a table by the door. It’s a photograph of the young woman the man drove to the house. “Lydia was my daughter,” the old woman says, “She died in a car wreck by that overpass in 1923. You’re not the first one, and I suppose you won’t be the last. Every so often, her spirit flags down a passing driver. I suppose she still doesn’t understand what happened to her. I suppose she’s still trying to get home.”

With vanishing hitchhikers, like any oral tradition, these stories have shifted through the years. A few central points of the North Carolina legend remain stable – the girl’s white dress, her sitting in the back seat, and the fact that it’s raining seem to turn up in every version. It’s only relatively recently, when the influence of the internet began to give our oral culture a more static format, that the variant where the girl is named Lydia and specifically identified with the overgrown bridge has become the most often told one.

Versions of the story circulating in the Sixties usually insisted that the girl’s name was “Mary” and that she was trying to return home to Greensboro, having attended a dance in Raleigh, and the point where the driver picks her up is usually given as somewhere along US 70. But the bonus of having a specific, and genuinely creepy, destination associated with the story seems to have fixed our homegrown hitchhiker halfway to High Point and perpetually flagging down passing motorists from Lydia’s Bridge. The fact that Lydia’s Bridge is not actually a bridge, but a culvert to carry the railroad tracks over a now-dry stream bed is accounted for, in the wonderful way that oral tradition compensates for unhelpful reality, by the story’s usually specifying that the road “has been rerouted.” Recently, the tidbit confirming that a ghost hunter found the death certificate for a “Lydia Jane M” who died on December 23 (or 31st) 1923 from “fatal injuries from a motoring accident” has been circulating with online versions of the story.

So what does the story of the phantom hitchhiker mean? Why do we keep telling it time and time again? Its probably worth noticing that most versions of the story place the accident sometime in the 1920s, a time when the death of a young woman in an automobile accident would have been a relative rarity, and not the unfortunately common occurrence it is on today’s overcrowded roads. There may be similar folk memories of that first, fatal accident which took the life of a young woman from the town kept alive in the phantom hitchhiker stories. There also may be something in the way the story captures the excitement of a teenager’s first few years driving, where making the journey from Raleigh to Greensboro alone at night can seem like an adventure and where anything is possible even picking up a hitchhiker who died nearly a century ago.

There have been two different versions of Lydia. During daylight or nights that are normal, Lydia is somewhat tranquil and as normal looking as possible. On rainy nights she appears with a more frightening appearance. She’s extremely injured, terrified, sad, and desperate. Some say she is reliving the aftermath of the crash. One story that has been told is that of two young men that stopped to pick her up and left hurriedly because she seemed to be angry and had a negative personality.

There are reports that in 2008, efforts were made to help Lydia cross over, though no one knows if it worked. There are still reports trickling in of her appearance.

There are several other paranormal accounts associated with the actual Lydia’s Bridge. Some have witnessed a pale woman standing just past the bridge, heard screams and had feelings of being watched.

The True Story

Lydia’s story has been one of the more fascinating stories I’ve come across in my more than fifteen years researching the paranormal. There have been many ups and downs in the case such as a few years ago when I came across the information about a Lydia Jane M, who was born in 1904 in High Point, North Carolina and died on December 31, 1923 from an automobile crash. I never found anything else out and the source never added to it. Still I was pretty convinced that this might be her. Just recently I came across the information that a woman did die in a car crash at the original 1916 railroad underpass on June 20, 1920. However, her name was not Lydia, nor was she a teenager on her way home from a dance. She also did not live in High Point, and her parents were both dead for years when she was killed.

The woman killed in 1920, which was the only documented fatality of the sort, was 35 year old Miss Annie L.Jackson, who lived at “Mama Bertie” Gannt’s boarding House at 201 North Davie Street in Greensboro. The driver was Joseph Calvin Hutchinson, who fled the scene. The car did not hit a tree or anything else. It flipped on its top on the rain slicked road near the underpass, and Miss Jackson was thrown, fracturing her skull, and dying almost immediately. This information has been proven as historical fact, borne out by a death certificate, and newspaper articles in the Greensboro Patriot and High Point Enterprise.

“Lydia” is a composite character, put together from the stories of 4 or 5 different women and young girls, some with ties to Jamestown, who died in Guilford County, 1916 – 1928. This includes 18 year old Lena Mary Farrington, who died in a car crash on Winston Road on Feb. 25, 1922. Miss Farrington was from High Point and she is buried in Oakwood Cemetery (Jackson is in Holt’s Chapel, Greensboro) in High Point, where the legend has "Lydia" buried. People mistakenly place her death in Jamestown simply because of confusion.

The possibility exists that her middle name was in some “Lydia” form such as Ludia or Louise and with the dialect of the time could have been mistaken Lydia.

From an interview with local author and ghost hunter Michael Renegar, who basically solved Lydia’s mystery.

“We checked death records from 1900 to 1938 looking for the name Lydia. So, I began to think it’s either a myth or her name was something else,” Renegar said.

He came across an old Greensboro Patriot article dated June 21, 1920 — a date consistent with the time period for the Lydia legend. The article is about a fatal car crash that happened the night before.

“It was a rush job with misspellings, mistakes. Four people were in the car, and they were on High Point road. The car lost control on the rain-slicked road and overturned. This young woman was thrown from the car, hit her head and died almost instantly. But her name was not Lydia… her name was Annie L. Jackson.”

Jackson’s death record shows at the time of the crash, she was 30 years old and lived in Greensboro. Renegar found out her address matches that of an old boarding house. So, he believes the car was traveling toward Greensboro — not High Point — the night of the crash. He thinks that piece of the puzzle explains why a ghost still lurks there, because she’s still trying to get home.

“She’s on the side of the road, as if she wishes to be taken to High Point. Of course, Annie (Jackson) realizes we’re going the wrong way again! And, she disappears.”

But will solving the mystery spoil the story?

“The story resonates with people. Everyone wants to go home. If this is Annie (Jackson), and the mystery is solved…maybe she can move on and not be there anymore, though the story will still be there.”

Lydia’s Bridge Greensboro, NC The Legend

[freestockphotoscom]

Designer Min Liu the Industry cycle that is high-pressure affects the art of Style

While Chinese fashion enthusiasts are having a love affair with luxury labels for years, there is a new wave of young Chinese performers who have begun vying for attention, and some are meeting with success. Min Liu is a Chinese-born layout talent that studied her craft in the London College of Art, and unlike a lot of other aspiring young designers, returned home as it came time to make her mark.

The Fortune Red lipglass (previously) along with the First Waves pearlmatte face wax (under) are a part of this M.A.C Cosmetics cooperation Min Liu only started.

Eager to assert her daring yet intimate and female aesthetic, Liu established Ms. Min, her advanced girls’s wear label, at 2010, following a stint design for Xiamen-based Ports, the famous global brand which was founded in Canada in 1961. It had been in Ports that Liu met the guy and mentor that was to become her husband, Canadian fashion business dynamo Ian Hylton. Hylton, who’d been designing guys’s wear for Ports, and previously worked in Club Monaco, Flare Magazine and Holt Renfrew, to mention a few, before moving into China, has long been considered a savvy fresh  strategist.

Hylton abandoned Ports in 2014 to become president of Ms. Min, and it is proven to been a game. Apart from being adopted by global luxury retailers, for example China’s Lane Crawford and Saks Fifth Avenue from the U.S., Ms. Min is available at The Room. Along with the brand’s awareness only keeps rising: Most recently, M.A.C Cosmetics collaborated with Ms. Min for an innovative  collection.

I talked with Liu out of her studio at Xiamen concerning the dawn of Chinese fashion labels along with her own artful approach to  design.

Most young fashion abilities have their sights about designing in London, Paris, Milan or New York. Exceptional does it feel for you to be designing out of  China?

After I finished school, I interned at Amsterdam. I wished to stay in Europe, but the timing was not right since the entire year which I finished school was this crisis’ time, so a lot of people got laid off. I return into China in 2009. I had been thinking, “I’ll only return to China for today,” and then I got a job offer out of Ports. That is why I came to Xiamen, where we’re based today. Then my husband and I began my own new and met. It simply happened all organically.

I’m not sure if you are feeling you’re coming to your job as an artist, but you’ve that consciousness. For you to be working inside this high pressure system, how can it feel?

I believe art is the thing that is most significant. Otherwise it means nothing. Fashion is a system due to this speedy pace. I always speak about this together with Ian. I believe this rate is killing the art. But what about life is to get the balance and I’m always looking for that. I consider fashion to be a daily art. In the end of the afternoon, we’re trying to make something good to wear, trying to deliver something. So it is about finding the balance.

When you discuss fashion as a “everyday art,” are you really talking in terms of what the designer sets out there or that which the customer chooses and how they put it  all together?

Yes, it’s the way clothing are chosen by them — how they feel they achieve that atmosphere and appearance that is gorgeous. That is the art from the bottom of their   heart.

Pieces out of the spring/summer 2017 collection of Min Liu.

Chinese Fashion Week was receiving more attention recently. Are Chinese fashion enthusiasts eager to support tags, or are you currently looking all the time?

I feel it’s evolving. Years ago, people constantly talked about brands, and there was confusion as it came to overseas brands. It’s almost like people were thinking that everything foreign was great. However, through the years, since the economy grew, a lot of brands started in China, and people began to travel a lot more. So they have had a fast fashion instruction. Individuals used to mostly buy big brands like Louis Vuitton and Gucci, but slowly, trend attitudes have begun to open up and, in recent years, Chinese folks are more receptive to encouraging designers and more.

Your husband, Ian Hylton, is an experienced professional, and has been a very important portion of our own Canadian fashion development. What did you find out about fashion?

We are life partners and we’re currently operating partners. It’s magic that we share the same interests. Workwise, Ian really taught me what it takes to build a new, to create a dream group, and the way to approach that. He has a vision and, too, he’s had so many terrific adventures in the fashion  field.

How did this newest collaboration with M.A.C Cosmetics   occur?

It began three years back. Back then, our staff was way smaller, and we just sold in China. And since M.A.C always collaborates with various artists and designers, I guess that they had been brainstorming about who their second designer cooperation will be using. Apparently, two women out of M.A.C’s creative group advocated me at the assembly to inventive manager James Gager. He liked that and our new was the start. It was a true collaboration in every way. Collaborations are always a challenge and it was my first time designing cosmetics. I learned a lot just in the idea.

How can your parents inspire you? Did they encourage you to follow a route in  vogue?

I was born at a Chinese town with a very long history in 1981, but it’s not a cosmopolitan city like Shanghai or Beijing. Back then, China just opened up and while there was not a lot of fashion around me, my mother loves clothing. So I grew up going to tailor shops and cloth shops with her. After I was eight or nine, I just found myself interested in clothing. I remember my mother going. I recall looking at clothing and thinking, “This is great!” Or “This one’s not so great.” I recall building a sense of aesthetics throughout that era up. As soon as I became a teenager, I found a book that sold lots of foreign magazines that are outdated and had my first fashion minute I had been cycling around. This was the very first time I saw the first time and global fashion magazines that I see Vogue and i-D. I recall those first images that hit on me. It had been a effort of Vivienne Westwood along with Helmut Lang. At that moment, I just held my breath and thought, “Oh my God! This is why I love clothes!” I recall there being a post about Camden Town in London…and roughly a lot of vintage shops out there. I began thinking I had to go there to study fashion. I’m very fortunate because my father has always been so supportive. And I went to study  fashion.

This meeting was edited and plotted.

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from free stock photos http://www.free-stock-photos.info/designer-min-liu-the-industry-cycle-that-is-high-pressure-affects-the-art-of-style/

[ourpleasantlybigbouquet-blog]

Wrestling: How a Pudgy Kid Became an Olympic Champion

Pudge

The Olympic champion wrestler Dave Schultz was known as "Pudge" in wrestling circles. He was a tiny bit rotund in his more youthful days. Truth be told, Dave's companion Steve Holt expressed in an article that Dave was a total jelly belly with no all around characterized muscles when in secondary school. He guarantees that Dave would regularly be confused for a score manager or a coach.

Steve initially met Dave at an end of the week competition that Steve was wrestling in amid his secondary school years. Steve states, "I saw this fat, thick green bean kid sitting in the cheap seats watching me amid each round. He was watching and contemplating me like a researcher does with a white guinea pig in a labyrinth. I trust he was notwithstanding bringing down notes!"

As per Jim Humphrey, previous head mentor at Indiana University, "He didn't resemble a competitor, with his drooped shoulders, rearranging step, and being pigeon-toed. He wasn't especially quick."

All in all, what set Dave "Pudge" Schultz separated from different wrestlers? How could he turn out to be so overwhelming?

Searched Out Mentors

The youthful Dave Schultz turned into a wrestling fan. He couldn't get enough. He needed to take in the best methods he could and searched out approaches to get in additional training time.

For example, Chris Horpel initially met Dave when Horpel was at that point a NCAA All-American wrestler for Stanford. The 14-year-old Dave strolled over from Palo Alto High, asking the 21-year-old Horpel to grapple with him. Horpel concurred, planning to dispose of Dave after a couple of sessions. Shockingly, Dave continued returning.

As per a Sports Illustrated article entitled "Siblings and Brawlers," "Dave, dyslexic as a tyke, had taken up wrestling in the seventh grade on the exhortation of an instructor who thought it would enable him to fabricate fearlessness. It did that and that's only the tip of the iceberg. By his first year at Palo Alto High, Dave was a wrestling aficionado. He wore his singlet under his school garments and his wrestling shoes all over the place. He prepared upwards of three times each day. After his secondary school exercise, he'd ride his bicycle a couple of miles up the street so he could rehearse with the Stanford wrestling group, whose mentor, Joe DeMeo, would then drive him 30 miles north to Skyline College for a session with a club called the Peninsula Grapplers."

Commitment

Dave Schultz wasn't a wrestling wonder. He was predominant appropriate from the earliest starting point. It required investment and commitment.

Dave Schultz had dyslexia and was prodded and ridiculed by different children. At the point when Dave first ventured on the wrestling mat in the seventh grade, he was cumbersome and clumsy. He didn't make the varsity group and keeping in mind that wrestling JV he won just 50% of his matches. Many children would have surrendered and discovered another game or diversion however not Dave. He was resolved, and inside two years was positioned the second best wrestler on the planet for his age gathering.

I've effectively noticed that Dave Schultz rehearsed a great deal. He put in a greater number of hours on the tangle than most wrestlers would. He strolled around grounds with his wrestling shoes tied around his neck. He would bear a colossal duplicate of a showed manual for wrestling in his rucksack.

He didn't get his driver's permit at 16 since he would not like to put time in taking the class. He had a sweetheart for a brief span amid his senior year of secondary school yet dropped her after she recommended that he ought to invest more energy with her and less time wrestling.

Concentrate on Technique

Dave Schultz contemplated wrestling, dissecting methods and separating each move. To Dave, wrestling resembled a chess coordinate. He knew he wouldn't generally be more grounded than an adversary however he could out-think him. In a Sports Illustrated article Dave states, "Folks have certain strategies, and I think about them. At that point I attempt to do what screws them up best."

Schultz has been all around lauded as being one of the best professionals the game of wrestling has ever had. Many viewed him as the best specialist in wrestling and an ace strategist. His wrestling information was huge.

Bill Scherr, 1988 Olympic gold medalist and companion states, "Dave had numerous novel qualities that gave him the drive and the capacity to end up noticeably the United States' most noteworthy specialized wrestler ever. To start with, Dave was as focused as any competitor I've ever met. He didn't care to get beat. He was overwhelmed by being the best, and trusted that adapting increasingly and better procedure was the way to achieving that objective. Second, Dave had an enormous personality. While we were on the National Team together, Dave got into chess and soon had every one of us playing. Furthermore, I don't recall him losing."

Schultz watched video tapes of his matches and those of his rivals. He generally had a journal with him and he would record the methods and the things he expected to chip away at.

He learned free-form and Greco-Roman strategies notwithstanding his academic wrestling notwithstanding when in secondary school.

Unassuming and Willing to Learn

Dave Schultz learned Russian and different dialects so he could converse with and gain from wrestlers of various countries. What's more, he eagerly imparted his specialized information to anybody. He was an incredible diplomat for the game of wrestling. He had companions far and wide.

Two-time Olympic champion John Smith states, "He set aside opportunity to go through with you to show you procedures. He would not give you a chance to leave until the point when you caught on. This is extremely one of a kind in wrestling, on the grounds that most competitors hold his data. Dave Schultz was not along these lines."

Dave was eager to gain from wrestlers, even those apparently less gifted. He didn't have a major inner self. He was ready to take in great strategy from anybody. Data and information were important to him. He was continually picking everybody's brains and getting some information about moves.

Different Wrestlers With Obstacles

Incredible wrestler Gene Mills, expressed in a book, "I was a 88-pound chunk as a secondary school green bean when I started wrestling in Wayne, New Jersey. Wrestling was the game for me and I went ahead to win the states as a senior and two NCAA titles at Syracuse University in '79 and '81. My dad showed me my most loved move - the half-nelson. I had a great deal of inconvenience separating folks traditionally, so I figured out how to put in the half and run it up finished the best. It worked awesome for me."

Colleges weren't that intrigued by Gene despite the fact that he'd been predominant in secondary school. Factories was little and cases he could just seat 100 pounds at the time. His previous Syracuse mentor reviews Gene as a weak secondary school senior but then he took a risk on Mills who might end up noticeably one of the best wrestlers America has ever observed.

Quality, a two-time NCAA champion, set the NCAA Division I profession pins record with 107 pins. That record stands right up 'til today.

Quality was not able wrestle in the 1980 Olympics in light of the U. S. blacklist. Quality states, "I needed to stick my way through the Olympic Games and knew I expected to drop down to 114.5 to achieve my objective. That was an intense draw for me however I made it."

Lamentably, he didn't get the opportunity to wrestle in the Olympics yet he won the renowned Tbilisi Tournament in 1980 which was said to be harder than the Olympics at one time.

As indicated by the article "Quality Mills: The Uncrowned King," "Quality Mills finished what no other human has done since the Russians' famous Tbilisi Tournament started in '58. He had no awful stamps, which means he crushed every one of the eight adversaries by at least 12 focuses. He stuck seven of his casualties."

A Sports Illustrated article alluded to Doug Blubaugh as "a stocky, group cut Olympic champion who wears thick, horn-rimmed glasses." truth be told, some say that Doug Blubaugh was legitimately visually impaired without his glasses. In the event that you take a gander at pictures of Blubaugh, he may even look a bit geeky until the point when you take a gander at his body and perceive how strong he was.

A kindred wrestler depicted Blubaugh, "Shrewd, putting stock in, kind, liberal and a Superman with Coke bottle focal points that enabled him to see the world only a little uniquely in contrast to whatever is left of us."

Doug Blubaugh was another modest, inviting man like Dave Schultz who happened to be an extraordinary wrestler and mentor. Blubaugh experienced childhood with a homestead with no power or running water and had poor vision however it didn't meddle with his craving to wind up noticeably an awesome wrestler.

Three-time NCAA All-American Ken Chertow didn't begin as an impeccable wrestler. It required investment and practice for him to end up plainly so effective.

Chertow states, "When I began wrestling in center school, I immediately joined shadow boring into my preparation program. I was moderate and pudgy so my shadow penetrating was not extremely familiar, but rather I consistently enhanced each day."

Olympic champion Kendall Cross might not have appeared that forcing when he ventured onto to the Oklahoma State grounds. Be that as it may, subsequent to winning the 125.5 pound Olympic title in 1996, Sports Illustrated addressed U. S. wrestling mentor Joe Seay who had a couple of words to say in regards to Cross. "He came to Oklahoma State 10 years prior as a Gumby - no muscles. He made himself a champion."

Last Thoughts

Possibly you're ungainly and clumsy. Possibly you're somewhat overweight. Possibly you're little. Perhaps you're skinny. Possibly you're not that solid. Possibly your vision isn't that incredible. Possibly you've needed to beat a considerable measure of misfortune in your life. Maybe you don't appear to be forcing by any means. In any case, Dave Schultz and different wrestlers have demonstrated that with training and assurance it's conceivable to improve as a wrestler than you at any point envisioned.

Make sure to search out gifted coaches and educators, be devoted to putting in a great deal of training time, concentrate on consummating your strategy, tune in and learn, and be unassuming and buckle down. At that point you're certain to wind up noticeably a wrestling achievement.

[hauntsofmissouri]

Greensboro, NC

The Legend

Just outside of Greensboro, at the U.S. Highway 70 underpass there has said to have been the ghost of a beautiful young girl who has been appearing here since 1923. She stands next to the US Highway 70 Underpass in a white evening gown and waves frantically for someone to stop and pick her up. Those hapless travelers who do are introduced to a young woman who says her name is Lydia and she always ask them to please take her to an address in High Point. She always tells them that she has spent the evening at a dance in Raleigh and is anxious to get home, having run into car trouble on the way. Just as the drivers approach the house, the girl always vanishes from their car, never opening the door and getting out. There are many versions to the story but the most common one that I have heard is that Lydia was at a dance one night and was trying to get home. She was apparently hit by a car and now she hitches rides home from the bridge. When the person gets her to her house, she disappears. She never says anything other than her name is Lydia, she needs to get home, and her address. Either way, she died in 1923. The road that linked High Point and Greensboro was a different road than is there now. There are train tracks that are the reason for the bridge. The bridge now is called the graffiti bridge, for obvious reasons. To the left of this bridge, about 40 ft away and hidden in massive amounts of kudzu, is where the original bridge is, and it’s Lydia’s bridge. One report of a group of friends in the 80’s; that would venture there had two girls in this group and every time they would get close to the bridge, the girls would pass out. Some say that Lydia is merely an urban legend but more information has come out recently that proves that Lydia was a real person.

There are many variations of this story. Some say that Lydia was in High School and that the dance was the prom. Others say that Lydia was a student at High Point University. Either way, the story of Lydia’s Ghost is a spooky one that has been passed down over the years. Lydia’s Bridge is also a popular attraction where locals and tourists alike hope to catch a glimpse of the infamous Lydia. The bridge is rumored to be the spot of the accident that snatched Lydia’s life. Many people have reported seeing a woman in white standing by the bridge. Screams have also been heard from beneath the old and now overgrown bridge. The bridge is now nearly 50 ft from the new overpass that leads into Jamestown, which makes Lydia’s efforts to get home even more difficult. But Lydia remains. At least that what many locals will tell you. Some say Lydia is still trying to get home from the dance. They believe that one day she may find her way home.

On certain rainy nights, where US 70-A twists around a sweeping curve that passes by an old, overgrown underpass, drivers will see a young woman in a white evening dress standing by the side of the road, desperately trying to flag down a passing car. If anyone pulls over to help the young lady, she climbs meekly into the back seat of the car and explains that her name is Lydia, and that she’s just been to a dance and now she’s trying to get home. She gives the driver an address not too far away, and he kindly agrees to take her there. The driver may try to engage Lydia in conversation, but she seems distracted and in a world of her own, so he just leaves her in a respectful silence and concentrates on the road ahead.

When the car pulls in to the address that the young woman gave, the chivalrous driver invariably hops out to open the door for her only to discover that she has vanished. Perplexed, the man goes to the door, where an old woman answers. The man explains that he’s picked up a young lady named Lydia by the overpass who asked to be brought to this address, but she’s no longer in the car. He wonders if she may have run out before he could open the door, and he just wants to know if she’s safe and if everything is as it should be.

A faint, pained smile of recognition passes over the old woman’s face, as she reaches for a picture in a silver frame sitting on a table by the door. It’s a photograph of the young woman the man drove to the house. “Lydia was my daughter,” the old woman says, “She died in a car wreck by that overpass in 1923. You’re not the first one, and I suppose you won’t be the last. Every so often, her spirit flags down a passing driver. I suppose she still doesn’t understand what happened to her. I suppose she’s still trying to get home.”

With vanishing hitchhikers, like any oral tradition, these stories have shifted through the years. A few central points of the North Carolina legend remain stable – the girl’s white dress, her sitting in the back seat, and the fact that it’s raining seem to turn up in every version. It’s only relatively recently, when the influence of the internet began to give our oral culture a more static format, that the variant where the girl is named Lydia and specifically identified with the overgrown bridge has become the most often told one.

Versions of the story circulating in the Sixties usually insisted that the girl’s name was “Mary” and that she was trying to return home to Greensboro, having attended a dance in Raleigh, and the point where the driver picks her up is usually given as somewhere along US 70. But the bonus of having a specific, and genuinely creepy, destination associated with the story seems to have fixed our homegrown hitchhiker halfway to High Point and perpetually flagging down passing motorists from Lydia’s Bridge. The fact that Lydia’s Bridge is not actually a bridge, but a culvert to carry the railroad tracks over a now-dry stream bed is accounted for, in the wonderful way that oral tradition compensates for unhelpful reality, by the story’s usually specifying that the road “has been rerouted.” Recently, the tidbit confirming that a ghost hunter found the death certificate for a “Lydia Jane M” who died on December 23 (or 31st) 1923 from “fatal injuries from a motoring accident” has been circulating with online versions of the story.

So what does the story of the phantom hitchhiker mean? Why do we keep telling it time and time again? Its probably worth noticing that most versions of the story place the accident sometime in the 1920s, a time when the death of a young woman in an automobile accident would have been a relative rarity, and not the unfortunately common occurrence it is on today’s overcrowded roads. There may be similar folk memories of that first, fatal accident which took the life of a young woman from the town kept alive in the phantom hitchhiker stories. There also may be something in the way the story captures the excitement of a teenager’s first few years driving, where making the journey from Raleigh to Greensboro alone at night can seem like an adventure and where anything is possible even picking up a hitchhiker who died nearly a century ago.

There have been two different versions of Lydia. During daylight or nights that are normal, Lydia is somewhat tranquil and as normal looking as possible. On rainy nights she appears with a more frightening appearance. She’s extremely injured, terrified, sad, and desperate. Some say she is reliving the aftermath of the crash. One story that has been told is that of two young men that stopped to pick her up and left hurriedly because she seemed to be angry and had a negative personality.

There are reports that in 2008, efforts were made to help Lydia cross over, though no one knows if it worked. There are still reports trickling in of her appearance.

There are several other paranormal accounts associated with the actual Lydia’s Bridge. Some have witnessed a pale woman standing just past the bridge, heard screams and had feelings of being watched.

The True Story

Lydia’s story has been one of the more fascinating stories I’ve come across in my more than fifteen years researching the paranormal. There have been many ups and downs in the case such as a few years ago when I came across the information about a Lydia Jane M, who was born in 1904 in High Point, North Carolina and died on December 31, 1923 from an automobile crash. I never found anything else out and the source never added to it. Still I was pretty convinced that this might be her. Just recently I came across the information that a woman did die in a car crash at the original 1916 railroad underpass on June 20, 1920. However, her name was not Lydia, nor was she a teenager on her way home from a dance. She also did not live in High Point, and her parents were both dead for years when she was killed.

The woman killed in 1920, which was the only documented fatality of the sort, was 35 year old Miss Annie L.Jackson, who lived at “Mama Bertie” Gannt’s boarding House at 201 North Davie Street in Greensboro. The driver was Joseph Calvin Hutchinson, who fled the scene. The car did not hit a tree or anything else. It flipped on its top on the rain slicked road near the underpass, and Miss Jackson was thrown, fracturing her skull, and dying almost immediately. This information has been proven as historical fact, borne out by a death certificate, and newspaper articles in the Greensboro Patriot and High Point Enterprise.

“Lydia” is a composite character, put together from the stories of 4 or 5 different women and young girls, some with ties to Jamestown, who died in Guilford County, 1916 – 1928. This includes 18 year old Lena Mary Farrington, who died in a car crash on Winston Road on Feb. 25, 1922. Miss Farrington was from High Point and she is buried in Oakwood Cemetery (Jackson is in Holt’s Chapel, Greensboro) in High Point, where the legend has "Lydia" buried. People mistakenly place her death in Jamestown simply because of confusion.

The possibility exists that her middle name was in some “Lydia” form such as Ludia or Louise and with the dialect of the time could have been mistaken Lydia.

From an interview with local author and ghost hunter Michael Renegar, who basically solved Lydia’s mystery.

“We checked death records from 1900 to 1938 looking for the name Lydia. So, I began to think it’s either a myth or her name was something else,” Renegar said.

He came across an old Greensboro Patriot article dated June 21, 1920 — a date consistent with the time period for the Lydia legend. The article is about a fatal car crash that happened the night before.

“It was a rush job with misspellings, mistakes. Four people were in the car, and they were on High Point road. The car lost control on the rain-slicked road and overturned. This young woman was thrown from the car, hit her head and died almost instantly. But her name was not Lydia… her name was Annie L. Jackson.”

Jackson’s death record shows at the time of the crash, she was 30 years old and lived in Greensboro. Renegar found out her address matches that of an old boarding house. So, he believes the car was traveling toward Greensboro — not High Point — the night of the crash. He thinks that piece of the puzzle explains why a ghost still lurks there, because she’s still trying to get home.

“She’s on the side of the road, as if she wishes to be taken to High Point. Of course, Annie (Jackson) realizes we’re going the wrong way again! And, she disappears.”

But will solving the mystery spoil the story?

“The story resonates with people. Everyone wants to go home. If this is Annie (Jackson), and the mystery is solved…maybe she can move on and not be there anymore, though the story will still be there.”

Lydia’s Bridge Greensboro, NC The Legend