#when did they write this script

[firelise]

I've seen thousands of Evelyns, but never a Evelyn like you. You have so many goals you never finished. Dreams you never followed. You are living your worst you. I can't be the worst… what about the hot dog one? No. Everyone here agrees. This one's worse.

EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE (2022)

[justepilepsy]

Okay uhm - I need to say this because I am noticing this a bit in the responses to Somerton's "Apology" video. Do people really think, just because ableism in the workplace is forbidden, that workplaces don't discriminate?

Even if insurance stuff covers your health issues, I won't put it past an employer to let you go with the made up argument it doesn't. Because non-epileptic people are generally very uncomfortable with seeing seizure activity and some of them will prioritize their comfort over sticking to anti-discrimination laws.

I think Somerton's video is full of BS, but I am even more uncomfortable with how happy people are to dismiss Somerton's medical history/symptoms, just so they can argue against him. As if people with disabilities can be absolved for being dicks by accepting their stated medical and discrimination history.

When you don't even have to do so to point out the harm Somerton's logic does?

I mean - I think it's warranted to question James' statements because of his complicated relationship with telling the truth, but I am just kind of bothered by how people argue "this could not have happened because laws/policies" No. Let it have happened. It makes his apology worse if you choose to believe him on this, trust me.

If our response to disabled people acting terrible (stealing other people's material and presenting it as your own), is to accuse said disabled people of lying about their symptoms and diagnosis, I think we are missing the point and problem.

[fromtheseventhhell]

It's crazy that people still uphold show!Sansa as a well-written character and pretend that liking her is the pinnacle of feminism when it would be infinitely more impactful to acknowledge her terrible and misogynistic writing. This is the same character who, while written by two men, was thankful for the abuse she suffered because it allowed her to grow. The same character who we had to be told was smart because the writers were too lazy to develop or show her intelligence. The same character who had to rely heavily on the men surrounding her and ended up accomplishing nothing on her own merit ( and no, thinking that she deserved to be Queen doesn't mean that she earned it). She is not well-written, she is not complex, and she is not a feminist character. Which is fine! If you enjoy her then good on you, but please stop pretending that she's something she isn't just because you feel the need to justify liking her character

[front-facing-pokemon]

[hana-bobo-finch]

Shoutout to this draft I made a couple hours ago when I suddenly had an epiphany for how I could fix a part of my story and I was so excited that the only way I could express it is to write whatever this is but I couldn’t post it because I didn’t have internet

also it got marked as mature for some reason

[theladyofbloodshed]

Featuring Nesta Archeron as the beautiful, but witchy leading lady and Eris Vanserra as the tall, quirky investigator.

Chapter 1 of 6

In the bosom of a spacious cove, which indented the eastern shore of the Hudson, lay a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but it is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there was a little valley, or rather lap of land, amongst high hills. It was one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glided through it, with just a murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, was almost the only sounds that ever broke in upon the uniform tranquillity.

Along one side of the valley was a grove of tall walnut-trees. If one ever wished for a retreat, to steal from the world and its distractions or to dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, no land was more promising than the little value. From its listless repose and the peculiar nature of its inhabitants, the sequestered glen was long known by the name of Sleepy Hollow.

A drowsy, dreamy influence seemed to hang over the land and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say the land was bewitched by an ancient settler. The place held a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie.

Others held the view that the land was cursed.

It was on the first Monday of the tenth month that Eris Crane was called upon to attend matters in Sleepy Hollow from the constabulary department of New York City. Three murders, most vile, had occurred. A father, a son, and a widow, all murdered. Such crimes occurred regularly, as was the state of the world, but three murders within a week in the small glen of Sleepy Hollow was unheard of.

Eris turned the missive over in his hands as the carriage rattled over uneven stones.

Three bodies. Decapitation. No blood loss. Heads not recovered.  

The decapitation did not move him, however the missing heads did. A lack of blood loss did not marry together with arterial bleeding either.

Eris Crane would solve this mystery, for all unexplained situations were merely waiting to be unravelled.

When his carriage stopped, the dark had settled into the peaceful village. A chill was in the air of Sleepy Hollow. Tendrils of mist stroked the hard earth as he pressed a coin into the hand of the driver then proceeded towards the home of the town’s lord and lady – Rhysand and Feyre Van Tassel.

A party was being had. Lights lit up all of the downstairs windows and music seeped towards him. Eris was not a man who revelled. The arts were a waste of an education. He would make his greetings then depart to his room using the excuse of a long day of travel to escape.

A circle had formed where a young woman was blindfolded. A tall, strapping male with an arrogant gloat about him held her by the shoulders to spin her five times before releasing her into the centre with a low laugh.

‘The pickety witch,’ she said. ‘The pickety witch. Who’s got a kiss for the pickety witch?’

As she spoke, she made lunges for people who dodged her with a giggle. Eris, whom the game was unknown to, remained rooted to the floor as she grasped his waistcoat.

‘Aha. Who do I have?’

Her cold, delicate hands roved over his face while the circle fell silent. Even with the blindfold on, Eris could make out the scrunch of her forehead.

A child cried, ‘A kiss! A kiss!’

‘She has to guess first,’ replies a woman, with pleated curls and dark eyes.

Reverently, the woman caresses his face one more time. It was most unusual for Eris who had not been touched with any sort of warmth since the day he entered an orphanage in the heart of the city.

‘Is it Azriel?’

Laughter ripples about the circle.

‘Pardon, ma’am. I am only a stranger,’ replied Eris.

‘Then have a kiss on account.’

She cupped his face again then tipped up onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. When the woman released him, she peeled away the blindfold. She was the most beautiful woman Eris had ever seen. Her eyes swirled with a silver glow. Her fair hair reminded him of the luminescence of the moon. It was braided neatly into a coronet to highlight the elegant angles of her face. His eyes traced her skin, followed the downward curve of her neck towards-

Eris swallowed and tore his eyes away from the pale blue gown and ample chest.

She did not smile or laugh as the others did, but regarded Eris as one might an opponent.

‘I am searching for Rhysand Van Tassel.’

‘I am his wife’s sister, Nesta Van Tassel. Upon their marriage, he took our family name.’

‘Most unusual,’ Eris concluded.

‘Quite,’ she agreed.

The male who had spun Nesta stepped forwards. A hand settled on her waist. ‘And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet.’

‘I have not said it.’

‘You need some manners.’

Nesta removed the hand from her waist. ‘Enough, Cassian.’

She escorted him through the party-goers to her brother. Where Eris had been expecting a man of stout figure who had indulged himself through many years of gluttony, he found a slim – remarkably young – Lord of Sleepy Hollow. Dark hair was slicked back and matched the sable clothing he wore. Beside him, drinking a glass of wine and speaking to others was his wife, Eris could deduce due to the exceptional resemblance to her sister.

‘Lord and Lady Van Tassel.’

‘Even if you are selling something, you are most welcome here.’

Eris straightened his tie and stood a little taller. ‘I am constable Eris Crane sent to you from New York with the authority to investigate murder in Sleepy Hollow.’

A silence fell across the room.

‘Thank God you’re here to arrest the culprit,’ Cassian called which was met with a smattering of laughter.

‘What good will a constable do?’ Another voice asked.

‘I am quite certain this case will be unravelled,’ he replied, directing his attention to the Lord and Lady of Sleepy Hollow. ‘I daresay the day of travel has been ill and I should prefer to retire rather than enjoy the festivities.’

‘I shall see Constable Crane to his rooms,’ Nesta swiftly said, cutting in before the others.

The house had a second floor followed by a conversion of the attic into a living quarter for receiving guests. Nesta swept through the room to ensure all was up to standards whilst her lips remained pursed together. She stared from the window towards the mist-covered forests that encompassed the village, bar the single road, then promptly drew the curtains closed.

‘Miss Van Tassel,’ Eris said, halting her before her departure. ‘If I may confirm details with you: Three persons murdered. Atwell Van Garrett and his son, Tamlin Van Garrett, both of them strong, capable men. They were found together. Decapitated. A week later, the Widow Briar. Their heads were unable to be located.’

Nesta’s grey eyes sought the closed curtains again then flitted back to his, a wariness settling in. ‘Their heads were not found because their heads were taken, Mister Crane.’

‘Taken?’

‘Taken by the Headless Horseman. Taken back to Hell.’

Surely a woman of sound mind and education would not be taken in by ghost stories.

‘There is a scientific explanation for everything, Miss Van Tassel.’

Nesta squared her shoulders. ‘I assure you that in any other regard I would agree with your sentiments. But not in this. The Headless Horseman is real.’

There had been laughter when Eris had spoken of apprehending the suspect.

‘Indulge me,’ he said.

‘The Horseman was a mercenary, sent to our shores during the war. But unlike his compatriots who came for money, the Horseman came... for love of carnage... and he was not like the others...’ She shook her head. ‘His name was Jurian. He rode a giant black steed. He was infamous for taking his horse hard into battle... chopping off heads at full gallop.  To look upon him made your blood run cold, for he had filed down his teeth to sharp points to add to the ferocity of his appearance.’

She told the story in such a way that Eris could not stop himself from being lured in by her voice. It was a siren’s call. He forced his hands into his pocket to keep from reaching for her.

‘This butcher would not finally meet his end till the winter of seventy-nine not far from here in our Western Woods. He had lured a general, Clythia, into his tent and tore her to pieces. He paraded her head through an enemy encampment then they captured him. They cut off Jurian’s head with his own sword, Clythia’s sister among them. To this day, the Western Woods is still a haunted place where none will dare venture for what was planted there was a seed of evil.’ Nesta spread out her hands. ‘And so it has been for twenty years. But now Jurian wakes -- he is on the rampage, cutting off heads where he finds them.’

If it were not for the austerity in her voice, Eris might have scoffed at the tale.

‘Miss Van Tassel, you cannot believe in such stories.’

‘It is no story,’ she vowed.

Eris shook his head. ‘We have murders in New York without the benefit of ghouls and goblins.’

‘You are a long way from New York, sir,’ she said, sweeping her head into a bow.

‘I shall discover the motive of the murders, Miss Van Tassel. This mystery will not resist investigation by a rational man.’

Eris moved to lean against the table, in a display of casualness, but the table wobbled on its uneven legs. The empty glass she had placed there for him juddered onto its side and rolled off the table. He winced as it fell, but – mercifully – it did not shatter.

‘You may be as rational as you like. The Reverend Helion will even press a Bible into your hands so that God may be the salvation in this horror. I speak of what I have heard from the lips of those who have seen. Those whose word I trust.’

‘Then, pray, tell me what others have seen.’

‘Rhysand has set a watch since the first murders. Cassian circles the village night after night on duty. He saw the Horseman galloping away on the night the Widow Briar was found murdered.’

‘I had believed you to be a rational woman rather than one in league with the brute from downstairs.’

Nesta stepped back, appraising him with a scowl. ‘You cast a judgement on the first night of our meeting.’

Bashfully, Eris dipped his head. ‘Please excuse my manners. I am not used to-’

‘Female company?’

Blood burned in his cheeks. ‘Society.’

‘How can you avoid society in New York? How I should love the opera - and theatres - to go dancing... Is it wonderful?’

‘I have never been.’

‘But there is an art museum? A concert hall?’

‘I don’t know.’

She gave a disappointed sigh. ‘Then you have nothing to teach me.’

At once, Eris wanted to take back his words. Or to offer Nesta the opportunity to visit museums and concert halls where they could dance. He would learn for her.

‘Nesta, you cannot truly believe it is the Horseman.��

‘Not everyone does believe.’

‘Good,’ he replied, relief flooding him.

‘Some say it is the witch of the woods who made a pact with Lucifer.’

Eris closed his eyes as he sucked in a breath. ‘There are no witches or galloping ghosts. Is everyone in this village in thrall with superstition?’

‘Why are you so frightened of magic, Eris? Not all of it is wicked. There are ancient truths in these woods which have been forgotten in your city parks.’

‘If they are truths, they are not magic – and if magic, not truth.’

She threw up her hands, anger brimming in her gaze. ‘You are foolish. When there is fever in the house, it is well known that willow-herb roots and a crow's foot must be boiled in the milk of a pure white goat with special charms uttered over the fire then the fever abates.’

‘Next time, try the herb without the rest. And now I must ask you to leave.’

‘Gladly,’ Nesta replied. ‘I should not have interrupted our town’s saviour from his contemplation. Goodnight. And as for the brute you mentioned, he has proposed to me.’

How could it be? Although Eris did not know the pair, they were already at odds in his mind. She was fair and lovely to look upon. He was big and burly with a rough tongue and rougher hands.

‘I, I, I,’ he stuttered. ‘I am happy that…’

‘He proposed to me several times.’

She gave a faint smile after her ambiguous words then departed with a slam of the door.

[waterdroid]

Finally, I arrive to the REAL hurdle in making the powerbanks 32 page comic: my complete inability in drawing kisses, which is like, 90% of the point of its story,

[puckpocketed]

29/06/2023 - the Montreal Canadiens select Jacob Fowler 69th overall | y // 1/09/2023 - Inside the Canadiens Draft Meetings, 2023

Jacob Fowler — an introduction, a collection of media

I’ll give you three shooters, and you can tell me if they’re righty, lefty, passer, or shooter. Perfect. Okay. Harvey, Chicago? He’s a passer. He’s a lefty. Lefty. (pause) Perron? Perron’s a shooter and he’s a righty. He’s got a really good shot. Fine? Fine’s a righty. Didn’t see too much of him this year. I’d say he’s a — he’s probably more of a passer, yeah. So you know your stuff. I do. You could probably go up and down the whole USHL and I could name… righty, lefty… Okay, now, how did you… When did you start studying it like that? I don’t think it was ever a ‘study’ as much as just — not even a photo memory — just; you play against those guys and if you want to stop those guys, you’re going to figure out real quick if he’s a righty or a lefty if you want to stop the puck. I mean you can’t… You can’t play your short side wrong if it’s a righty on his one side or a lefty on the other side, so… I think if you don’t know what hands they are, or if they’re a shooter or a passer, you’re not going to be very successful.

[Fowler at the scouting combine, speaking to a Canadiens psychologist] But I’m more interested in the guy who’s really inside, right? Yeah. Tell me about him. Tell me what makes him friggin’ tick. I’ve been, y’know, doubted and… Yeah! Here we go! I’ve had to prove people wrong my entire career. Of course you have, yeah! I sat in my living room in a shirt and tie with my whole family and watched, y’know, five or six hours of the entire OHL [Ontario Hockey League] Draft, the entire USHL [United States Hockey League] Draft and — to never see your name pop up on that screen is… It’s a pretty crappy feeling. To know that you played in the National Championship, you played in the national tournament twice; you’ve won just about every youth championship you could win in North America… To never be talked to, or to never see your name pop up is — it’s terrible. I don’t read too much into the different awards, but… To win the award of Goalie of the Year in this league that I was undrafted [in] — nobody wanted me. There were 16 teams and not a single one of them wanted me. I had to go out and prove that, every single night, that you messed with the wrong guy and Youngstown was just fortunate enough that I ended up in their corner. That feeling sticks with me every day, and… The last thing I want is any organisation to look back and wish they would’ve taken a chance on me because all I’ve done is prove people wrong.

Where do I even begin with Jacob Fowler? Scouts and pundits and fans have taken note — the Canadiens have had a distinct vision with their past few drafts under the Kent Hughes regime: culture and character. Jacob Fowler is yet another piece. In what I figure is typical Montreal media fashion, he's being hailed as the next goalie-of-the-future, as Carey Price come again. Big hair, big expectations, and a big fucking chip on his shoulder — that's Jacob Fowler. Also Jacob Fowler: a goalie who has always performed, always been at the bleeding edge of every leader board, a goalie who makes every net his.

The stats are the least notable thing about Fowler. Plenty of young goalies have put up good stats. It's not about his sv%, for me. It's about all the rest of it. It's the candidness with which he tells his story. It's the intensity of his complexes — borne from years of being overlooked.

Jacob Fowler rattles off skaters and their tendencies and thinks of it as a given that you should know these things by rote if you want to make saves. Jacob Fowler knows how good he is, he remembers every single instance where he'd been ignored when it came time to pick, and he's seemingly simmered this anger for just as long as he's understood it. That's what makes me care.

There's love of the game, and there's this. He's a fascinating case study: undeniably elite, yet somehow passed over again and again; confident and on the verge of cocky; calm, but only in the way the surface of a rip current hides it's pull. He's picking a fight with everyone who doubted him each time he gets in net. He's looking at the yawning chasm of where Carey Price used to be and he's going to jump. Against the searing lights of playing in Montreal? He says, "I don't think I could write the script any better. I want to be a Montreal Canadien, and I want to win a Stanley Cup for them. As a competitor, I don't want it to be easy. I think — I want the bright lights, I want the big stage, and y'know I said earlier pressure is a privilege."

It might all be bluster. It might be a media-trained, canned response. I was convinced.

x | y // x | y

[Exchange between the Canadiens' scouting team] Martin Lapointe: So, Billy, you're saying you would put Fowler ahead of [redacted]? Bobby Ryan: Yes, 100%. Fowler shows up every time and wins. It's, it's like almost — it's crazy. No one's saying Fowler was 'good' growing up. He was the best growing up. He's (redacted goalie) not better than Fowler. Like if we're playing a game right now and I said, "Alright, I'm gonna — you pick your team, we all got..." Vincent Riendeau: We're talking about the NHL today? They're not facing the NHL today. These guys will face them at 24, 25. BR: I know, but what I'm saying... He's ready — he already mastered... He's mastered his position. The other guys haven't. They have the tools. They haven't figured out in their head how to fuckin' win games. This kid does it. He's been doing it since he was like 10 years old. And he wants to do it. [...] We're all working towards the same goal. We're trying to win a Stanley Cup and... I'd want the kid who wins the most. Never been not the top goalie, ever. Ever. Look at the numbers. He's never not been the top goalie in the entire league. Not like — not the starter. He's never not been the highest save percentage in every league he's ever been in. VR: I can't deny it... I can't — but... BR: I just think we're going to regret not taking this kid.

I'm cheering for Jacob Fowler not because I think it's a sure-fire bet — he might never make it, and more promising prospects have fizzled out before — I'm cheering for him because I'm unbelievably excited to see him try.

[tboom10]

i thought i'd be funny to write the entire script of the tadc pilot by hand.

sorry if the quality is bad lol

[hislittleraincloud]

No, they didn't rob you of anything.

Two women were in charge of "Quid Pro Woe": Gandja Monteiro and April Blair.

Actually, three women were in charge if you count Ortega.

It's anti-Ortega for you kids to glom on to a characterization that is the opposite of what she worked so hard to craft for us, changing lines and admitting to changing lines in the script [for "Woe What a Night"] because she knew what Wednesday would and wouldn't say and do and is "very, very protective of her".

And it repulses me that a trans man would saturate the scene (and the entire book) with fanonist, anti-Ortega crap that never happened on screen to queerbait. LGBTQIA+ people who deliberately queerbait a popular franchise in the entertainment industry aren't doing us any favors. Queerbaiting has always been bad, but it's 2024 and we're supposed to be aware of it/be enlightened about it.

And more, a trans man shoving his hands into something women created and fucking with it so that the main female character is nearly unrecognizable in an officially published take is offensive to me as a feminist.

It is extremely disrespectful to their work, especially when women who write and direct still have to work harder in the industry to be seen, their work often overlooked in favor of what the men put out. You don't ever see anyone talk about Monteiro, this shitshow is always Burton's:

I'd tell you to stop it but I know you won't. It's like watching y'all run right into the pretty, rainbow-ringed Grand Prismatic Spring at Yellowstone. I keep telling you not to fucking jump in, that you'll get burned (and worse), but you're blinded by those cute little swimming goggles that you fully believe will protect you.

[kuruk]

oh my god I know like it sounds weird to say this when it's just avatar but the original show has aang go back to the southern air temple to show katara and sokka his home only to find evidence of the genocide of his people and the loss of his loved ones and it's quiet until you see his grief and his rage but you just see the aftermath a hundred years later and the netflix adaptation makes it feel like they wanted it to be a cool action movie with an epic scene showing the fighting and running of the airbenders like that side by side with aang running away and it's like ??? okay it's "darker" congratulations I can see that's what the goal is based on the differences in firebending and early on screen deaths go and focus on every bit of violence for the audience's lazy sadistic pleasure instead of any of the characters personal narratives especially the women that can all be taken right out + the discovery of different places all over the world in the earth kingdom and outside of it. put everything in omashu so they don't get to meet people and see the diversity of the world and each town and SEE what life is like for them under war and have these experiences with all these people build up to something bigger at the end

[danothan]

i open youtube and watch a video and seethe to myself abt how i would be such a good subtitler and then not do anything abt it

[wuxian-vs-wangji]

Yeah... I remember seeing the architectural design majors at my uni having this breakdown each semester...

[divinekangaroo]

just enough to let me drown - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | ? | ?

During S6-E5, starting with Tommy meeting Diana at the narrowboat, how he gets back to Arrow, that particular Dinner, through to Tommy returning home after dropping Jack Nelson off at the train.

Tommy was running out of women who didn’t look like other women. If Lizzie found out, he’d have only redheads left to fuck in his old age.

No. No old age. Only this.

.

Diana Mitford/Tommy Shelby, Past Oswald Mosley/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Past Oswald Mosley/Lizzie Stark, Jack Nelson, Charles Strong, Small Heath Sex Worker | Reference to Incest, Dehumanisation, Cigarette Burns, Disassociation, Racism, Class Issues, Intrusive Thoughts, Extremely Dubious Consent, Post Rationalisation, Flashbacks, Dyfunctional Relationship, Self Harm, Oral Trauma, Trauma, Plausible Deniability, Close POV/Unreliable Narration, Horrible Dinner Parties, Prostitution, Shame, Hurt/Comfort, Eating Inedible Objects, Vomiting, Pre-Seizure Markers, Where Fascism becomes a Personally Targetted Sexual Nightmare, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Falling Off the Wagon, Unreliable Memory, Hoarding, Orgasm Control, Innuendo, Ethnic Slurs, Trying (so fucking hard!) to Communicate (emotion is the enemy of oratory!), Spiralling, Purposeful Ambiguity, Failed Love Confession/s

.

[forcebookish]

if arkarm were really both supposed to be gay for you then why was arm made admin of a Hot Boy facebook page in the first place? shouldn't he just be gay from the start? sus writing choice tbh

[daincrediblegg]

Nothing wrong with me