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via http://ift.tt/2p8xhgO:Peter S Beagle, author of “The Last Unicorn,” is in dire need! Here are three ways you can help.:



… l trouble – trouble severe enough so that, according to his friend Adrienne Leigh, it’s currently difficult for him to buy groceries.

In a nutshell, Beagle was the victim of a scammer. As a result of this, Beagle is both broke and embroiled in an expensive lawsuit. Here are three ways you can help.

SHORT-TERM: Give a birthday gift directly to Peter Beagle via his paypal. If you’re known to me, contact me directly for Beagle’s email address (you can email me, or just leave a message in the comments asking me to email you; if you do that, make sure you comment using your real email address!); or you can go to Adrienne Leigh on Twitter and DM her for the email address.

These birthday gifts can be used by Peter Beagle for his household’s immediate day to day needs. (And yes, his birthday is this week!) Please say “happy birthday!” in the Paypal message area.

Go to the Support Peter Beagle website and use the button there to contribute to a fund to help pay for Peter Beagle’s legal costs.

Peter Beagle has curated a Humble Bumble of unicorn fiction, called “Save the Unicorns.” You can pay as little as $1 to get a ton of novels to read, and support Peter Beagle at the same time! Important: In “choose where your money goes,” pick 100% Tachyon Press. Peter Beagle will get royalties and such from Tachyon for these Humble Bumble sales.

To be kept up-to-date on Peter Beagle news, follow @RealPeterBeagle on Twitter.

I’ve researched and found this terrible news to be true.
This isn’t mermaids - but still in the realm of the fantastic and beautiful (Peter S. Beagle himself being those things…as well as his stories). 
I would appreciate if my followers could spread this around. Creatives are constantly being taken advantage of, and it’s unfortunate to hear that even Beagle is not immune to this reality. 
If you can’t donate, please reblog - don’t just like. Beagle is such a kind and well meaning soul, who shouldn’t have to endure this kind of shit in his later life. 
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much like Ocarina of Time, though there are completely valid criticisms of the Pirates of the Caribbean series I don’t care I will watch I will enjoy I will be on this hype train drink up me hearties yo fucking ho 

I watched the first one in theaters - four or five times, I can’t remember the exact number. 
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My name is fan
And wen its nite
Wen normal fowk
ar sleeping tite
Wen showrunners
Hav ben a dic
I do the thing.
I rite the fic.
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i had to… it was on my mind all day
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Okay, but Snow White AU?

Grindelwald asking his mirror who’s the most powerful wizard in the world and getting constantly images of this freckled idiotic guy who naps on dragons

or plays with nundus as with regular kittens

Grindelwald thinks his mirror is trolling him

or the wifi connection is bad? Spambot is on?

He manages to disguise himself

the bleached pineapple is fitting

it’s ridiculous enough so no one will ever doubt his intentions

He tries to poison the freckled guy

Feeds him with whatever poisons he has

It doesn’t have any fucking effect- what are you saying? You have antibodies? Well, shit.

He invents a poison. He feeds the guy with it. It doesn’t kill him. (Sucks. Grindelwald sucks at poisons.)

But it makes the guy fall in a state of deep sleep.

That will do, Grindelwald thinks.

The mirror shows his own mug when he asks again. Perfect. Marvelous.

Enter Percival Graves, a knight? A prince? Whatever you want him to be, seriously.

He finds the guy and thinks that cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth respiration will help to get the guy conscious again?

What are you doing, Graves, he didn’t drown in the mountains, dude! He’s just asleep, man.

Surprisingly, the freckled beauty blinks his eyes open when he feels hands groping at his chest and an eager tongue pushing through his parted lips.

He kicks Percival in the gut, screams and then slaps his face one, two, three, ah, four, five, man, uh, six, okay, Newt! That’s enough, you’ll knock him out, seven, woah, eight.

Grindelwald is in front of his mirror, a cocktail in hand. He asks again while sipping from his drink. Bliss.

He spits everything out. Bleh, gross, man. The mirror grimaces at him. “Wipe me down, asshole.”

It says while showing him the freckled guy beating the shit out of a handsome man, a furious blush on his face.

This is the best thing I’ve ever read in my life
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Sure! It’s currently a WIP/yet-to-be-posted over on AO3; the link’s here. Again, the story is not mine!
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The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

I needed this tonight

If you’re looking for a sign not to then this is it. My inbox is open if you think talking to a stranger will help.

This is devastating and precious. Wow.

If anyone needs this, here you go. Just remember that somebody, somewhere always cares about you.

Such a beautiful piece of work. Stunning and powerful.
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This is the lucky clover cat. reblog this in 30 seconds & he will bring u good luck and fortune.



I’m convinced bc I reblogged this on Friday, got hired at a job I had a million interviews for, went on a first date that went well, and got kissed a billion times so like hell ya to the luck cat

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Not mine! But it’s such a bittersweet, wonderful story concept that I couldn’t help but want to share it - someone’s writing it over on AO3.

To quote the summary provided on youtube: “Grindelwald’s curses aside, it wasn’t a relationship meant to last. At least not in the magical world…and not until the passing of a century.”

“OR: After the reveal of Grindelwald, Newt stayed in NYC to help find the real Percival Graves. After that the relationship between the two of them had developed to be more than that of MACUSA consultant and director. During a prisoner transfer gone wrong, Grindelwald escaped and had managed to hit Graves with a curse while killing Newt. Graves live on to modern day, throwing himself into his work in MACUSA, his magical force draining but sustaining his life like a perversion of immortality. Many years passed, he still looks the same, as Picquery and many of his old aurors retire and new faces show up. Including Newt.”
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I personally think Hashirama would be a really good fit for Jack? Maybe Madara as Barba - NO. NO, MADARA AS DAVY JONES. AND TOBIRAMA AS TIA DALMA. 

Maybe twist things around and have Obito as Elizabeth and Kakashi as Will? Rin can be Norrington, maybe, or the lady pirate on Jack’s crew whose name currently escapes me. 
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I honestly cannot even imagine Tobirama of all people as Captain Jack, talking like Captain Jack, pulling off some of his stunts ans lines and just. No. My brain shorts out. 
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I honestly cannot even imagine Tobirama of all people as Captain Jack, talking like Captain Jack, pulling off some of his stunts ans lines and just. No. My brain shorts out. 
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“I fell in love in the back of a cop car.”
- Newt Scamander after he was arrested by Percival Graves because his Erumpant accidentally escaped again and trashed Percival’s apartment. (via ofthelune)
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when i was 5 years old my best friend was a boy named kyle who didn’t know how to knock on doors so he made dinosaur noises outside my window to wake me up in the summer until i demonstrated how to ball his fists and slam them against my doors.  we collected caterpillars in my trailer park and built them houses while we traded pokemon cards.  he wasn’t the only one.  there was ben, and mitch, and noah—but kyle’s the only one who hurt me, because when he tried to kiss me and i asked him why, he told me “because you’re a girl and i’m a boy, shouldn’t we like each other?”

i missed him so much and i wondered why he couldn’t just be my friend like he always was

in the first grade there was rich and joseph and i got sent to detention with them almost every day with a smile on my face.  we built block towers and sang to my teacher’s lion king soundtracks when she’d turn the lights off during lunch time.  one day they got in a fist fight over me at recess, and i wondered why they felt they needed to share my friendship, like it was something they owned.

in the second grade zach and i played yu gi oh under our desks during free time and i got moved for talking to him constantly.  everyone in the class would tease him and i for talking, asking when we were going to date already, asking him if he’d kissed me, and he stopped being my friend.

when i was 11 i met a chubby boy with the name of a colour who wore puffy vests and unwashed t-shirts, with greasy hair and bright blue eyes and a smile that hid hurt behind it.  people didn’t like him because he was silly, but i liked him, because i was also silly.  he became my friend the day he bought me 5 giant roses and asked me to be his girlfriend, and i politely declined but promised him i’d be his best friend because i’d always wanted a best guy friend that stuck around. we burnt our feet on the concrete during the summer and walked home with the sunset silhouetting us.  he talked often about how he loved me, but never blamed me for being me, even though he refused to move on. that boy dyed his hair jet black and sat on the end of my bed playing songs to me on guitar, and all that pent up rage from before didn’t show until the first time he slapped me across the face and called me a dumb cunt.

in the 7th grade there was a boy named ryan who sat next to me on the bus and talked to me about manga.  he’d ask me personal invasive questions but i didn’t mind because it was attention and i liked attention.  i was dating another guitarist with curly brown hair, one who was much more kind-tempered than the other, and ryan mentioned how much of an asshole he was every day.  i wondered, why, why does he think the love of my life is an asshole?  but whenever i asked him, he just told me, “girls only date assholes.  there’s no room for nice guys like me.”

i wondered, if he was so nice, why did he say such mean things?

he never stopped with me, taking me to movies, hanging out with me, you know.  being friendly.  i thought we were friends.  but then, how many times had i thought that before?

how many times had i bonded with a boy, thought they got me, only for them to ask me if i wanted to make out?

how come when i told ryan i was coming out as a lesbian, he stopped being my friend, and said “damnit, the one girl i really want to pound into a mattress, and she’s only interested in chicks!”

there was a boy my junior year who stayed up all night with me until the sun rose, talking about life, past loves, hopes, dreams.  beneath a million twinkling stars spanning forever, he brushed long brown hair out of his eyes and listened to me talk about the history that made me. then he asked me if i’d ever consider dating a guy, and complained about how he’d never get laid.

when i told him no a couple hundred times, he found new girls to listen to.

i would sit on the couch and play zelda with dakota, and he’d talk about all my favourite games with me.  he was the closest thing to support i had, and the letters and poems he wrote me were always so kind and friendly.  but he’d put his arms around me on the couch, and no matter how many times i told him i was uncomfortable, he’d still come over every day and do it.

“don’t you know how it feels to love someone and not have them love you back?  don’t you know what it feels like to be friendzoned?”

when i meet guys who talk about the friendzone, who talk about the girls who don’t give “nice guys” like them i chance, i always want to just say

when i was 10 years old i met a girl whose brown hair fell across her shoulders and whos eyes sparkled when the sunlight hit them, whose voice was like velvet and whose scent was like mountain smoke, who made me dizzier than a fly climbing a sugar hill.  and i’m 18 years old, and i still love her, and she knows, and she doesn’t love me.

but my first thoughts upon hearing her rejection were not “what a bitch,” were not “she just wants a douchebag and not a nice girl like me!” were not “im going to keep pushing her until she dates me,”

they were

“she is the best friend i have ever had, and i am the best she’s ever had, and i would hate to take that away from her.”

so before you play the victim, mr. Nice Guy, before you angrily throw your fedora on the ground and blame the girl you claim to adore so much:

put yourself in the shoes of a girl who thought she made a wonderful friend, only to find out that he just wanted her for sex.  that he just wanted her for a relationship.  a girl who was just an object to win, a prize.  a girl who’s trust you’ve just shattered.

maybe she friendzoned you.  but you girlfriendzoned her, first.

I am clapping for this, you just can’t see it.
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Partially inspired by this post of @actualmermaid‘s. Down with swan!Elwing, long live pelican!Elwing. 

Practical considerations:

Swans are not seabirds- swan!Elwing would not have done terribly well flying from Sirion to the middle of the blasted ocean whereas pelican!Elwing could use her special drag-reducing low flying technique or just swim ragefully underwater

Pelicans are very large indeed, among the heaviest of all flying birds. Even a Vala must have some trouble with the law of conservation of mass, and elf->bird poses some definite dilemmas. Go for the largest bird possible!

Why dangle your Silmaril precariously off a scrawny little bird-neck when you could make a bird with a built-in Silmaril pocket 

But if you really have to have the Silmaril hanging from the bird neck for ~ambience or w/e, pelicans are still superior. Swans fly with their neck parallel to the ground, making it very easy for a necklace-mounted Silmaril to slip tragically into the ocean, whereas pelicans fly with their heads practically resting on their bird shoulder blades, like a girl whose unnecessary male dance partner at the club has just tried to kiss her. Far more stable. 


And lastly, this image: 

Judgy black-and white sword bird, neck bag glowing with all the glory of the light of Aman: Plummets sword-first to the deck

Eärendil, struggling to “take into his bosom” an enraged 25 lb bird with a hallowed combination pike/satchel bag for a face: “It’s me wife!” 

And lastly lastly, if you’re into that depressing symbolism, how about the pelican who pierces her own breast to feed her young, or sometimes kills them herself and revives them with her own blood and suffering. How about that, huh.

tfw you get Elwing Discourse adjacent material in your mentions and you wonder what’s going down this time

j/k, this is great

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@deadcatwithaflamethrower @norcumi @dogmatix @lectorel @darthrevaan @blackkatmagic @elenothar @robininthelabyrinth
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I’m just imagining Nate finding out about this and then he’s collecting like a million gold things and just grinning at Nick.


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