Gail Simone’s short story for the Time Warp #1 anthology. I’m not a huge fan of Simone’s ongoing work but I have to say, her short stories are wonderful. Thank you for this one.
Art by Gael Bertrand, published by Vertigo.
I was very proud of this story, with amazing art by Gael Bertrand. My first Vertigo piece!
That was beautiful.
holy heckaroonie this is amazing
this is fucking incredible
I just noticed this story has 26,000 notes.
The GOP has a plan to stop Wendy Davis: blatant voter suppression.
Women don’t like having their bodies policed, and are supporting Davis like no Democrat has been backed before. But Republicans aren’t fighting back on the issues — they’ve pushed through a Voter ID law that blocks the votes of countless Texas women.
Starting this November, Texans must show a photo ID with their up-to-date legal name instead of IDs like a birth certificate. That’s not a problem for single or married men — but it leaves a third of Texas women scrambling in a state with just 81 DMVs in its 254 counties.
The only way the GOP can keep Texas is by rigging the game. Women have the power to turn this state blue for the first time in two decades, but we need to help secure their rights first. Please, join us in calling on the Texas legislature to get rid of this unconstitutional Voter ID lawand stop trying to strip women of their votes.
DANGER! DANGER FOR TEXAS WOMEN!
Republicans = sore losers, scaredy cats and cheaters.
You know what we’ve been thinking about?
We’ve been thinking about fandom. About the way it’s perceived, and the way it’s talked about. About its internal politics and its pitfalls; its criticisms and its compliments.
We’ve been thinking, too, about the things that fandom has to say.
It’s easy to forget that the notion of an “original story” is a twentieth-century construction. That before the age of “new ideas” was the age of “old ideas told new”, when stories spent hundreds of years talking to each other. Crawling around the muck and forest paths, picking up each other’s stains and fallen thorns; chattering like crickets in the weeds. Romeo and Juliet were just newer, hipper, (teenage angstier) versions of Tristan and Isolde. Paradise Lost was the AU that made Christianity’s most infamous villain into an anti-hero. And even Geoffrey Chaucer was guilty of a little self-insertion now and then.
Fanfiction and interactive culture are talked about as if they have no precedent. But in fact, the only thing unprecedented about today’s fans and their works is the scale. The utter ease with which fan-media and revisionings are exchanged.
Fans don’t need silver spoons or rooms of their own anymore. Just a keyboard and an internet connection.
We’ve been thinking hard, my cohort and I, about how all of today’s stories are just as talkative as yesterday’s. And we’ve been thinking about how fandom is not only listening; it’s talking back. We’ve been thinking about all the conversations going on, right now, that we can’t hear, and how great would it be to sit down at those conversations. Or to make some of our own? To go somewhere clean and quiet, with high walls, where we can actually hear each other talk and speak with other fans. We’ve been thinking: wouldn’t it be great if the conversation actually was a conversation? And not a war, or ten-sided conflict?
We’ve been thinking about stories, because stories are what we love. And we’ve been thinking about fandom, because fandom is where those stories speak.
And you know what else we’ve been thinking?
That maybe you’ve been thinking about it too.
So let’s talk.
**FIC is a new project that aims to be an online zine of professional caliber for meta fan-writings. A meta-zine if you will (no, sorry—forgive us). The first issue will cover the topic of Castiel as a divisive character in the CW show Supernatural, exploring his positive or negative effects on the mythos and the theatrical narrative of the story. Put simply: “Winchester Bros vs Team Free Will.”
The open call for submissions begins December 21st and ends January 18th. A submissions post with more details, word count, and guidelines will be published on December 20th.
New Delhi: The Supreme Court today said gay sex between consenting adults remains a criminal offence, in a major setback for the largely closeted homosexual community in India.
can we stop referring to all sex that could possibly result in pregnancy as “heterosexual reproduction” now
Is this real
Is this really appearing before my eyes
can it be true
a cutesy cartoon about gender and sexuality that is not cissexist and degendering toward trans people (who get to wear clothes just like cis people)??????????
mind is blown.
Reblog if this is a lie and you have made amazing friends on the internet.
“There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” - JK Rowling
Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.
I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern.
Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for.
She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.
I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body.
Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save.
Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home.
Maybe she doesn’t.
Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?” and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh.
She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.
Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better.
Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”
Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns.
Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers.
When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just through the brutal wars of one life, but two.
Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand.
A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own.
Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it.