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@xoutbysixteen
I'm trying to word this as politely as possible but your using the wrong term when referring to 'Indians' What you're talking about is Native Americans and the whole mix up is very offensive!!! I hope you understand.
I do understand where you're coming from, Nonnie, but the term I'm using isn't mine -- my entire description is a quote directly from the Ginger Snaps movies. Specifically it comes from the third movie, which is set in colonial times, and deals a great deal with racism towards the natives.
As this is a roleplay account based on characters from those movies, I don't prefer to tweak any quotes, because I feel as though changing what was written defeats the entire purpose of playing characters that were written by others. I also want to stress that these are horror movies, and offensive content is likely to appear on this account.
I will, however, add it to the warning section of my rules page so that anyone who might be offended will know ahead of time so they can choose not to follow.
”Oh, come on, Ginger.Don’t you want it to look like you were completely slaughtered?”
Freddy cackles and raises his gloved hand, wiggling his fingers so that the blades gleam in the light. He can make it look like she’d been put through a meat grinder if she wants.
❝ As if. The whole point is to make a statement, a huge fuck you to Bailey Downs, suburbia extraordinaire. I'm not planning to help some psycho freak get his rocks off. ❞
It's not as though she doesn't recognize that he's dangerous. She's not stupid. This guy is a total nut job. But Ginger's not big on playing the victim. If he wants to take her down, he'll have to take her clawing, biting, and howling the whole way.
Not to mention, in a place like Bailey Downs, even murder is an improvement. Maybe he'll decide to gut Trina St. Claire. 'Completely slaughtered' sounds like the perfect look for her.
❝ -- I like the glove. ❞
xoutbysixteen
“You know, suicide just isn’t the way to go. Let me h e l p you with that.”
❝ Yeah, no thanks, you fucking creep. I'm pretty sure I can manage to off myself without needing any help. ❞
She's been getting a lot of unwanted attention lately. She got her period, she didn't suddenly grow an extra set of tits.
Agatha is quiet at first. Her big dark baby blues make her look like a deer in the headlights, but she finds her voice and she seems to find the courage to spit back just the same amount of venom.
"Who the hell are you to be questioning me?" The ghost has never been more volatile except for when she strikes the match of her temper.
Playing nice has never been a skill of Ginger's. At her best, she's rude. At her worst...
Well, her worst is yet to come, although she denies it as long as she can. She's sick or something, she's decided recently. She's never heard of a sickness with her symptoms, but anything makes more sense than Brigitte's theory.
" -- - Whatever."
She turns away to hoist the bag up over her shoulder again, struggling to get it just so. No way could she let Pamela see her clothes all soaked in thickly caked blood.
What the fuck is he looking at? Well, let’s see— there’s a girl whose hair is changing color dragging a suspicious looking bag over her shoulder. Considering his past, one can’t quite blame him for thinking that there is something deeply wrong with her…
“—You look like you’re struggling a little,” he says, voice low.
Ginger stares at him blankly, taking no pains to hide the expression on her face, which suggests (to put it lightly) that she thinks he's probably stupid. Several seconds pass before she rolls her eyes and begins wrestling with the trash bag.
"Yeah, no shit. You figure that out all on your own?"
"Let's save the world."
❝Save the world…❞ A curious thought, he thinks. ❝Save it from whom? Ourselves?❞
He observed every little motion with interest, paying a great deal of attention to the details. Details were often ignored, or dismissed as seemingly unimportant or irrelevant to the context of a good story. But the fact of the matter was that details were everything. It was through details that you learned a person, their strengths, their weaknesses, and how to bend those weaknesses to your will.
From what he was seeing this moment, the irritable glance, the heavy, long-lasting pause. She was going to disagree with him, for one reason or the other. She wouldn’t tell him why, but clearly it was what she was thinking of this. It wasn’t an empty argument by someone just looking to disagree.There was something… Whatever it was, it was slowly pulling the girl, Ginger, apart. Seam by seam.
C u r i o u s e r, and c u r i o u s e r.
❝—Only the forces of love and death wield that extraordinary ability to change everything. Is that not so?❞ he asked, cold eyes unblinking. ❝If you don’t want to be happy later…My only advice is: do as you please, but refrain from hurting others in the process. Cherish those close to you before Death’s hand takes them away. Regret nothing. Fear nothing. Waste no time. Live for the moment. Simply be.❞
For a moment, she takes it in. She hangs on his words as though she needs them, her eyes steady on his face. She isn't sure what it is she wants to do, really, other than be with Brigitte. She's been confused lately -- unsure which of her thirsts are her own and which are from what she's becoming.
More importantly, can she refrain from hurting anyone? ... Well, anyone else.
Suddenly she snorts, lowering her head and letting out a quiet little cackle before running a hand back through her hair and looking up at him, eyebrows raised and smile half-cocked.
"You sound like a fucking fortune cookie, old man."
Sam looks disturbed for only a brief moment before his brows pull together and he places his cigarette between his lips. He pushes himself off the wall by his shoulder blades and he steps up to her, leaning close. He does not want to say this to her— does not want to frighten her— but his options are the same as hers. Kill her, or let her kill. While he is not a fan of the human race as a whole, he cannot allow a giant wolf beast to go around slaughtering everyone in Bailey Downs.
“—I would kill you.”
" -- - ... "
She's silent for a minute, shifting from one foot to the other. She hadn't expected any other answer from him, but it didn't mean she'd thought of what she was going to say. She tries to think of Sam as a killer, and the truth is, she can't.
Would he really be able to do it? Not that it mattered -- she was lying anyway. The question was whether she could kill. She's spent so many years planning how she might take her own life; she's never thought about taking anyone else's. Even so, she thinks she could handle it. If it weren't Ginger. She doesn't know what to do about Ginger...
"Good," she finally answers. "Good, do it. If I become this -- this thing. Don't let me hurt anybody, Sam."
I believe that there could be a love so strong that it could transcend death, that it could refuse death, and this soul would not rest until it set things right.
James O’Barr, creator of “The Crow” (via radioblueheart)
I only follow like 24 blogs... And some of those are the same people. I really need to find myself some more.
"Let's save the world."
❝Save the world…❞ A curious thought, he thinks. ❝Save it from whom? Ourselves?❞
A curious statement- but not one that concerned him. Not at this moment, anyway. John’s interest was a fickle thing. Under normal circumstances he only harboured so much patience for teenagers and their antics…
But these were far from normal circumstances. There was something about Ginger, an almost feral quality which the man couldn’t quite place his finger on. She was a force of nature; something beyond his understanding. Thus he was only more determined to do just that.
—u n d e r s t a n d.
❝—No, no it’s not much. It’s a very simple idea, but who ever said simplicity had to be dull? I suppose it’s like minimalist art, not everyone’s cup of tea, but to some, it’s ideal. Though you must understand… nothing lasts forever. The sooner you recognize that, the less you will hurt later in life.❞
Ginger's eyes flicked towards the old man irritably. He seemed to think she had this narrow, petty understanding of life. Maybe that had been true a few weeks ago, but her whole world had opened up since then. She was all but a monster, and she was reaching the end of her chain.
What couldn't she do now?
"I think that's bullshit. Of course something can last forever. Me and B, that's not going to change."
She did think on his words, however. 'Later in life.' What did it matter to her? Brigitte might have a life, but her own was rapidly drawing to a close one way or the other. Whatever she was becoming, it wasn't Ginger.
"What if I don't wanna be happy later in life? What if I just want to be happy now?"
Reblog if your muse has scars.
Sam watches her for a moment, a bit surprised. In all honesty, he hasn’t expected to hear her admit to being afraid. It’s very clear in the way she acts, but hearing her say it is a new level of oh shit, I need to do something about this.
The drug dealer shifts on his feet, looking and sounding a bit more sincere when he speaks once more. “—I know. I’m doing my best, yeah? We’ll figure somethin’ out. I’m not gonna let you turn into one of those things.”
" -- And if I start to turn anyway?"
She thinks of Ginger, of who she's becoming. What happens if they can't cure this? What happens if she loses her sister entirely? She tries to think of her options, and she finds herself coming up short. There are only two options, if the worst happens: kill Ginger, or let Ginger kill.
She isn't sure why she's asking Sam, as though she thinks it's comparable. Ginger is all she's had for the past fifteen years. She's known Sam for a number of weeks, and their bond is based solely off the fact that anyone else would call them insane.
"What would you do then? Say you make this cure for me and it still doesn't work?"
I HAVE BEEN CAUGHT UP ON MY OTHER BLOGS LATELY; I'M SORRY
I WILL TRY TO WRITE MY REPLIES ON HERE TOMORROW
my other blogs are from fandoms with more than just me in it ; u ;
—- ▌♬▐ It has been far too long, Erik decided one evening left to wallow in his own abysmal thoughts, that he’s had an opportunity to sing. To really sing, not to keep himself confined in his house sitting at his organ, or reciting an old childhood hymn whilst traversing the hidden corridors of the Opera. To sing out in the open, like he used to many years prior — move souls and hearts to tears and sorrows usually believed inaccessible and hypnotize anyone whom he wished with the notes which left his lips.
So he pulled on his coat and cape and immediately went to wander the dark Parisian streets. While there were less people ambling about there were still those present as Paris often turned into a dazzling attraction once the sun slipped into the covers of night.
It wasn’t until he found someone on their own — a stranger much like himself concealed within the shadows gaslights could not yet dissolve did the Phantom decide to put his most exquisite of gifts to use.
He would start out slow as he always did; a few notes passing from him, floating over from his top register towards where the person idly stood. It was pure and intimidating — near put any other sounds to shame. But at the moment it was only notes which he sang, once words started to be enunciated and sung with perfect pitch would he know that his ability to captivate was still very much intact.
❝Past the Point of no Return.
No backward glances,
Our games of make believe are at an end...~❞
She had wanted to be alone, and this had seemed as good a place as any. Being alone was easy now, after all. All she'd ever had was her sister, and that was company that had been long denied her now. Without Ginger, she'd had no reason to remain across oceans, and she'd mustered the courage it took her to board a boat one last time; she hadn't cared where she would end up. She had nothing to tie her to any one place, with her parents drowned and her sister gone.
She hadn't spoken a word of French when she'd first arrived in Paris, and she had preferred it. She hadn't had the words to explain to anyone why she was alone, why she had no home. A stranger's pity had kept her alive, taught her the language.
And yet despite the kindnesses she'd been paid, Brigitte could not feel at home without her sister, and so she often wandered at night. She took comfort in darkness at times, for it seemed that when the light was scarce, she could pretend that Ginger was simply hidden from sight, somewhere just beyond her immediate view.
She had come to find that being lost and alone in a strange place was the least lonely she had felt in quite some time. Sometimes she could still hear Ginger's voice, imagine her presence.
❝It's not safe out here, Brigitte. You don't know where you are.❞
The advice was sound enough, but it was born from her own ghosts, and she was simply not ready yet to return to an inn full of chatter and a room lit with the crackle of a hearth.
And then suddenly Ginger's voice was drowned by one that was altogether unfamiliar to her. Music...? She spun, seeking out the source of the sound. She moved closer, her eyes settling quickly on--well she could tell from the voice and from the frame that it was a man, but he didn't seem quite so. She guessed it was the addition of a mask that made him come across as ethereal. Or perhaps that, too, should be credited to his voice.
She didn't speak. It simply didn't seem the thing to do. Of course, she didn't suppose there was an established etiquette for when a stranger begins singing to you, but she did not question it. It was something of a reprieve, really--listening to something lovelier than her own thoughts. Normally she disliked the listening; it was mundane at best, and it took her mind off of nothing at all.
This stranger was certainly not mundane...
I shouldn't have watched the films again. >_< Now I just can't stop writing.
Please forgive me for obnoxious long replies, friends.
Theme from Ginger Snaps - Michael Shields