1. I Got 99 Problems (and Cliches in Epic Fantasy are all of them)

    clevergirlhelps:

    1. PROPHECY AND DESTINY
    2. Women as setting pieces or rewards
    3. Blind mimicry of J. R. R. Tolkien without the work Tolkien put in
    4. “The Chosen One”
    5. Soul mates
    6. Infodumps
    7. Blatant moral lessons
    8. Good vs. Evil
    9. The father is always the mysterious and/or missing parent
    10. Good = modeling agency hot. Evil = ugly, misshapen, disgusting, pus-oozing, etc.
    11. Villainous monologues
    12. The hero and everyone of importance are blue-bloods
    13. Women never get pregnant (unless it’s convenient for drama or to reward the hero) or have their periods
    14. Trilogies
    15. Hero easily bests people who have studied swordplay/magic/dragon-riding FOR YEARS
    16. Hero-centric morality
    17. Civilizations that haven’t moved past mail, horses, and swords for 3,000 years.
    18. Villains that wait until the last book to start crushing the hero
    19. Medieval Europe setting without the basest understanding of the culture
    20. 3rd person omniscient narration
    21. The One Black Guy who loves the hero for saving his “primitive village”
    22. Genetic magic
    23. Everyone is cisgendered, white, and heterosexual
    24. No organized religion
    25. Old, white, male mentors with long beards

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  6. Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
    He is awkward and does not know the ways
    Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
    His voice turns wine into vinegar.

    When he arrives at the door,
    You will probably fear him.
    He reminds you of something dark
    That you might have dreamt,
    Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

    He will not ring the doorbell;
    Instead he scrapes at the door
    With his bloody hands,
    Though there are primroses
    Growing about his feet.

    You do not want to let him in.
    You are very busy.
    It is late, or early, and besides…
    You cannot look at him straight
    Because he makes you want to cry.

    The dog barks.
    The wild god smiles,
    Holds out his hand.
    The dog licks his wounds
    And leads him inside.

    The wild god stands in your kitchen.
    Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
    Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
    And wrens are beginning to sing
    An ancient song in the mouth of your kettle.

    'I haven't much,' you say
    And give him the worst of your food.
    He sits at the table, bleeding.
    He coughs up foxes.
    There are moles in his eyes.

    When your wife calls down,
    You close the door and
    Tell her it’s fine.
    You will not let her see
    The strange guest at your table.

    The wild god asks for whiskey
    And you pour a glass for him,
    Then a glass for yourself.
    Three snakes are beginning to nest
    In your voicebox. You cough.

    Oh, limitless space.
    Oh, eternal mystery.
    Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
    Oh, miracle of life.
    Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

    You cough again,
    Evict the snakes and
    Water down the whiskey,
    Wondering how you got so old
    And where it all went to.

    The wild god reaches into a bag
    Made of otters and red nightingales.
    He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
    Raises an eyebrow
    And all the birds begin to sing.

    The fox leaps into your eyes.
    The moles rush from the darkness.
    The snakes pour through your body.
    Your dog howls and upstairs
    Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.

    The wild god dances with your dog.
    You dance with the sparrows.
    A white stag pulls up a stool
    And bellows hymns to old enchantments.
    A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

    In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
    Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
    Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
    The hills echo and the great grey stones ring
    With laughter and madness and the pain and joy of living.

    In the middle of the dance,
    The house takes off from the ground.
    Clouds climb through the windows;
    Lightning pounds his fists on the table.
    The moon leans in through the window, smiling.

    The wild god points to your side.
    You are bleeding heavily.
    You have been bleeding for a long time,
    Possibly since you were born.
    There is a bear in the wound.

    'Why did you leave me to die?'
    Asks the wild god and you say:
    ‘I was busy surviving.
    The shops were all closed;
    I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

    Listen to them:

    The fox in your neck and
    The snakes in your arms and
    The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
    The great un-nameable beasts
    In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

    There is a symphony of howling.
    A cacophony of dissent.
    The wild god nods his head and
    You wake on the floor holding a knife,
    A bottle and a handful of black fur.

    Your dog is asleep on the table.
    Your wife is stirring, far above.
    Your cheeks are wet with tears;
    Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
    A black bear is sitting by the fire.

    Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
    He is awkward and does not know the ways
    Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
    His voice turns wine into vinegar
    And death to life in return.

    – “Sometimes a Wild God” (via keeperofembers)

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  10. You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘Wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ You think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.
    – Warsan Shire  (via mister-susan)

    (via alicemuralice)

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