DJ: “It’s a tragic day for all men today—Leonard Nimoy died. Most boys had a Star Trek phase growing up. You girls probably have trouble telling the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek, but trust me, it’s a big deal that he’s gone.”
Me: …
Me: Seriously? What year is this?
Leonard Nimoy is rolling in his fucking grave
Fake geek boys don’t even know that women are why Star Trek got on air to begin with (Lucille Ball of Desilu productions!), women are why it stayed on air (fangirls writing letters to Paramount & NBC keep it from getting dropped!), women ran the first conventions (Joan Winston!) and women wrote the first guidebooks (Bjo Trimble!).
Fake geek boys don’t know that Leonard Nimoy was an outspoken feminist who campaigned to get equal pay for the female actors on the show, and who after his Star Trek days continued to advance feminist goals like fat body acceptance.
Star Trek is women’s territory. Get the fuck outta my sci-fi, fake geek boys, and take your ignorant sexism with you.
During Victor Hugo’s funeral, most of the brothels in Paris closed down because all the prostitutes were in mourning for their best client #trufax
“No way that’s true,” I thought as I looked this up, thus starting the day by proving myself terribly wrong.
“A police source informed Edmond Goncourt that the brothels were shuttered and the city’s prostitutes had bedecked their crotches with black crepe in honor of the great man’s passing.” x
SPOILER ALERT. But let’s be honest–I wrote this for the geeks.
Update: Read the follow-up posts about Max and Furiosa.
Mad Max: Fury Road is the best action movie I’ve seen in years, and my favorite blockbuster in forever. It reminded me what it feels like to truly geek out about something, in the most delightful, over-the-top, childlike way. It’s not a stretch to say it reminded me what pop culture, and film in particular, is for: to produce intense, collective emotional experiences.
The movie is a perfect example of what action should be in so many ways. Its premise is as simple as an 8-bit video game: a bunch of people drive through the desert while various other people try to kill them. That exceedingly simple frame allows for a story that can unfold basically without dialogue, told through pure gonzo action, and in almost constant movement. From the moment the War Rig, the film’s hero vehicle, leaves the Citadel, everyone is riding or driving unless their vehicles are stuck or broken. It’s essentially a two-hour car chase of non-stop, increasingly bananas set pieces involving various combinations of wacked-out cars, fights and explosions, and it’s awesome.
In a genre where the visually unintelligible “chaos cinema” style has become ubiquitous, Fury Road stands out for its ability to maintain visual coherence at insane speeds. (The reliance on practical effects–all the vehicles, explosions and crashes were real and occurred in a real world with gravity, instead of a computer–certainly helped.) The film has 2,700 cuts, and yet we never lose the thread of the action–who is doing what to whom where. This has to do with both the cinematography (particularly the heavy use of center framing) and the editing, by George Miller’s wife Margaret Sixel, who had never cut an action movie before and thus didn’t cut it like everyone else. Sixel pared 480 hours of footage down into 120 minutes of unrelenting intensity. The film is able to make use of monumental wide shots and long, sweeping camera moves through dozens of vehicles where the camera skims along just feet from the ground, and yet the camerawork never feels distracting or like it’s being done for show.
If, like me, you have only a passing familiarity with the post-apocalyptic desert universe of Mad Max, you may spend about the first twenty minutes of the movie going, “What the shit is this crazy world?” That’s okay. The film will not attempt much more explanation than you get in Max’s opening voiceover. The elaborately-designed, exceedingly detailed world will sail right by you without trying to justify its existence, and by the time the action kicks into high gear you will just accept that this is a world where people build altars out of steering wheels and have names like The Splendid Angharad and go to war with a guy playing a guitar that shoots flames.
Fury Road is in a curious place in the franchise landscape. Although Tom Hardy has (handily) replaced Mel Gibson in the titular role, it’s not a complete reboot–more of a fourth installment with a 30 year gap, with the same director, George Miller, the same production designer and even the same stunt coordinator. But that we’re doing something new is made clear from the film’s opening moments, in which Max’s iconic Interceptor gets violently destroyed in short order. (The car’s body later returns, zombie-like, as part of a vehicle driven by Max’s enemies.)
If the original Mad Max movies were part of cementing the trope of the lone male action hero, Fury Road undermines it from its first moments. It’s common for action movies to open with a sequence unrelated to the main plot, but that demonstrates the hero’s particular badassery. But the opening of Fury Road demonstrates Max’s loneliness, vulnerability and brokenness. He’s been in the desert, alone, for who knows how long. He’s mute and basically feral–”a man reduced to a single instinct–survive,” as he describes himself. He reacts like an animal–see a threat and fight or run. He has audacious fighting and driving skills but not much of a plan, and certainly no expectations of help.
The limits of this strategy are demonstrated before the opening credits roll, as Max is run down, captured and enslaved by a bunch of War Boys, fighters in the service of warlord Immortan Joe. He then attempts a daring escape that totally fails, partially because he’s distracted by visions of his dead loved ones. Many movies would end the sequence with Max jumping onto the giant winch and sailing to freedom. In Fury Road, he swings right back into a tunnel full of War Boys and is dragged back to his fate as a human blood transfusion producer. This is your first clue that the movie is up to something interesting in the way it interacts with standard action tropes.
We’re conditioned to see Max as the protagonist of the movie, because we see him first and because the movie is called Mad Max. Yet for most of the first half hour, he’s literally dragged around on a leash through other people’s action, a steel muzzle over his face and an IV pumping his blood into someone else’s body.
The film’s other protagonist, Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), has a much more traditional introduction. An elite driver in a world where driving is a religion, we meet her as she’s setting out on what seems to be a simple trading mission. We soon learn that her true mission is to liberate Joe’s five sex slave “wives,” whom she smuggles out of the city in her truck. Of course, Joe soon finds out too, starting the chase-battle that takes up the rest of the movie.
With her shaved head and axle-grease face paint, Furiosa is instantly iconic. She is stoic and silent in a way usually reserved for male heroes like Max, but not unfeeling. She has erased most outward signs of her femininity, but it’s undeniable that Joe’s treatment of women (and, perhaps, in some way that’s never exactly spelled out, her own complicity in it) is what motivates her actions. She’s not simply a woman playing a man’s part–her gender is part of her identity. Yet she’s never sexualized in the way of so many latex-clad hair-flipping action heroines. She is dirty, gritty, raw functional violence and power in a world defined by those qualities.
Furiosa is missing half her left arm, a fact that’s not once remarked upon within the script, but just accepted as the way she is. She has a prosthesis made of repurposed tools, but she’s not wearing it in the scene where she first meets Max. She fights him one-handed, holding him down with her arm stump at one point. He only wins the fight with help from a guy who was literally bred for war.
In the essential skills of this world–fighting and driving–Furiosa is just as competent as Max or more so. She drives a big rig through a monster sandstorm. She avoids tire-slashing devices and puts out an engine fire with sand while driving. She holds on to Max hanging upside down outside the rig with one hand while driving. She makes repairs hanging off the undercarriage of the speeding vehicle. She climbs on trucks after being stabbed in the side. She’s an ace with a sniper rifle. (More on that later.)
In a genre where power and agency is defined by your competence at violence, is showing a woman who’s just as good at fighting as all the men around her a feminist act? Yes. I’m gonna go with yes on that one.
But Furiosa is more than a good fighter. She’s grown up in a world where brute strength is not enough. Joe has legions of minions at his command; he can’t simply be overpowered in a fight. So she’s learned to plot and plan and think, to strategize, to be patient, to keep a cool head and have a good poker face. She’s also learned that alliances increase your chance of success.
Max enters her story not as a savior, but as an obstacle and an antagonist. He steals her truck and shoots at the people she’s trying to protect, because he can think only of his own survival. Her strategy is to get him on her side. While he’s waving a gun around and taking away all her weapons, her response is, “Want to get that thing off your face?” She understands his value as part of a team–but she’s still going to keep a knife in the gearshift lever, just in case.
In fact, this is how Furiosa treats everyone who enters the War Rig. She builds a team. Everyone participates in keeping the truck moving and the enemies at bay. This includes the Five Wives, who look like supermodels (some are) and are dressed in outfits impractical for fighting. But fight they do.
The Five Wives are young, thin, femmy, scantily clad, improbably well-groomed and mostly white, and when Max meets them they’re apparently in the middle of a wet t-shirt contest. Their adherence to traditional beauty standards has been highlighted as a reason the movie can’t possibly be feminist. Laurie Penny suggests an alternate reading that I find compelling–that their presence in a movie that also has 78-year-old biker chicks who do their own stunts is a deliberate challenge to our expectations.
The Wives may not be as strong or as skilled as Furiosa and Max, but they’re far from helpless or passive. The first image we see of any of them is of The Splendid Angharad, in her white tulle dress and pregnant, crawling from the tanker to the cab of the fast-moving rig.
Throughout the movie, the Wives serve as lookouts, learn to reload weapons, and help maintain the truck that keeps them all alive. They learn to compensate for their lack of physical strength by teaming up, as in this shot of Capable and The Dag cutting a cable that has harpooned the rig.
They even save lives–when Max almost falls off the rig during a fight, it’s Capable, Dag and Furiosa keeping him from getting smushed under the truck’s wheels together.
Sure, it takes two of them to do what Furiosa can do with one hand while driving. But Max would be dead without all of them.
In a moment that must certainly win Most Metal Thing You’ve Seen a Pregnant Woman Do on Screen, Angharad leans out of the cab and uses her fetus as a human shield to stop Furiosa from getting shot. She knows Joe only sees her as an object, but he values the potential heir she carries.
What’s so striking about these stills, which may be lost among the film’s relentless speed, is the looks on the Wives’ faces. They don’t look like scared victims or helpless objects. They look defiant, fierce, focused and alive.
The final member of the ensemble is Nux, a War Boy who starts out hunting the team in the War Rig and ends up fighting alongside them. Nux’s storyline is a perfect screenwriting example of a character who gets exactly what he wants, but not in the way that you expect it. Let’s just say that building a death cult can have unintended consequences.
Fury Road is a true two-hander. It’s not just Max’s movie, nor is it Furiosa’s story told through Max’s eyes. Furiosa’s actions are what set the main plot in motion far more than anything Max does. But Max has a journey to go on that is of value to the plot. For him, the story is about re-learning trust and solidarity in a world full of peril, and becoming able to take the risk of caring about someone again in a world full of violent death. It’s not only the case that he can’t survive alone–it’s that he starts to not want to.
(I think it’s worth asking why Max appears ready to leave the Citadel at the end of the film. Is he afraid that the bond between the two of them won’t last off the road? Scared he doesn’t know how to be a person in society anymore, a society Furiosa is now in charge of running? The film never tells us, but I think there are more interesting possibilities than the classic hero-riding-into-the-sunset idea.)
Other than yelling instructions at each other during battle, Max and Furiosa exchange hardly a word over the course of the movie. They don’t need to. The cautious, halting progress of their trust for each other is expressed entirely in functional plot points. After a meet-cute in which they try to kill each other, Furiosa showing Max the secret code to start her rig feels like a first kiss would in any other movie.
Then there’s this beautiful, wordless moment involving a sniper rifle that we know has a limited number of bullets. Max takes a shot and misses, pauses for a moment, then wordlessly hand the gun over to Furiosa crouching behind him. There is one bullet left and they both know she’s the better shot. She lines up the shot, using his shoulder to steady the weapon.
It’s interesting how many people, independent of each other, have identified this moment as romantic. And it is. It’s not a tension-free moment–there are no tension-free moments in this movie–but it’s quiet and extremely intimate. Of course in this world trust and respect would be symbolized by handing someone a loaded gun and letting them balance it next to your face.
This scene also encapsulates the theme of the film. The message of Fury Road is not that Furiosa could have necessarily done everything without Max or replaced him as the lone hero. She is as capable as anyone in this world, but she’s still outnumbered and outgunned. So is he. The only way to survive is to survive together.
Max and Furiosa never kiss or have sex, and it’s not clear whether they ever want to (although we may want them to). They hardly even touch each other outside of practical combat situations. Their relationship is completely revealed through action and it is incredibly compelling. When Max is desperately trying to save Furiosa’s life in the back of the cab at the end of the film, you can tell that he truly cares about her. If you never thought that stabbing someone to un-collapse their lung could be an expression of tenderness, you haven’t seen this film.
Max’s coming up with the plan that launches the third act must be viewed in the context of his evolving relationship with Furiosa and the rest of the team. On the surface, it’s a classic male-action-hero moment: dude rides up on a bike with a solution. But Max is not really much of a planner, is he? He wouldn’t think about whether they were making a wise decision, riding off into the salt flats, if he didn’t care about them. Not only has he adopted a more deliberate, Furiosa-like mode of thinking, but he arrives not commanding but asking for help–no, asking to help. Max can’t simply charge off and do the plan himself–he needs the skills of everyone he’s met in the movie so far, and he has to convince them. He could have easily left them at this point, but he doesn’t. He makes a choice to risk his life when he doesn’t have to, seemingly only for his own emotional salvation.
Furiosa starts the movie planning to take the Wives to the Green Place, a utopia she remembers from childhood. But this turns out to be a world in which there’s no magical escape hatch. There is no utopia to run away to–the only chance at survival is to fight for the one shitty world we have. In the end, what the characters need is not escape, but revolution, and they will achieve it together or not at all.
Mad Max: Fury Road has already inspired some of the most intense fandom I’ve seen, and been part of, in years. I think it’s partially due to the sheer intensity of the sensory and emotional experience the movie delivers. But let’s be honest. A lot of it is due to Furiosa.
The character has already inspired an outpouring of fan art and cosplay. Even among movie fans who aren’t part of those scenes, people who love her REALLY love her. (And I wholeheartedly include myself in this category.) I can’t remember the last time that multiple, grown-ass adults on my Facebook feed had profile pictures referencing a movie character. Several of them–men and women–have this one:
Why has Furiosa inspired so much passion? I think a lot of it has to do with the way she blows a giant flaming hole in the standard images for women in action films.
While recent years have given us some fantastic action heroines, they tend to be confined within a few set tropes, with remarkably little variation.
Of course, by far the most common trope for women in action is still to be the person being rescued–to be the prize the protagonist, usually a man, gets at the end of the journey. There are whole franchises built around this concept. I think we can all agree that’s boring and not worthy of a blog post.
But even among women characters who have agency in action movies–as protagonists or as villains–there are still some basic patterns that recur again and again. In particular, there are three basic templates that a large majority of female action characters fall into. The point is not that these tropes, in and of themselves, are wrong. It’s that they’re often all there is.
1. The Girl Hero
This is the default trope for YA. Katniss in The Hunger Games, Tris in Divergent…you’ve seen it many times.
Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games
The Girl Hero is virginal (often unusually non-sexual for a teenager). She’s usually small or skinny, sometimes for a logical reason (Katniss grew up starving), sometimes not so much. She seems like an underdog, but proves to be surprisingly good at violence and/or have some unique skill, and through her bravery and grit takes on foes much bigger than she is.
Tris, Divergent
It should be said that plenty of male YA characters share these characteristics–Harry Potter is also small and skinny, a novice in the world of magic, but unusually skilled at a few things. He doesn’t win his battles through physical strength, but through cleverness and bravery. And there’s an understandable appeal in having a scrawny underdog, of any gender, turn out to be a hero, especially in a book or movie geared toward young people. But with a few exceptions (see: Tamora Pierce) the Girl Hero with these qualities is THE template for young women in action/fantasy/sci-fi/speculative fiction.
2. The Sexpot
When the Girl Hero grows up, she can be properly objectified as a different trope, the Sexpot.
Lara Croft: poster girl for this trope
You’ve all seen this trope in the many, many superhero and comic book movies that are currently squirting out of the studio pipeline. She’s that one token woman on the team with four guys.
Yeah, that one.
The Sexpot gets to fight–and sometimes even gets artfully bloody and dirty–but she has to do it in a latex suit and while appearing cool and sleek and having a good hair day. (She has long hair, so she can flip it, and so we’re extra sure she’s a girl.) Her fight style is extra bendy and flippy and maybe when we break out the slow motion. She may use her sexiness as a weapon (a la Black Widow) or it may be just a bonus quality. She can be powerful, but only if we can look at her conventionally attractive body move around in tight clothing while it’s happening.
3. The Ice Queen
The Ice Queen is almost always the trope for female villains. She sits at the top of some kind of power structure–a state or a criminal enterprise–issuing commands to her minions but rarely doing the violence herself. She’s probably got a sharp suit or a uniform and a severe haircut.
Delacourt, the villain of Elysium.
She’s allowed to be older than 35.
President Coin, Mockingjay
The Ice Queen has institutional power but rarely fights; physicality is the low pursuit of men in her world. She may be smart, crafty and manipulative, but she will not punch you in the face. She’ll snap her fingers and get someone else to do it, although she may sit on the edge of her desk to watch.
Jeanine, the villain of Divergent
Maya, Zero Dark Thirty–an Ice Queen protagonist, sort of
The point here is not that there’s no variation on these themes. And there have been iconic female action characters who stood totally outside them before. Alien’s Ellen Ripley and Linda Hamilton as the original Sarah Connor in Terminator 2, doing pull-ups on her mental hospital bed frame, come to mind as the most obvious.
But it’s striking how often the women that do exist in the thriller, action, sci-fi and speculative fiction film universe fall into one of these three boxes. Which is why any character who doesn’t map onto one of these templates is so exciting.
Here’s Furiosa.
She fights a hell of a lot. She does not flip her hair.
She’s intensely physical, but you never get the sense that her fights are choreographed to perform her sexuality for you. They’re choreographed for her to fucking win.
When Max shows up, they have a knock-down, drag-out fight with each other. Max doesn’t pull any punches. Why? Because he makes no assumptions that she’d be less lethal to him than a man. They beat the shit out of each other in a big, messy, grunty, scrabbly fight.
For significant portions of the movie, Furiosa is driving a truck, which means Charlize Theron is essentially acting from the biceps up. You literally cannot look at her boobs. You have to look at her face.
She gets to be dirty. Really really dirty. This picture alone highlights how weird it is that all the other women above are so clean.
She gets to be ugly and make weird faces in the middle of fighting.
She gets to yell and be angry the way one might be in the middle of a nonstop road battle when you’re full of adrenaline because you’re fighting for your life.
In short, she gets to look like an actual person who is actually fighting, instead of a statue that can do a back walkover with the help of a wire rig.
So it’s hardly surprising that she’s racked up a lot of fans. She takes all the images of clean, pretty, carefully sexualized women we’re used to seeing, even in action, rips them to shreds, sets them on fire and then drives over them with an 18-wheeler.
This is all even more remarkable given that Furiosa is played by an actress who is very feminine-presenting in her everyday life. Charlize Theron is one of the very few actresses who’s been allowed to pick roles where she radically changes her gender presentation.
Here she is in Aeon Flux, playing about the most Sexpot-y character imaginable:
Here she is in Monster:
I think there are a lot more actresses out there who could take on these kinds of transformations, radically altering the way they look, move, and perform their gender, the way male stars do all the time. But the equivalent depth and diversity of roles for women just doesn’t exist in Hollywood right now.
Furiosa’s popularity shows how starved we are for images of women who are actually powerful and physical in the same ways that men get to be in blockbuster after blockbuster after blockbuster. It’s not that all the images of women in action have to look like this–it’s just that we hardly ever see a female fighter who looks this way. Furiosa reminds us that there is so much more out there than we’re getting in terms of what women can do and look like on screen.
A King and Queen ruled in a time of peace and abundance; the only mar upon their happiness was that they had no children, through their youth and even into their middle age, despite many fervent hopes and prayers. One day the Queen went walking on a forest path without her attendants. There, in the dark quiet of her despair, an old woman found her.
“My dear,” asked the woman, “why are you so sad?”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered the Queen, gently. “It wouldn’t make a difference if you knew.”
“You may be surprised.”
“The King and I have no children. He lacks an heir, and I have always wanted a child of my own to care for. But you see, that’s not something you can help.”
“Of course it is,” nodded the woman, for naturally she was a witch. “Listen and do as I say; take a drinking cup and place it upside-down in your garden tonight. In the morning, you will find two roses beneath it - one red, one white. If you eat the red rose you shall give birth to a son, and the white rose shall give you a girl. But remember that you must not eat both.”
“Not both?”
“No,” the woman said.
Astonished, and not a little suspicious, the Queen agreed. That night she did as the old woman had instructed, and in the morning she discovered two small roses under the cup’s brim.
“But which one should I choose?” thought the Queen. “If I have a son, he may grow into a man who marches off to war and dies. If I have a daughter, she may stay longer with me, but I will have to see her given away in marriage. In the end, I may have no child after all.”
At last she decided on the white rose, but it was so sweet to the taste - and the thought of losing a daughter to marriage was so bitter - that she ate the red rose as well, hardly remembering the old woman’s warning.
Shortly afterwards, as happens in such stories, the Queen was found to be with child. Her husband was traveling when the time came for her to give birth, and so he did not bear witness to what happened, which was this: The Queen’s first child was no child at all, but instead there tumbled forth from her body the long, scaly one of a lindworm, a hideous dragon with a venomous bite. It scrabbled out the window on its two legs, even before the terrified midwives could move to do anything, and amidst the chaos the Queen delivered a second child as well. This one was a fine, handsome boy, healthy and perfectly formed, and the Queen made her midwives swear that they would tell no one what they had seen. And when the King arrived home, joyous at the news of his son’s birth, not a word was said.
Years passed, so that the Queen wondered if it had not been a terrible dream. Soon enough it came time for the prince to find a wife, and he set out with his guard to a neighboring kingdom to ask for its princess’s hand in marriage. But suddenly a great lindworm appeared, and laid itself before the prince’s horse, and from its jagged-tooth mouth came a voice:
“A bride for me before a bride for you!”
The prince and his company turned about to flee. The Lindworm blocked their passage and spoke again.
“A bride for me before a bride for you!”
The prince journeyed home to tell his parents. Distraught, the Queen confessed that it was true. The Lindworm was indeed the elder brother of the prince, and so by rights should marry first. The King wrote to the ruler of a distant land, asking that they send their princess to marry his son: but he did not say which one.
A lovely princess journeyed to the kingdom, and did not see her bridegroom until he appeared beside her in the Great Hall, and by then (naturally) it was too late. The next morning they found the Lindworm asleep alone in the bridal bedchamber, and it was quite clear he had devoured his new wife.
A second princess was sent, and a third. Both met the same fate, but each time the prince dared to embark on a journey, the Lindworm would appear again and speak:
“A bride for me before a bride for you!”
“Father,” the prince said, ” we must find a wife for my elder brother.”
“And where am I to find her?” asked the King. “We have already made enemies of the men who sent their daughters to us. Stories are spreading fast, and I am sure no princess would dare to come now.”
So instead the King went to the royal gardener’s cottage, where he knew the old man lived with his only daughter.
“Will you give me your daughter to marry my son, the Lindworm?” asked the King.
“No!” cried the gardener. “Please, she is everything I have in this world. Your monstrous son has eaten his way through three princesses, and he’ll gobble her up just the same. She’s too good for such a fate.”
“You must,” the King said, “You must.”
Distraught, the gardener told his daughter everything. She agreed to the King’s request and went into the forest so that her father would not see her weeping. And there, in the dark quiet of her despair, an old woman found her.
“My dear,” asked the woman, “why are you so sad?”
“I’m sorry,” answered the girl, kindly. “It wouldn’t make a difference if I told you.”
“You may be surprised.”
“How can that be? I’m to be married to the King’s son, the Lindworm. He’s eaten his first three brides, and I don’t know what will stop me from meeting the same end. That’s not something you can help me with.”
“Of course it is,” nodded the woman again. “Listen and do as I say. Before the marriage ceremony, dress yourself in ten snow-white shifts beneath your gown. Ask that a tub of lye, a tub of milk, and as many birch rods as a man can carry be brought to your bridal chamber. After you are wed, and your husband orders you to disrobe, bid him to shed a skin first. He will ask you this nine times, and when you are left wearing one shift you must whip him with the rods, wash him in the lye, bath him in the milk, wrap him in the discarded shifts, and hold him in your arms.”
“Do I truly have to hold him?” the girl asked, in disgust.
“You must. It may mean your life.”
The girl was suspicious, but she agreed to the woman’s plan however absurd it seemed. When the day came for the marriage, she dressed herself in ten white shifts before donning the heavy gown they offered her. When she looked upon her husband for the first time, waiting for her in the Great Hall, her steps did not falter. And when she asked for the rods, the lye, and the milk, she said it with such ease that the servant could do nothing but obey.
Finally, the girl and the Lindworm were left alone in the darkened bedchamber. For a moment she listened to the rasp and click of his scales on stone, and heard his soughing breath.
“Maiden,” said the Lindworm, “shed your shift for me.”
“Prince Lindworm,” answered the girl, “shed your skin first!”
“No one has ever asked me that before,” the answer came.
“I am asking it of you now.”
So the Lindworm shed a skin, and the girl shed a shift, but she revealed the second shift underneath.
“Maiden,” said the Lindworm, a second time, “shed your shift for me.”
“Prince Lindworm,” answered the girl, again, “shed your skin first!”
They repeated this, nine times in all, and each time the Lindworm shed a skin the girl removed another white shift, until she was left wearing one.
The Lindworm, shivering and weak and bloodied, spoke his request a last time.
“Wife,” asked the Lindworm, “will you shed your shift for me?”
“Husband,”answered the girl, “will you shed your skin first?”
And the Lindworm did as she asked of him, tearing himself free of scales and armor even to the bare flesh beneath, and the girl whipped the writhing creature with her birch rods until they snapped; she carried the whole massive length of him to the tubs, lye and milk, washed him clean and bathed him and swathed him in the shifts like a great, terrible child, collapsed to the floor with her husband in her arms, and there she stayed until, exhausted, she fell asleep.
When she woke, it was to the timid knocking of a servant on the door.
“Princess?” asked the servant. “Princess? Are you alive?”
The girl looked about the bedchamber: there in the morning light were the dried skins, and the tubs, and the broken rods, and the blood, and in her arms slept a pale, weary, but very handsome man.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I am.”
The King and Queen were astounded and thrilled to hear how the girl had saved their son from his curse, and she ruled together with her husband for many long years, and thus closes our tale of the most intense game of strip poker that you shall ever hear.
Boys, protect girls. Call people out when they make offensive jokes. Stand up to those who treat girls like objects. Walk a girl home if she feels unsafe. Listen to them and be considerate of their feelings. Destroy that myth that women are inferior.
Girls, protect boys. Call people out when they make fun of a boy for showing emotion. Stand up to those who tell boys to ‘man up.’ Support boys who enjoy feminine things. Destroy the myth that men can’t be victims and that women can’t be predators.
Boys, protect boys. Protect your bros from violent relationships. Comfort your bros when they need somebody. Stand up for your bros who are ridiculed for not wanting/liking sex. Destroy the myth that two men can’t be close without it being “gay.”
Girls, protect girls. Defend sisters who enjoy having sex. Stand up to those who define sisters for what they wear. Don’t judge your sister’s worth from how many boyfriend’s she’s had. Destroy the myth that girls have to constantly compete with each other.
So a new blog has started called “Is There Rape In It”. Basically, it’s a blog dedicated to listing movies, TV shows, and videos game that have rape in them, so that victims and survivors can avoid triggers.
Since they have just started up, they don’t have full lists yet. So if you are aware of rape in any of those forms of media, please reblog their lists and let them know!
Boost.
there is also one for suicide and self harm! istheresuicideinit (their lists arent that long yet either so if you have anything to submit to either, please do)
sometimes i end up quoting tumblr posts irl and they make my friends laugh and a part of me feels powerful but another part of me feels bad like no i’m a fraud
