#Eric Chiang

[moviesludge]

never saw a twinkletoes ever I guess

[graphicpolicy]

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #1 kicks off a whole new era in July

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #1 kicks off a whole new era in July #comics #comicbooks #tmnt

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT) are skilled at hiding in the shadows, but this July the four mutant brothers are leaping directly into the spotlight as they star in one of the biggest comic book launches of the year: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #1 from Eisner award-winning writer Jason Aaron and an impressive lineup of acclaimed artists on the first four issues: Jo��lle Jones, Rafael…

[addictivecontradiction]

Arrival, 2016

[adamwatchesmovies]

Arrival (2016)

Watching Arrival a second time takes away its surprises but gives you a new appreciation for its storytelling. It’s a wholly different experience. You pick up on certain character beats and structural points that were impossible to spot the first time around. It’s a brainy sci-fi film so make sure you block off at least a half hour after it’s over to discuss it with your friends.

Twelve mysterious alien spacecraft have appeared across the globe. The U.S. government selects Linguist Louise Banks (Amy Adams) to help communicate with the extra-terrestrials. She begins deciphering the way these visitors communicate but progress is slow. While Louise and theoretical physicist Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Renner) desperately try to convey critical human ideas and concepts to the visitors, the rest of the world becomes increasingly wary.

Residing in the same neighbourhood as Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Interstellar, Arrival is about aliens but really, it’s about communication. Think about how many ways we communicate and how so many things are assumed when two people are face-to-face. You don’t have to speak the same language to know what barred teeth means. Smiles are universal. Even with all these things in common, we still misunderstand each other constantly. Now imagine communicating with a creature that (as far as we can tell) doesn’t even have a face. You wouldn’t know where to begin. At least you know they’re intelligent and willing to communicate. They haven’t blown us up yet. That’s promising.

Much of the joy of Arrival comes in the procedural bits. When Louise has an “aha!” Moment and makes a breakthrough, it’s the most exciting thing you’ve seen. The more her work comes together, the more eager you are for her and Donnelly to share what they’ve found with their superior (Forest Whitaker as Colonel G. T. Weber) and then get right back to teaching new words to the Heptapods.

The whole movie could’ve been just about learning to communicate with the visitors but unfortunately, mankind is never as open-minded as it should be. You can see the progress they're making but when Louise tries to explain it to others, they just don’t understand. Tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions snowball into avalanches which threaten not only this operation but the entire human-heptapod encounter and possibly, the world. There’s a sense of wonder and excitement blended with suspense and nerve-eroding fear that something will go horribly wrong any minute.

Now that we know the ending, aspects of the story change completely. Initially, you assume the images of Louise and her daughter Hannah are flashbacks. These "explain" why, she is now alone and isolated. Actually, those are not memories; they're glimpses of her future. Deciphering the alien language and immersing herself in it allows Louise to perceive time as they do: non-linearly. It’s an example of time travel done right. Louise can suddenly look into her future and find crucial information from conversations that haven’t happened yet, bring them “back” and make them happen. How did she know what words General Shang shared with his wife before she passed? In a way, she always knew. That’s how time loops work and if you don’t understand it, this is where that half hour you set aside will come in handy. The problem is that you’re still thinking of time as a line when it isn’t; not anymore.

Arrival has an airtight screenplay. Re-evaluating its story and themes further emphasizes how much time and effort was spent polishing it. It’s complex, which makes the moment where it finally clicks immensely satisfying. As a bonus, it’s wonderfully acted, extremely moody, gorgeous to watch and masterfully directed. This is the best sci-fi film we’ve seen in a long time. (On Blu-ray, March 15, 2019)

[cinesludge]

Movie #47 of 2023: Arrival

[onepointsixkm]

angel down

Summary: You've seen his eyes somewhere before. A dream. A memory. As he takes your hand in his, your heart soars. It breaks. You think of forever. You know that your love is on a timer.

featuring: CL16 x fem!reader

notes: based on the short story story of your life by ted chiang and its 2016 film adaptation, arrival by denis villeneuve (director) and eric heisserer (screenwriter). i'm not sure if i would classify it as angst, since there's happiness in between, but i think the majority of it is angst.

word count: 6,577

“If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?”

There’s a child. A little boy with bright blue eyes and a smile that you would go to war to protect. He reaches up to you and you reach down, maternal love wrapping around your heart as you hold the boy close to your chest, laughing along with him.

There’s a man. He has the same bright blue eyes as the child. He looks at you with a soft smile, murmuring words of love as he rests his face in your neck. You can feel him kissing your skin, and you manage a soft giggle as you turn to look at him. He’s staring at you with so many emotions swirling in his eyes, and you feel an overwhelming love in your heart. It’s a different love from the love you feel for the child, but just as powerful, all the same.

And then the world shifts.

The man is pacing with tears in his eyes. The room is dark. The child is nowhere to be found.

He turns to face you, sniffling. “You thought I wouldn’t find out? Were you intending on hiding this from me our entire lives?” he demands, clearly choking back sobs. Words fail you as you open and close your mouth, unable to say anything. He stares at you incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

You’re lost for words. You don’t know what you were hiding, let alone how to make things better. All you know is that you want to bridge the gap between you and this man, but you can’t. You can’t fix whatever has broken.

All you can do is sit in silence, only able to watch as he falls to his knees, his wretched sobs echoing through the dark room.

And then, you wake up.

You were a college student, dragged to the Formula 1 race down in Texas with your friends. “C’mon, don’t be a killjoy,” they’d begged when you protested. “It’ll be good for you, get out of the dorm for once!”

You knew they were right. You’d been holed up in your tiny dorm room for months, ever since your boyfriend had broken up with you. He’d claimed you were too stiff, too unemotional. Too hard for him to read, and just not what he wanted out of his college girlfriend. You had quietly accepted it, despite your heart breaking as you hugged him goodbye and watched him leave you in that campus café.

“Fine,” you’d relented, unable to resist their pleading faces. “But it’s your problem if I’m not a fun person to be around.”

And so, as you sat in the grandstands, watching as the cars that looked like rockets sped past you, you sipped on your overpriced drink. You eyed your friends as they cheered, each of them wearing a different jersey.

You, however, are not wearing any team merch, and you feel somewhat out of place as you follow your friends. They’re all laughing and buzzing, talking about the qualifying results and the drivers. You’re barely listening as you follow closely behind them, amused by their chatter but never joining in. They stop to take pictures in front of the posters of their favorite drivers, and you oblige as they ask to take a picture in front of the big sign advertising the race. They ask you to be in one of the pictures with them. You shake your head as you had your best friend’s phone back to her.

Out of the corner of your eye, your attention is drawn to a merch stand. You see merchandise for her favorite driver, and you make a mental note to go back there before you all leave. You get your chance when you excuse yourself to go get another drink.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” you promise. “Just fifteen minutes.”

“We have drinks back at the hotel!” your best friend whines.

You shrug with a small smile. “They must put something in the soda here. I’ll be back.” You wave as you retreat, not letting her get another word in.

You beeline towards the merch line, frantically looking for which driver she supported. You knew it was one of the red ones, the name starting with a C. But that was both of the Ferrari drivers, and you quickly shot a text to one of your other friends asking which of the two drivers your best friend liked.

As you waited, your hand brushed over the shirts that were on display. Your brow furrowed as you tried to remember the name. She talked about him nonstop on the way down to the circuit, but you just couldn’t grasp the name in your memory. Your fingers stopped on one of the shirts that had the number 16 printed in large text, the name Leclerc just above it, like a football jersey would.

“Do you like him?” a voice behind you asked. The voice stirred something in your brain, but you pushed the sensation down.

You didn’t glance over your shoulder as you shake your head. “I don’t really know many of the drivers,” you admitted softly. “I just want to get my friend a present for her birthday, but I don’t remember which driver she likes most.”

The man behind you laughed. It was a nice sound, a familiar sound. “You can’t go wrong with buying this, then.” He reached past you and picked up a boxy shirt with the prancing horse logo on the front pocket. There were no numbers, no names, but it was a clean design, and you nodded, thinking that it was something that your friend would like.

You gently took it from his hands and turned to thank him, but you stopped short, seeing his eyes. Those blue eyes.

“Thank you,” you managed, pushing past the shock.

He grinned. You knew that smile. “You’re welcome. I’m Charles, by the way.” He held out his hand to you, and you slowly took it and shook it.

“I… yeah, it’s nice to meet you, too.” You cleared your throat. “You, uh, look familiar. Have we met before?”

He froze, but shook his head. “No, but you may have seen me earlier. I drive one of those cars you saw on track earlier.” You make a little noise of acknowledgement as you get to the front of the line.

As you turned to pay, you heard people start to swarm him behind you, asking for photos and autographs. You shook your head as you asked politely to have the shirt packed so it’s hidden, and the kind vendor agreed. You adjusted the shirt in its bag, laying your jacket on top of it, and turned back to see Charles signing one last hat.

“Sorry about that,” he said to you with a sheepish grin. “Listen, I don’t normally do this, but I think you’re very pretty, and I’d like to ask you to get dinner with me tonight.”

You were taken aback, left stuttering and stammering. There you were, not even invested in this whole Formula 1 thing, and a driver — a very rich driver whose name you hadn’t known until five minutes prior — was asking you to dinner because he thought you were cute? You didn’t know what to say.

“Say yes.”

Had you said that out loud?

You met his eyes again, and you found yourself falling into those blue eyes, just like you had when you first saw them. You found yourself nodding, the word “okay” leaving your lips before your brain had time to catch up.

Charles beamed. It was brighter than the sun. “Great!” he exclaimed. “Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at 8.”

You gave him the name of your hotel, and he held out his phone for you to put your number in. You did so with an almost foggy mind, only half aware of your movements. His shining smile never left his face as he took the phone back and shot you a message before running off, repeating his promise to come get you for dinner.

You practically stumbled back to the car, too stunned to speak.

“Girl, what happened?” your friends practically demanded, taking in your shell-shocked expression. They were willing to go to war for you, and you could only shake your head.

“I just met one of your drivers,” you admitted. They squealed, demanding to know who. “A guy named Charles. And… he asked me to go to dinner with him.”

As their celebratory voices drifted away, you remembered the way his eyes looked. Not like when you ran into him at that vendor’s booth, but the way he looked at you with sorrow and anguish, the way tears welled up in his eyes. The way he stared at you with betrayal before his knees hit the floor.

You wondered if it was better to not go.

But your friends dressed you, did your hair, put on makeup, and showered you in compliments as they pushed you out the door of your hotel room, with threats that if you bailed, they would make you walk home. You knew they were empty threats, but you obliged anyways, trudging down to the lobby and waiting for Charles.

He picked you up at exactly 8 on the dot, barely a few seconds off as he pulled up in a fancy sports car. He held every door for you, from car doors to restaurant doors. He pulled your chair out and asked what you wanted to order, assuring you not to worry about the price.

The two of you spoke. You learned a lot about Formula 1 that night, and you found yourself smiling as Charles boasted about his team and his successes. He admitted his worries and told you that he was hopeful about the race the following day. You wished him luck. He turned the conversation back to you, and you found yourself telling him all about your own goals, but you felt as if you paled in comparison to him.

It didn’t matter how you felt, though, when he looked at you with such intrigue.

The night ended too quickly, you realized, as he pulled up in front of your hotel. You smiled softly and thanked him for a wonderful night, but didn’t move to get out of the car. And he didn’t move to make you.

“Could we get dinner again tomorrow?” he finally asked, breaking the silence. “I had fun, and I’d like to do this again.”

You gaped at him. “Charles, I… this was amazing, but you don’t know me. We-we just met today, and we don’t run in the same circles at all, and… Charles, are you sure?” you squeaked out.

He reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly. “I’m sure,” he breathed out, his face slowly creeping closer to yours.  “It feels like… something is pulling me towards you. Like I’ve known you forever. That’s why I approached you in the first place, this feeling that I can’t really place, but I… I want to see where it goes. Will you let me?”

He was so close that you could feel his breath on your lips. His eyes were all you could see, glimmering with sincerity. You inhaled sharply, swallowing despite your dry throat.

“Yes.”

He pressed his lips to yours. Your eyes fluttered closed as you kissed him back, the thrill of newness and the rush of memory mixing as you and Charles shared your first kiss, one that was all too familiar to your heart and body.

Charles — you know it’s Charles now — laughs with that brilliant smile as he twirls you around. He’s dressed in a suit, his tie draped around his shoulders. You’re in all white, your skirt fanning around you. You’re surrounded by people, faces both familiar and not, and as you take them in, you’re surprised to realize that you know exactly who these people are, despite having never met most of them.

You look at Charles, who looks happier than you think you’ve ever seen anyone. You feel his arms wrap around you as he pulls you close. “Come on, love, it’s our wedding. We should be allowed to leave whenever we want,” he whispers into your hair.

“Charles,” you playfully berate him. “We can’t because it’s our wedding.”

He groans, but continues to dance with you, holding you close as you twirl around the dance floor. You take pity on him and lean close.

“But when we leave, you have me all to yourself for the next few days.”

He leans back a little bit, wonder taking over his face. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time, and you smile cheekily at him. He can’t help himself as he kisses you deeply, deaf to the cheers and wolf whistles of your friends and family.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, my love,” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel his smile. “Here’s to our forever.”

Forever sounds good to you.

But it also sounds like an empty promise.

You push back the worry, push back the sinking feeling that you have in your heart, and nod, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Forever,” you echo, wishing with all your heart that the word is binding.

Needless to say, your dinner date the following day went well. You were unable to resist Charles’s smile for very long, his earnest happiness and genuine kindness he showed winning you over.

Your second dinner date soon led to a third and fourth when he flew you out to Las Vegas a month later, happy to sneak you into his hotel and spend time with you as far from prying eyes as he could manage. It was on the fourth day that he asked you to be his girlfriend, a question which you answered yes to almost immediately.

The following night, he insisted on introducing you to the rest of the grid, his friends, as he swept you into a Las Vegas club to celebrate race day.

You met all of the men he raced with, all of whom were overjoyed to meet you. He introduced you as his girlfriend, no hesitation as he pushed you forwards. You met their girlfriends, who took a shine to you, and you spent the night dancing and drinking with your new group of friends.

As the night began to wind down, Charles quickly picked up that your feet were starting to ache, and excused himself to drive you back to the hotel.

“Thank you, Charles.”

“For what?”

“For everything. It’s been… really nice. You’ve been wonderful.” You smiled softly at him, moving to get out of the car.

He quickly stopped you, grabbing your hand and pulling the car door closed. “Listen. I know my life is hectic. I understand if this isn’t what you thought it would be like, or if it’s so far from what you wanted. But this past month with you has made me feel complete. I just… need you to know that I’m in it for the long haul.” His intense gaze never left yours, and you felt your heart try to escape its cage.

You wondered what it meant for your relationship, to be in it for the long haul. You wanted to believe that your relationship could withstand the test of time.

With each kiss, your love became clearer. With each kiss, you could see a little more than you did before. The “long haul” was supposed to be indefinite, a vow to last until the end of time, but your heart said differently.

There was an end in sight, your heart reminded you.

Even knowing this, you nodded. You didn’t have the heart to walk away from something so pure, so sweet. Something that was so clearly yours, and just yours. Walking away from it, you thought, would hurt more than the end you had seen in your memory.

So, you just nodded with a smile and allowed him to take you by the hand and bring you with him on his adventures.

He took you with him around the world whenever you had the time to do so, holding your hand and showing you off like a proud boyfriend. You were loved by the people online, thrilled that Charles was dating a “normal” girl. You held your head high whenever you were in the paddock, greeting fans and taking the gifts they offered so you could give them to Charles.

In between all of this, you finished up your college courses as quietly as you could, keeping your head down to avoid any of the sudden fame that had come with your new relationship.

Navigating all of the newness was difficult in itself, but the true challenge came with the dreams. The memories, you came to realize that they were. The more time you spent with Charles, the clearer it became to you.

The man in your dreams was Charles. Older, but still him. And that child, he was yours. Your future. Yours and Charles’s future. It wasn’t like watching a movie, not even for a second. You were seeing your future the same way that you were capable of recalling the past.

And it terrified you.

With each passing day, you remembered how he looked at you — how he will look at you in the future. The mix of sorrow and rage in his eyes, his face, his whole body… you weren’t sure when it would become too much for you to bear. You wondered if the future you saw would even come to pass, or if you would break before any of it.

Before the wedding, before the child… before the end.

Each time it became too much, you contemplated leaving. You really thought about just breaking it off with Charles. It would spare you both a whole lot of heartache, you reasoned.

But it felt like whenever you felt like you were reaching your breaking point, Charles noticed. He would reach over with a sweet hand, grasping yours, and would smile at you.

“Thank you for being with me,” he would say.

Your resolve would fracture into a million tiny pieces, slipping through your fingers as you reached out to him. You knew that it was selfish, you knew that you were destined to be hurt in the future, but you couldn’t pull away. Not when he looked at you like that.

But you never told him. You couldn’t, you thought. He’d think you were insane, or worse, he wouldn’t believe you. He’d laugh it off, and you’d continue, both of you knowing but unable to do anything to stop it.

Instead, one late night, as you laid awake in bed, curled into his side. “Charles?” He hummed in response. “Can I ask you something?” you muttered, your voice cracking.

He was immediately awake, hearing the fear in your voice. He rolled over to face you, blue eyes locking on yours, and nodded. “Of course, love. You can ask me anything, anytime,” he replied softly, soothingly.

“You said, a long time ago, that you’re in it for the long haul.” He nodded again. “If us being together meant that something bad would happen… would you still be?”

For a moment, he was silent. He shifted, furrowing his brow, and lifted his hand to brush your hair from your face. “You’re talking in hypotheticals, love,” he murmured. “Bad things are going to happen. We’ll fight — we have fought. Life isn’t perfect, but we’re happy. I’m not one to just give up just because a bad thing could happen. I’d never take risks otherwise.” He smiled with a small laugh, and the storm that had encased your heart began to subside. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead, then your nose, and finally, your lips.

“What if it’s big, though?” you still pushed.

“Don’t make mountains out of molehills. Let’s take things one day at a time, and when we get there, we’ll get there.” He pulled you close, and you buried your face into his chest. He gently kissed the top of your head, and you could feel his breath on your hair. “Big or small, we’ll work it out. I promise.”

You wanted to believe him.

So, you allowed yourself to believe him, settling further into his warmth and allowing sleep to wash over you.

You stand in front of a grave, a bundle of sunflowers in your hand.

The years on the headstone tell you that the person laying in it was only thirteen when they died. You feel sick. Tears come, angry and unbidden, as you bend down to place the flowers in front of the headstone.

“Oh…”

You turn. Charles is there, staring at you with surprise. It quickly melts away into resentment, the kind that burns your heart and scars you with the intensity of it.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he manages, his voice dangerously level.

You take a step towards him. “Charles—”

“I didn’t think you needed time to mourn,” he cuts in as he takes a step back from you. “I would’ve thought you did all your mourning in the time you knew.” You shake your head. “Look, I…” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Charles, I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t fix anything.” He sniffles, sorrow mixing with his rage. “It’s too late. Just… please let me mourn in peace.”

He pushes past you, and you watch as he kneels in front of the grave, lovingly placing a hand on its face, and lays his own bouquet of flowers in front of the stone. You watch as he murmurs something that you can’t hear.

You open your mouth, but like every time before, words fail you.

Instead, you turn away, tears slipping down your cheeks, and you leave, not looking back at his hunched over figure and pretending you don’t notice his shaking shoulders.

It was summer in Monaco.

You and Charles had been together for nearly two years now, and you’d moved in with him the previous year. In those two years you’d been together, you spent days in bed and nights out on the town, and you’d made memories all around the world, sharing kisses and declarations of love all the while. Life was good to you, and it was good enough for you to forget sometimes. You allowed yourself more space to forget the future, and focus on the crazy, beautiful adventure that was the present.

This summer was shaping up to be the most relaxed since your romance began. You weren’t planning any crazy trips or moving across the world. You’d simply asked Charles if you could spend some time in the city you now called home, and he’d agreed without hesitation.

You spent the days with his friends, both on the grid and not, laughing and growing closer to them. You finally thought of them as your friends, not just Charles’s friends, and you let yourself smile with them.

A small part of you, in the back of your mind, wondered if they, too, would grow to hate you.

But those thoughts washed away when you went to his mother’s home for dinner. When she wrapped you up in her arms with unconditional love, you let yourself feel the warmth that this family offered. When his brothers and their significant others greeted you like they’d known you for a lifetime, you felt your spirits lift.

You would savor this while you still had it, you decided.

You quickly tried to make yourself useful, asking to help Pascale with cooking, and she patiently taught you her recipes. She watched over you with a gentle smile that reminded you so much of her son, and she beamed just like him when you glanced over at her for approval.

You played games with Arthur and Lorenzo, handily beating them at cards, much to their significant others’ amusement. You laughed and winked at Charles as you threw the next round, and shook your head at Arthur when he celebrated his first win of the night.

Charles looked at you with a new expression that night.

When you went home, he showered you in kisses, locking you in his arms. He ran his hands over you, he pressed his lips to every bit of skin he could reach. He worshiped you, and you basked in his adoration.

By the time you both actually tucked under the covers, the moon was high in the starry sky. Your legs were tangled together beneath the sheets, and your bodies were pressed together. You could feel him breathing into the back of your head as he kept pressing lazy kisses to your neck, and you sighed in content.

He murmured something in French against your skin, and you hummed. “What was that, Charles? I’m not fluent yet.”

You could feel him sit up behind you, pushing your hair away from your neck. He pressed a kiss against the shell of your ear, and you jumped at the feeling of his breath in your ear. “I said, I’m going to marry you someday,” he replied quietly. Your eyes flew open, and you sat up to stare at him. He stared back at you, unflinching.

“Sorry?”

He sat up, too, and grabbed your hands. He ran his thumbs over your knuckles, and even now, even two years into your relationship, it sent a shiver up your spine.

“Does that bother you?” he wondered quietly. You quickly shook your head. “Good. Because I mean it. Someday — maybe not today, but someday — I want to make you my wife. I want to have a life and a family with you.” You sniffled, and he quickly rubbed the tears away before they could fall. “Hey… happy tears, I hope.”

You nodded weakly. “Happy tears,” you agreed, managing a teary smile.

He smiled right back, his eyes crinkling. “Good.” He kissed your cheeks, right beneath your eyes, and you sniffled again. “Don’t cry, love. I’ll love you as long as I live.” You sniffled again, but nodded, allowing his words to wash over you.

You wondered if he even knew that his words were lies.

The child is lying on a hospital bed. He has tubes running all over his body, and the heart monitor next to his bed is beeping faintly. Rhythmically.

Charles is draped over the boy, holding his hand like a lifeline. He’s praying in English, French, and Italian, desperately begging whatever force controls this universe for more time. Tear streaks stain his face, but no more tears fall. He doesn’t have any more to give.

He barely looks up at you as you walk into the hospital room. It smells like chemicals, and you want to throw up. You know what comes next. You can’t bear to look at the boy as you busy yourself changing the flowers in his room — sunflowers, like you know he loves — and putting the cards from your friends and family all around.

“The doctors say it looks good,” he chokes out. You blink and turn back to him. “One more surgery, they think. They’ll be able to take the tumor out.” He manages a watery smile at you, still clinging to the child’s hand. “Our son will be okay.”

Your heart falls.

Your son is lying on a hospital bed.

“Mommy?” his weak voice cuts through your sorrow. You’re at his bedside in an instant, holding his hand and running your fingers through his hair. He looks so small. You remember the first time you held him. He was small like this back then, too.

“What is it, sweetheart?” you ask, trying to force yourself to sound as soothing as possible.

Your son smiles. “Don’t cry, mommy. I’ll be better tomorrow. When I’m better, can we get ice cream?” he asks, so sweet and so innocent your heart breaks again.

You nod. “Of course, baby. We can get as much ice cream as you want.” You look at Charles, who nods fiercely. You know he’d give your son anything to make him happy. To make him healthy.

You have trouble sleeping that night. Leaving him was harder than you thought it’d be, and you’re awake as the reality plagues you, taunts you, and keeps you awake. You stare at the ceiling, tears silently streaming down your face.

“It’ll be okay, my love,” Charles soothes you.

No, it won’t, you want to reply.

Your worst fear comes true the next day, when the doctor walks out of the operating room with a solemn look on his face. You only catch the words cardiac arrest and reacted poorly to the anesthetic as you stand, frozen in place. Charles falls to his knees, whimpers wrenched from his throat, and clings to you.

I’m sorry for your loss, you hear the doctor say. You stumble backwards and collapse into the waiting room chairs.

It has to be a nightmare.

You know it’s real.

It doesn’t make it hurt less.

You woke up sobbing.

Tears were falling fast and hard, and you were almost wailing. Your throat was raw from the violent screams, sounds you didn’t even know you could make. Your heart hurt so much that it was hard to breathe, the anguish in your soul expressing itself in the most violent way.

Charles was beside you as soon as you shot up in bed. He held you tightly. You struggled in his arms. He held you tighter. You gave up, too weak and too sad to fight. You just collapsed into him, hiccups and choked crying the only sounds you could make. You couldn’t even tell him that you were alright.

Instead, you clung to his hand as you heaved. You felt nauseous, but there was nothing in your stomach to throw up. You just sobbed, your face ugly and raw, as you tried to hide.

“My love,” he tried weakly, “what’s the matter? Please talk to me.”

For a moment, you wanted nothing more than to tell him exactly what was happening. You wanted to tell him that you saw your future together, that you knew the tragedy that would befall your family. You wanted to warn him, wanted him to know. The burden was finally becoming too much.

But, you thought, things would be different if you told him. And you weren’t sure if it would be a good sort of different.

There was the possibility that you wouldn’t stay together long enough for your son to be born. You would be stuck with the memories, the knowledge that he was supposed to live, but without Charles, there was never any hope for your son. You didn’t know if it was crueler to rip your son’s life away before he was even conceived, or to live with the knowledge that his life would be cut brutally short.

The other option was that Charles would insist on staying with you anyways. That he would try to overcome the future and make a world where your son could be alive. That future would come to pass anyways, and it would destroy him. If the burden of knowledge was eating you, and would continue to eat you for years, you knew that Charles wouldn’t survive it.

You couldn’t tell him, you decided. You knew you couldn’t tell him. You shook your head fiercely and curled yourself closer.

So, you just cried until you fell back asleep, Charles rocking you back and forth in his arms.

The next morning, at breakfast, he prodded again. “Will you talk to me about it?” he asked, his eyes staring right through you. “I’m worried about you.”

You just smiled and grabbed his hand. You squeezed it tightly, and he squeezed back. “I’m okay, Charles,” you tried to reassure him. He looked like he didn’t believe you. “I’ll tell you one day. But I can’t right now.”

He looked more concerned, but nodded.

“I trust you,” he said softly.

You almost laughed. You wished he didn’t.

You’re sitting on a park bench. Charles is holding your hand. You’re watching the wind through the trees, listening to the families playing around you. The two of you aren’t saying anything, but there’s a peace between the two of you. There’s no hatred or anger, no sorrow or anguish. It’s quiet. It’s nice.

You choke up a little, but do your best to keep your composure as you squeeze Charles’s hand in yours. He looks over, his smile faltering when he sees your teary eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, so sweetly that it makes your heart ache.

Sniffling, you shake your head. You can’t tell him, not now. It’s not time.

“Mommy!” You turn around on the park bench, seeing your son, only six at this time, running towards you, a bright smile on his face. You force your tears back as you stand, kneeling with open arms. He runs right into them, and you pick him up, your laughter mixing in the air. “Mommy, look what I found!”

He shows you what he’s found, holding up a sunflower almost as big as his face. You gasp dramatically as he hands it to you, and you spin him around to face Charles. Charles has stood, and is watching you both with a gentleness you wish you could bottle up and treasure forever.

“Charles, look!” You wave the sunflower. “Look at this lovely gift your son got me. Thoughtful, just like his daddy.” You nuzzle your nose into your son’s cheek, and he giggles. The sound lifts your heart.

Charles nods. “I’m jealous,” he adds, his smile playful. “Mommy will love you more than me soon.”

You giggle and mock whisper, “He doesn’t know I already do.” Your son laughs, eyes darting between you and Charles, who has loudly gasped in fake offense. You stuck out your tongue teasingly, and your son mimicked you.

Narrowing his eyes, Charles creeps towards you, arms outstretched. You back up, still sharing giggles with your son. Charles pauses for a moment, then darts towards you both, sweeping you both up in his arms. You let out a shriek as you feel him lift both of you off the ground and spin you around.

When he finally lets you down, you turn to face him. His hands rest on your hips as he kisses your forehead, then your son’s. You stare at him, wishing you could frame his soft, loving face and preserve it.

It’s a peaceful day. You wish it could last forever.

You sat on the beach, a drink in hand as you stared out at the summer sun as it rose over the beautiful city you’d come to call home. Charles sat next to you, holding his own drink, as he took in the way the sunrise’s colors hit the water.

“Charles,” you began, your voice cutting through the peaceful morning air. He looked at you, and you almost cried at the sincere love in his eyes. “If you knew what your life would bring, good and bad, from beginning to end… do you think you’d change anything?”

He thought for a moment, taking a sip of his drink. But, after a moment, he shook his head. “No. No, because no matter how much sorrow and tragedy I’ve experienced in this life, there is joy in it, too. Changing anything that happened, or has yet to happen, could mean I miss out on some of the greatest things to happen in my life. Like you.” He reached out to grab your hand, holding it like you were his lifeline.

His touch was warm. You reveled in it. You begged your traitorous heart to stop beating so fast, your mind and memory battling against your heart. With a sniffle, you held his hand with your own shaky one, blinking back the tears before they could fall.

“I love you,” you managed to choke out, the words tasting like acid but sounding so sweet.

“I love you, too.” He leaned over to press a kiss to your head. You leaned into his touch. “I’ll make this life a good one. For both of us.”

You already knew that the time you spent with Charles would be good. You would celebrate your third year together next month. You’d be engaged in just four months, around Christmastime, and you’d be married by this time next year. You’d have a son — your son — on the way two years after that.

Your son would spend thirteen wonderful years with his parents. You would share breakfasts and blanket forts. You would drive him to school, Charles would pick him up. You would both go to support Charles in the paddock, and you’d be loved by his fans. Neither you nor Charles would miss a single event that your son participated in. You would dote on him and give him everything he wanted. Charles would be a wonderful, supportive father, and your son would grow up knowing that he was loved.

But cancer, that horrid illness, would come in his twelfth year. He would faint in the middle of class and be rushed to the hospital. You’d rush there from work, Charles meeting you with panic in his eyes. There, the doctors would tell you that it would be an aggressive tumor, spreading quickly, and he would spend the next year in and out of the hospital for treatment. He’d get sicker and sicker, thinner and paler, but he’d still smile as you and Charles came to visit. He’d joke about all the things he wanted to do when he was better.

You’d smile and indulge him, but you’d know that time would never come.

Three weeks after his thirteenth birthday, he would die during the surgery that was supposed to save his life. It would be sudden, a freak accident from a reaction to the anesthetic the doctors used. There would be nothing you could do to stop it.

Charles would fall apart, his world careening to a screeching halt after your son died, but you would preserve. By that time, you would have had over fifteen years to come to terms with the shock death of your most precious person.

But it would still hurt all the same, the pain as raw as the day you’d learned the future.

Eventually, the hurt would be too much. You and Charles would drift further apart until you realized that the ending was upon you. You would tell him over dinner one night about the secret you’d kept for years, finally confessing the things that plagued you for the entirety of your relationship. That you’d known — you’d always known — that this ending would come.

He’d curse you. He’d hate you. He’d leave and never come back, and he would resent you for the rest of your lives.

And you knew that this ending would come to pass. You knew, as you sat with Charles, curled into him on that beach, that you would have a loving, blessed life for the next fifteen years. You knew that your life was on a timer.

But you knew you’d savor every moment until that ending came.

“Despite knowing the journey and where it leads, I embrace it and welcome every moment.”

author's note: this took forever to write, but i'm happy that it's finally done. i'm new to the f1 rpf scene, so i'm still working on getting unique voices down. i hope you like this story!

[sinlizards]

what are some artists that really inspire u?

one of my largest inspos to date has been Gigi Cavenago ! his work is just an insanely unique blend of painterly and graphic that appeals to me sooo much

even his less elaborate sketches show just how insanely skilled he is his understanding of gesture and line dynamics is crazy! not to mention most of his work is entirely digital he just has such a good handle on when and where to apply texture to mimic traditional ink drawing and painting techniques

other than him some huge influences on my work (far from being all of them though) have been Cliff Chiang (artist of Paper Girls, really fantastic inks and also just draws women really good) Eric Canete (does a ton of shit but i like his sketches a lot really good understanding of anatomy and how to stylize it) and Aleksander Rostov (I feel like most people know and love the art of Disco Elysium at this point but still unbelievably gorgeous stuff)

also im just inspired by almost every single artist i see especially my peers! I try to play around with style and technique as much as I possibly can because thats how I personally learn so my inspirations range wildly from comics to fine art painting to 2005 anime fanart

[dorothydalmati1]

American Dad! Season 9 Episode 15: The Missing Kink

Written by Jeff Chiang & Eric Ziobrowski

Storyboard by Casey Coffey, George Kaprillian & Rudi Berden

Directed by Pam Cooke & Valerie Fletcher

Animation timed by Hunilla Fodor, Juli Murphy, Celeste Mari Williams, Christine Smith & Jenni McCosker

DISCLAIMER: Yes, as you can see in this image, this is very questionable content…

[creepypastabookclub]

Donate to Palestine Children’s Relief Fund: https://www.pcrf.net/

The Door Is Open—come on in! This club meeting Jonah and Wednesday discuss the Dionaea House. The Window Is Open—yours! Now type in https://jawscast.neocities.org/ to visit our website.

If you have a small horror or web fiction project you want in the spotlight, email us! Send your name, pronouns and project to creepypastabookclub@gmail.com.

Music Credits: https://patriciataxxon.bandcamp.com/

The Story: https://web.archive.org/web/20041030020221/http://www.dionaea-house.com/default.htm

Our Tumblr: https://creepypastabookclub.tumblr.com/

Our Twitter: https://twitter.com/CreepypastaBC

Featuring Hosts:

Jonah (he/they) (https://withswords.tumblr.com/)

Wednesday (they/them) (https://www.instagram.com/xx_wormsday_xx/)

Works Cited:

The Amityville Cute Farting Cat: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt24200384/ Mama Lynn Saga: https://www.reddit.com/r/lgbt/comments/htulpj/my_son_came_out_need_advice/?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share , https://www.reddit.com/r/lgbt/comments/hussai/hay_yall_mama_lynn_update/ Smiling and Sitting #5: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=tmrXakd_r6I A Burglar’s Guide to the City: -https://withswords.tumblr.com/post/746442663844249600/if-the-doors-locked-try-the-wall, https://burglarsguide.com/

Further Reading:

Caffarello, Vincent; Jennings, Evan; Koyal, Jeffrey; “EverymanHybrid”, https://www.youtube.com/user/everymanhybrid Chiang, Ted; Heisserer, Eric; Villeneuve, Denis, “Arrival”, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2543164/ Danielewski, Mark Z, “House of Leaves” https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/24800 Ferrante, Anthony C; Frasco, Jay; Lando, Jeffery Scott; “House of Bones”, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1334536/ Heisserer, Eric; Sandberg, David F; Wan, James; et al, “Lights Out”, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4786282/ Horrorshow, Kitty; “Anatomy”, https://kittyhorrorshow.itch.io/anatomy Kelberman, Dina; Rackleff, Robby; Resnick, Alan; “This House has People In It”, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-pj8OtyO2I Miles, Terry; Silver, Nic; “Tanis” http://tanispodcast.com/

Newall, Alexander J.; Sims, Jonathan; “The Magnus Archives” https://rustyquill.com/show/the-magnus-archives/

[professorlink]

Macroeconomics: Principles for a Changing World (5th Edition) - eBook eBook Details Author: Eric P. Chiang File Size: 215 MB, 45 MB Format: ePub (original), PDF (scanned) Length: 481 Pages Publisher: ‎Worth Publishers; Fifth edition Publication Date: ‎5, 2020 Language: ‎English ISBN-10: 1319219276, 1319253334 ISBN-13: 9781319219277, 9781319253332, 9781319298432, 9781319253677, 9781319253707

[landwriter]

Ten Books To Know Me

Rules: 10 (non-ancient) books for people to get to know you better, or that you just really like.

Tagged by @softest-punk, thank you for utterly derailing my afternoon into nostalgia <3 My problem is less not picking ancient books and more not picking exclusively Canadian and English children’s lit published between 1995 and 1999. (Still the first three picks all the same though because it is like, the opus within which my psyche is almost wholly contained.) This got long but I'm going to be very brave and not apologize about that at all. I love talking about books, and these are some of the books I love the most. In chronological order of arrival into my heart.

Some of the Kinder Planets - Tim Wynne-Jones This book has been a part of my life for so long I cannot remember when, exactly, I first read it - only that it was taken from my gran’s shelf; Tim had sent her a copy with a lovely inscription. It’s a short story collection which remains today (and forever) my favourite format. Ted Chiang’s Exhalation, Karin Tidbeck’s Jagannath, Karen Russell’s Orange World, Margaret Atwood’s Stone Mattress are all fabulous examples, stacked before me at my desk, but Some of the Kinder Planets itself lives (alongside my two most precious childhood stuffies) at my mum’s house, the safest place of all. The stories are kids being kids in the way you want to read as a kid yourself: clever and wondering and scared and brave. Special mention also to his Zoom trilogy, beautifully illustrated in black and white by Eric Beddows.

Skellig - David Almond Another book likely pilfered from my granny’s library. There’s a little magic in Some of the Kinder Planets, but here is ALL the magical realism, and it changed me. This book has a sickly bird-or-man-or-angel in a garage being nursed to health by a boy with an ill baby sister in hospital that he can’t help at all; the indelible image of surviving off bluebottles and then getting snuck Chinese takeaway and brown ale; nature and weird kids and William Blake poems. I will weep if I continue thinking about it.

[Not Any Book But Just A Lot Of Books] - Kit Pearson, Diana Wynne-Jones, Kenneth Oppel, Philip Pullman, Madeleine L’Engle, etc. Listen, I know this is an INSANE cop-out but if you know the authors you know more or less exactly what I mean. These are the books that made me more tender than I already was, made me believe in Good, and Kindness, and Love, in a totally immutable way I thankfully do not ever want to change, because I don’t think I could.

Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett My first introduction to Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and footnotes. Also one of the first books I did not simply pick up because it was Lying Around. I bought it because my older cousin listed it as one of her favourite books on Facebook, and she was (and is) impossibly, horribly cool. I was maybe 13 or 14 and wanted to be cool too. I’ve since read a smattering of Gaiman but I’ve yet to read Terry Pratchett on his own. I’d like to! I know I’d love it.

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul - Douglas Adams Loaned to me by my best friend before we were best friends. It is, apparently, the second novel in the Dirk Gently series, and I remember nothing of it except a very good bit about a couch getting stuck in a stairwell; nonetheless it’s listed here because this is clearly actually a thinly disguised chronology of sentimentality, and also because Douglas Adams is a wonder and delight to read and I don’t need to fully remember the book to know that in my bones. I’m not sure if it’s fair but I’ll also blame Douglas Adams for my inability to be brief and to resist using semi-colons. Could’ve been someone else. But it was definitely someone English.

Sailing to Byzantium - W.B. Yeats This is not a book, but it was in my English Literature textbook in high school, so it counts. If it wasn’t, I would still count it. Why a sixteen year old girl connected with a poem that begins “That is no country for old men.” is irrelevant, as is every stanza but the third, which contains the fateful, ruinous lines: “Consume my heart away; sick with desire / And fastened to a dying animal / It knows not what it is;” I remember when I read it, and I remember the chill feeling of Yeats’ spectral hand reaching all the way from his grave in County Sligo, across the whole Atlantic and the enormous landmass called Canada, to reach into my chest and cruelly grab my own heart, and I remember thinking How, and Exactly. The first thing I read that named the strangeness I felt inside of me. The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost of all my teenage angst. Written on my bones to this day, if I’m being honest.

Hamlet - Shakespeare We got off on the wrong foot, after I was personally victimized by the line ‘Brevity is the soul of wit’, but I do love Shakespeare. I credit this to having an excellent teacher for it, and reading it aloud in a cohort of tryhards and musicians and theatre kids. A case of familiarity breeds...appreciation, actually. We did a lot of Shakespeare, but we were asked to learn 20 lines of Hamlet specifically, and rewrite them, marked down for every error. Forty lines for bonus marks. There was much grousing and it seemed like a cruel, outdated task of rote memorization, but writing this a decade later, I am belatedly realizing this was a sneaky way to get a bunch of kids to recite a soliloquy so much that they couldn’t help but find the life in it, the rhythm and meter to make it stick in our minds. And now look! I love it! I am writing fanfic in iambic pentameter! Wherefore art my fucking restraint!! I learned my lines so hideously well that when I pulled up the scene just now (2.2, from “Yet I, a dull and muddy-mettled rascal peak”), I a) noticed and b) was offended by, minute differences from the version I memorized, which I then searched out and knew the moment I found. Incredible?!  

Still Life With Woodpecker - Tom Robbins The most recent time I’ve read a work of fiction and been rearranged by it, at the tender age of 21. here I am, I wrote, in my journal, after a very good sob, happier and more rudderless than ever. This man writes with totally unfettered joy and unhinged sincerity, two things I am hopelessly into, but also with a deep distaste for institutions and conformity that I desperately needed back then: lost, returned from a year of magical realism and the sort of adulthood growth spurt that makes you feel dizzy, home and yet horribly missing the home I’d made for myself elsewhere, all my nearly-fulfilled ambitions towards security and prestigious government postings feeling sort of hollow and reeking in my hands. It comforted me that I wasn't wrong as much as it spilled my own guts into my hands, and while I went on for another year seeing things through, it planted a seed that quickly grew proper roots and pushed me right off the ledge of respectability. And it’s a love story, of course.

It’s his prose that sits glowing on the horizon to me when I try to write richly: a distant shore of orgiastic language (from which you can surely hear the wind-carried cries of people fucking day and night), towards which I, still shy and prudish, ever point my prow.

How to Be Happy - Eleanor Davis A comic collection. Sharp and wonderful and alive. Another Best Friend gift (bless those around us with impeccable taste), of which every single panel is MARVELOUS. I meant to share one of my favourites here but apparently it has! Gotten up and left!! I will buy another copy in hopes of coaxing it back out of wherever it’s hiding.

Down to Earth - Monty Don This did not rearrange anything. But it does give me a good hug about it, so to speak. A month-by-month gardening guide which is chock-full of brilliant, sensible advice, and also so cheerfully comforting in a highly specific English way that I actually feel like I’m drinking a cuppa whenever I read a page or two of it. It makes me think of my grandmother. And so we’ve come full circle, eh?

I hope some of you are now nodding thoughtfully and thinking, well, Chrissakes, that explains it. Very sorry, hope this helps, etc. Passing on the tag to @fancy-rock-dove, @chubsthehamster, @broomsticks, @wordsinhaled, @btwimkindagay, @hardly-an-escape, @xx-vergil-xx, @that-banhus, and anyone else who wants to expose themselves on main and chat about their fave books

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 3/5

Book Blurb: Strange, intimate, haunted, and hungry—Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil is an intoxicating and surreal fiction debut by award-winning author Ananda Lima.

“An astounding new voice.” —ERIC LaROCCA • "I love it so much.” —KELLY LINK • “Trippy, eerie, wry, and always profound.” —JOHN KEENE • “Incredible. Truly wondrous.” —KEVIN WILSON • "Heart wrenching and wickedly funny." —GWEN KIRBY • “Propulsive, uncanny, and expertly built.” —JULIA FINE

At a Halloween party in 1999, a writer slept with the devil. She sees him again and again throughout her life and she writes stories for him about things that are both impossible and true.

Lima lures readers into surreal pockets of the United States and Brazil where they’ll find bite-size Americans in vending machines and the ghosts of people who are not dead. Once there, she speaks to modern Brazilian-American immigrant experiences–of ambition, fear, longing, and belonging—and reveals the porousness of storytelling and of the places we call home.

With humor, an exquisite imagination, and a voice praised as “singular and wise and fresh” (Cathy Park Hong), Lima joins the literary lineage of Bulgakov and Lispector and the company of writers today like Ted Chiang, Carmen Maria Machado, and Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah.

Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil includes: “Rapture,” “Ghost Story,” “Tropicália,” “Antropógaga,” “Idle Hands,” “Rent,” “Porcelain,” “Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory,” and “Hasselblad.”

A great next read for fans of Carmen Maria Machado's Her Body and Other Parties and V. E. Schwab's The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.

Recommended reading by Chicago Review of Books, Electric Literature, The Kenyon Review, and more!

Review:

The story about a writer who sleeps with the devil and writes stories for him throughout her life after seeing him again and again. The writer met the devil at a Halloween party in 1999... and she slept with him. It was only once but after that she sees him over and over again throughout her life. She's a writer and she spends the rest of her life writing stories for him. She writes little standalone stories that are all interconnected in the novel and the story itself is a blend of things. It's definitely a unique structure and it feels surreal. The story discusses the immigration experience and weaves surrealism and fantasy into modern life. It's an interesting story and has a unique feel to it.

*Thanks Netgalley and Tor Publishing Group, Tor Books for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[graphicpolicy]

Rick Remender and Max Fiumara's The Sacrificers #1 is getting a second printing

Rick Remender and Max Fiumara's The Sacrificers #1 is getting a second printing #comics #comicbooks

Image Comics is fast-tracking the debut issue of The Sacrificers back to print this week in order to keep up with escalating interest in the dark new sci-fi adventure. This hot new series by New York Times bestselling writer Rick Remender and superstar artist Max Fiumara hit big with fans last week and sold out instantly at the distributor level. In The Sacrificers, readers are introduced to a…

[addictivecontradiction]

Arrival, 2016

[zahri-melitor]

DC Artists Tournament - Round 2 Results

Congratulations to the following artists:

Jess Taylor

Darwyn Cooke

Jamal Campbell

Eric Battle

Cliff Chiang

Lee Bermejo

Two tightly fought votes in this one, with the Rossmo v Taylor vote back and forth across the line for a while there, and Cooke v Hester being narrow the entire way.

The next prelim round will be tomorrow!