#I feel like it’s some sort of panel/table read/interview but I have no clue

[kiirotoao]

GUYS REMEMBER THESE PHOTOS????

THIS IS THE MIKE IN THE VR GAME THAT TENDED TO WILL

THIS IS THE ONE

[nijiirorhyme]

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action! Chapter 3

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action!

Fandom: Ace Attorney

Ship: Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth/Naruhodou Ryuuichi | Phoenix Wright, Ayasato Mayoi | Maya Fey/Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma

Warnings: None

Tags:Alternate Universe - Actors, Other Additional Tags to be Added, More characters to be added

Description: Rookie actor Phoenix Wright can not believe his luck as he  scores his first major acting role in one of the most anticipated movies  of the year. But, what was better than starring in one of the most  anticipated films of the year? Starring in one of the most anticipated  films of this year with famous actor Miles Edgeworth.

A Wrightworth acting au where two dorks (eventually) fall in love!  

Chapter 3/?

Alternatively, it can be read here!

Text below cut!

 October 5th 1:05pm

Cafe Aroma  

It finally made sense to Phoenix. As he was staring at the two of them chatting in their own little world along with the light blush that appeared on Franziska’s face, the strings that Maya pulled were actually the heart strings of the young manager.

‘Who would have thought…’ Phoenix brought his hot cup of coffee to his mouth, gingerly taking a sip before setting it back down. Phoenix casted his gaze at the man that sat across from him. He wished that the two of them could talk as animatedly as the other pair did.

The cafe Maya chose for the four of them to meet at was one she often frequented, Cafe Aroma. In fact, she went there so often that the majority of the employees would recognize Maya’s vibrant voice the moment she walked through the door with the little jingle of the overhead bell. It was a short distance away from the studio-- about a ten minute walk from the front gate. And it was because of this distance that it would be no uncommon feat if one saw a celebrity here. The first thing one would notice when opening the door was the warm and rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. The entire cafe gave off a very intimate atmosphere, further accentuated by the warm, cozy array of colours that painted the entire place; the dark cocoa brown wooden panels that hugged the bottom portion of the walls paired with a lighter-- almost beige shade that filled in the space above it. Above each black stained table with the exception of the widow seats that faced outward towards the street, several abstract paintings aligned the walls, most of them too abstract for Phoenix to even tell what they were. From the dim lighting, to the warm comforting atmosphere, one could stay here for hours while listening to the soft piano they played over the speakers.

All of that was nice and all, but what really got Phoenix’s attention were their cinnamon sugar donuts. Seriously, paired with their signature blend, they were amazing.

Taking a bite of the fried pastry, Phoenix dusted his crumbs off on his pants before trying to engage in small talk with the man. “So,” he awkwardly laughed, scratching the back of his head like he usually did when he was nervous. “This cafe’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Edgeworth responded in a deadpanned tone, taking a sip from his own mug, one filled with tea instead of coffee.

Phoenix took another sip in hopes that it would dispel the awkward atmosphere from the two before attempting to strike up a conversation once more, “So… How long have you been acting?” He asked, which he instantly regretted right after because he already knew the answer. He inwardly cringed at himself, ‘Nice going, Phoenix. You just had to ask.’

Edgeworth paused momentarily, giving his answer a thought before he spoke. “I can’t quite remember, but I started sometime when I was six.”

Phoenix was pleasantly surprised at the honest response. It seemed that Edgeworth truly had a passion for the art that he put the majority of his life into. He couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes softened as it looked like he was reminiscing upon the several memories he had created throughout his career. Phoenix made a mental note, talking about acting was the way to get Edgeworth to speak to him. After all, they both had it in common seeing how it was both of their livelihoods (though one was more successful than the other).

“Wow, you must’ve acted in a lot of movies, huh…” Phoenix trailed off, when suddenly another question popped into his head. He wanted to keep the conversation going as much as he could, even if it meant he sounded a little bit like an interviewer. “What was your favourite movie to work on?”

A pause once more, followed by an answer. “There are several movies that I’ve enjoyed working on, but the one I particularly liked working on was The School of Dreams.”

“Oh! That’s one of my favourite movies! An oldie, but a classic. But funny you should say that because…”  Phoenix stroked his chin. “I don’t remember you being in it…”

Edgeworth paused mid-motion as he was taking a sip from his mug. He set it down, pointing his eyes into one of the glares he had shot at Phoenix the moment they first met. Phoenix seemed to have offended him. “I was one of the main characters, Wright.”

Suddenly, it all came back to him. The grey hair, those stone grey eyes… How did he blank on such an important detail? It was one of the first movies he ever remembered watching. In fact, he could even recall the exact time in his life he watched it…

It was a Saturday afternoon in his sophomore year of high school. A sleepy Phoenix who had not a single clue what he was going to do after high school found himself alone at home that day. Sitting on the couch as he cradled a bowl of cereal and milk with one arm and held the TV remote in his other hand, he flipped it to any random channel he found, stopping when he saw the title of the movie pop up on the screen. Sure, he missed the opening of the movie, but there was at least the rest of the movie to enjoy-- and enjoy he did. As a young Phoenix continued to watch, he couldn’t help but notice how phenomenal the actor who looked to be the same age as him was. His eyes gravitated towards him, as if the young man on the screen shined the brightest in the movie. He knew nothing about acting and once it was done, all he could do was remain awestruck.

This movie revolved around a delinquent—played by the young Miles Edgeworth—who continues to get mixed up with the wrong crowds at school. Without telling his parents anything, he continues to live a life where he receives blow by blow and delivers blow by blow to those who seek to challenge him until he is the most feared high schooler among his peers. One day, he meets a boy who transfers into his class and changes his life for the better. By the end of the movie, the two of them are the best friends and plan on attending the same university together. Not only did the transfer student teach the delinquent boy how warm it was to have a friend that understands you, but more importantly, the feeling of belonging he had always dreamed of having with someone. It was a beautiful and touching story of how the two helped each other grow individually, as well as together.

Phoenix recalled trying to blink the tears that pricked his eyes away. He had never felt so moved by a movie before. At that moment, something in his soul had ignited, as if he had finally found what he truly wanted to do. So, he wanted to follow the footsteps of the young man portraying the delinquent and become an actor of the same caliber.

‘Who would have thought that same actor that inspired you would become your co-worker…’ He was a bit shocked at how fate had a funny way of playing tricks on people.

It took a moment for him to recollect his thoughts before he spoke again, “Oh… That’s right that’s right-- heh, no pun intended. How could I have forgotten?” He let out an awkward chuckle to mask the heat he felt creeping up onto his face, dusting his cheeks a rosy pink. It would feel a bit embarrassing to admit that watching a movie that Edgeworth starred in when he was younger was the reason as to why he became an actor after that blunder, so he decided it was best to stay quiet on the matter.

He saw Edgeworth roll his eyes at the pun he made with his own last name. Get it, “right”, “Wright”? It was the oldest joke in Phoenix’s book. Usually, this elicited two reactions from the people he told it to: they either chuckled a little bit because the realization dawned upon them that they sounded the same, or they awkwardly chuckled alongside him in order not to make him feel bad at such a lousy pun. This man surely was neither of those people.

“Though honestly, I don’t know how you do it,” Phoenix looked down at the table at his hands clasped together. He was about to say something sort of embarrassing, but he might as well. It wasn’t like he didn’t make himself look out to be a fool already or anything. “You’ve brought so many characters to life over the years, but I’m still having trouble trying to figure out what I should do to make Ruth Liss believable.”

Edgeworth cleared his throat, “Well, it certainly isn’t an easy task, Wright. After all, there are a lot of eyes on us to make sure we do it right.”

“Yeah, there are.” Phoenix agreed. In the end, that was the goal for all actors once they picked up a script. It was their job to bring a character to life. But that was something he definitely needed to work on. Just then, an idea popped into his mind. What Phoenix was about to say was indeed, a long shot, but at least he could say he tried. “So… since you know all the ropes… I was wondering if you could, you know… give me some advice maybe? Or maybe we could practice together some time?”

Ever so slightly, Edgeworth’s eyes widened. He seemed taken aback, which made Phoenix nervous. Would he decline? Accept? The man looked as if he had the response on the tip of his tongue, when an oddly familiar ringtone sounded from across the table.

Maya gasped, “Is that the Steel Samurai opening?!”

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. He witnessed Edgeworth fish his phone out from his pants pocket, then after checking the caller id with a tsk, set the phone on the table, completely disregarding the call he received on his personal cell phone a few seconds ago. The ringtone went silent, leaving Maya’s voice to be the only thing ringing in Phoenix’s ears.

“Mr. Edgeworth, you’re a Steel Samurai fan too?!” Maya’s eyes were practically sparkling. One glimpse at her could tell Phoenix that she was ecstatic.  

‘Here we go again…’ Every time Maya happened to meet another fellow Steel Samurai fan, she would lock them into conversing with her about it. This was not a hard task though, as Maya was the one who tended to carry the conversation when speaking about her favourite show. Usually when this occurred, Phoenix would be waiting for at least half an hour.

“Perhaps a little…” Edgeworth mumbled. Was it Phoenix, or did he look slightly embarrassed?

“A little?!” Maya scooted her chair closer to Phoenix, their shoulders touching as she reached over to point at the dangling charm that was attached to his cellphone. “You even have the limited edition steel Steel Samurai phone strap?! How did you even get one of those?! I tried to have Nick get me one, but they sold out just as he was about to get to the front of the line.” She looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed and cheeks puffed up.

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault someone couldn’t leave the house on time.” Phoenix retaliated.

“Yeah, it was you!” Maya accused. “You couldn’t find where you put your house keys!”

Phoenix paused, that was right. He was the one at fault. “... Oh, you’re right. Sorry, Maya.”

She crossed her arms, “When they release the steeler Steel Samurai limited edition keychain, you owe me one.”

‘... How could something be “steeler than steel”?!’

Phoenix sighed, “Alright, alright, I do. Next time, I’ll just ask Will instead.” Since he was close enough to the man at this point, he could at least ask him to do him a solid.

“So, Mr. Edgeworth, you like the Steel Samurai too?” Maya turned the conversation back to him with absolute delight evident on her face.

“It’s not like that-”

“Indeed he does.” Franziska interjected, cutting Edgeworth off. Her usual smug smirk remained plastered on her face as she rested her chin in her hand, the index finger on her other hand wagging pointedly. “Let’s not forget about the Steel Samurai statue that you have in your office-”

“Enough, Franziska.” Edgeworth snapped back, his face gradually turning redder and redder as the conversation continued.

Taking this new information into account, an idea popped into Phoenix’s mind. If he knew Will Powers, the man who played the Steel Samurai himself, then perhaps he could strike a deal… “Edgeworth, if I got you a Steel Samurai autograph, would you practice together with me?”

Not a single second passed when, “I don’t suppose I have a reason to refuse such an offer.” He answered, a bit too eagerly. “Franziska and Ms. Maya can work out the details later, but I believe I should have some time next week.”

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Phoenix couldn’t help the smile that seeped out onto his face from the satisfaction of success he felt on the inside. He outstretched his hand again. This was the ticket, the way he could finally get some hands-on experience. With Edgeworth’s guidance, he was going to make Ruth Liss the most nefarious man to exist.

Much to Phoenix’s surprise, he felt a warm, but firm hand grasp his own. “I, as well.”

As the conversation concluded, Franziska pushed herself up from her chair, “Well, our business here is done. Come now, we have a photoshoot to attend to. That foolish fool will be here any minute with the car.”

“Aw, leaving so soon, Franny?” Maya pouted.

“Unfortunately, I must. But next time, I will try to stay longer.” Franziska gave the girl a small, but gentle smile. “Oh, and Phoenix Wright…”

Phoenix’s ears picked up on his name being called. “Hm? Ow! Ouch! What was that for?!” A cool, leather whip thrashed at him, causing the skin underneath his suit to sting. He had just gotten a thrashing from Franziska’s whip and for no reason he could think of, at that.

“Just because you sport the face of a fool who deserves it. Now, the two of us will be off.” Grabbing her binder off the table, the two took their leave, leaving a satisfied Phoenix, and a satisfied Maya to their own devices.

“Well, what did you think, Nick? Isn’t Franny just the nicest person in the world?” She asked, her voice as sweet as honey. Phoenix could practically see the hearts in her eyes; she seemed quite smitten with one Franziska von Karma.

‘Nicest?! She just whipped me!’ “She was… something to say the least.” He opted to say instead. He downed the rest of his coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For some reason, this conversation renewed his spirits, his motivation to get better replenishing by the second.

 ‘A week from now. I have a week to show him what I’ve got!’

 October 5th, 11:00pm

 Edgeworth’s Penthouse

Miles Edgeworth was something of a busy man. No matter how many times his schedule had been packed to the brim, the tiredness he would feel after a day’s work was something that he would never get used to.

He unlocked the door to his place, greeted by the energetic dog he had meticulously raised since he had found the time to do so.

“Pess, it’s late. Why aren’t you asleep? Were you waiting for me?” Looking down at the dog with loving affection softening all of his facial features, a tender smile graced his face as he reached down to pet the pomeranian nuzzling against his leg. Edgeworth’s heart practically melted when he heard him bark back in response.

He set down his keys and scooped him up in his arms, to which he took the opportunity to lap at his face. He chuckled, “What did I do to deserve such a loyal dog?”

Miles gently set Pess back onto the floor, who darted from the front door to the slightly ajar bedroom door. He turned to look back at Miles, which Miles perceived to be his dog’s own way of telling him, “come here”.

Miles’ smile widened, “Alright, alright. I guess it’s time to get ready for bed.”

11:25PM

Miles slipped off his slippers and settled into bed, pulling the covers up over his entire body. At night right before he fell asleep, this was the time his brain was the most alert. Most of the nights where he had trouble falling asleep, for he was afraid of the nightmares that would plague his dreams, he would reflect on the day’s events, this one being no exception. All in all, talking to the man wasn’t such a bad experience in itself. Surely, he was a bit clumsy and awkward and just a little bit of an idiot, but what today’s conversation showed Miles was how dedicated he was. It truly seemed as if Wright wanted to improve and it made him feel a bit guilty for treating him so coldly the first time he met him. It had been a while since he had interacted with someone as inexperienced as Phoenix. After all, he had been taught that people of his stature shouldn’t interact with people like him.

“You don’t need to talk to any of these nobodies; you are leagues above them. Friends? Forget about such a notion. In this industry, you can never trust a single soul.” The words of his late mentor echoed in his mind.

He exhaled at the memory. Hopefully in a week from now, Miles could bestow upon him the advice he had been given throughout his years of being an actor. Would Wright succeed with his help? Miles wasn’t so sure, but did he want that Steel Samurai autograph?

Of course.

Hopefully, just hopefully, next week will be a good one.

[quagmireisadora]

[Jonghyun / Taemin] After the Fire

Prompt: A is a struggling writer going through a creative block, until B literally crashes into their life, claiming that they are a modern-day muse.  Rating: R-ish(?) Warnings: some explicit descriptions Length: ~10,000

Summary: Drawn to danger, I burned my own house down.

(Written as part of the Winter of SHINee fic fest. Please go support all the entries there)

------

“... we thank you for your manuscript and applaud your efforts in completing another book. Unfortunately, it is not quite in the vein of what we are looking for. Please stay in touch for…” 

In Jonghyun’s eyes, there is only one way to construe the letter—your stuff isn't sexy enough.

He knows the standards the publication house upholds. When he’d first applied to write for them, presenting a short story full of elucidated gasps and pants and whatnot: he’d done his research. The other writers and their works are miles apart from what he could ever produce. Those books are too salacious, too irreverent for him to match.

So, he knows there is a yardstick, and that he is required to be faithful to it, if he must help retain their astronomically high readership. 

Honestly, though… the only reason Jonghyun writes erotic literature is because it is easy money. 

Coming straight out of college, he first tried his hand at working for obscure webzines. That was a very weird, isolating experience. His colleagues were constantly embroiled in intellectual and cultural debates, the likes of which a man of his upbringing could never participate in—the elegance of noir films, the chaos of punk history, the artful French New Wave. Not only did these subjects evolve outside the barriers he grew up between, the webzines’ subscribers were largely foreigners, rendering a monolinguistic man like him… well. Useless.

Following this, he’d done a stint at small, virtually unknown publications. He’d written largely ignored thought pieces for national papers. He’d even submitted the less embarrassing specimens of his attempted poetry to the Metropolitan office of which, none were imprinted on subway doors. Yet.

To the interested employer, his CV reads like a grocery list of jobs: I did everything I possibly could with my mediocre talent, just so I could earn a living. And he doesn't mind that—encourages that thought, in fact. It is Jonghyun's earnest belief that only by downplaying his past professional experiences will he ever get a step ahead, climb a rung higher. It is also Jonghyun's earnest belief that dream jobs do not exist and, in this economy at least, settling is a good idea when you have qualifications as meaningless as his. 

So no, he doesn't turn any work down. Nothing is beneath him. And that attitude has led him here—to writing cheap erotica for easy money.

Except, Jonghyun hasn't a single erotic bone in his body. 

He is a man, most certainly. Red-blooded as they come. But something about writing down the act, about describing it in the most colourful and drawn-out details... femininity must surely be a prerequisite, he thinks. To notice the way that things look or sound or feel or taste in those short moments. To recreate that passion, that ecstasy, that urgency with paragraph upon paragraph of meticulous and explicit narration: one must need a very observative mind. Or a hyperactive imagination. Because something that lasts just a few minutes from his perspective, can only be recreated with such intensity if it were a woman on the other side of the pen.

So no, Jonghyun doesn't do sexy. Despite having penned three short novels, all with the reluctant perusal of internet porn, he doesn’t do sexy. He doesn’t do softcore, he doesn’t do taboo or wild or… anything, really. He just isn't capable of indelicacy like that. He reasons he can probably try romantic, but that’s not what this specific job entails, does it? No, and the letter is good evidence of that, he realises, stowing his last manuscript away for recycling. 

 Where sexual depravity is concerned, Jonghyun is running on empty. And if things don't change soon, his bank account will too.

------

His mother doesn't know, of course. She thinks her poor son, her youngest baby, is so deeply mired in the nine-to-five that he doesn't even have time to visit these days. Writing is time-consuming. Writing entire novels, even more so. He doesn’t tell her what his job is, though. He keeps it vague. I’m working at an office. I’m working for a big company. I’m working in a building on Saemunan-ro.

As common a name as Kim Jonghyun is, a pseudonym is useful in many ways, he realises. He doesn’t get strange calls from distant relatives, demanding what the hell does he think he’s doing, while ignoring the fact that they went looking for erotica in the first place. He doesn’t have his young cousins approach him with was that really you, hyung? or can we get an early copy of your next one? His friends and ex-associates don’t have a clue. He would like to keep it that way: Minho already gives him a hard time about growing into an old shut-in, if he had the faintest idea of what was going on behind those closed doors and drawn curtains… Minho would no longer be a friend, Jonghyun wagers with shame.

Even so, the question of inspired writing—if he can call it that—still remains. Rather, the question of how he will pay next month’s rent, how he will settle the stack of overdue power and internet and water bills, still remains. Seoul is an expensive city to live in by oneself, and he cannot move back under the same roof as his mother and sister, not with a scandalous job like this. 

At this point he has no way of stimulating his mind without resorting to stealing from other writers. 

And so, the idea of a fan-meeting event is a sort of lifeline. He figures it could help if people show appreciation for his work: even if those people are wild-eyed and pimple-faced oily young men who should be ashamed of themselves, his morality yells wordlessly. But he is no one to judge. And if they prove to be a motivation, if they can help him get out of his block, then all the morality in the world can go to hell. 

The event isn’t as clandestine as he imagines it to be, either. Outside the venue is a board yelling out a “SHIN YUN BOK PUBLICATION AUTHORS’ CONVENTION”. The doors are wide open. The sound of chatter, the smell of food, the murmur of excitement, all floats out to the lobby just outside. 

When he enters, his face obscured by a surgical mask and a large pair of sunglasses, the place is packed. A man is on stage, calling out polite directions for crowd control. Jonghyun recognises him as his employer. Or at least, he is the guy who interviewed him over a grainy skype call late one night. He self-consciously checks his disguise and walks deeper into the fray.

A semi-circle of tables is arranged around the hall, each nominated to a writer. Upon studying the occupied seats, Jonghyun’s premise is solidified when he realises eight out of ten appear to be women. Somehow, this information impresses him.

When he ducks under the ropes and is stopped by a security guard, he points at the only empty table in wordless explanation. Some awkwardness ensues: a request for ID, a weary denial on the basis that pseudonyms aren’t on any ID, a quick consultation by text message, an unenthusiastic “OK, sir. This way, please.” Soon after, Jonghyun has taken his place and assumes the target of many pairs of staring eyes in the room. Some point and snicker, some watch him awestruck, some even take photos. Selcas! Like he is some sort of celebrity! He feels uneasy and oddly vulnerable, fidgeting with his sunglasses as they threaten to slip on the sweat beading his face.

But when the doors are finally shut and the event declared open, Jonghyun’s jealousy soars.

There are lengthy, winding lines of people waiting to speak to nearly all the other writers--but not him. No one approaches him. Not for the first ten minutes, not for the next half hour. In spite of all the staring from before, no one wants to speak with him. No one is interested in getting his signature. 

It is only now, at such a place and such a time, that a series of paranoid questions fills his head. Does anyone read his books? Does anybody like them? Is he not popular? Is his work insignificant, even in circles like these? 

If the number of people dying to speak with the others is anything to go by… then no. Jonghyun is not in the least bit popular. 

He overhears his neighbour chuckle to say things like, of course there is a sequel coming out or yes, I based that character on myself. There are squeals, there are gasps, there is enough veneration to drown Jonghyun in self-pity. Suddenly, he wishes for that love and admiration. He wishes someone would ask him interesting questions and expect fascinating answers; dote on him just the way they dote on the rest of the panel.

His jealousy is poisonous enough that it spreads through his blood. His eyes burn with it, his pulse throbs against it, he feels it bristle in and out of his nostrils with every breath. His sweat begins to sting. His solitude starts to prick. His confidence dwindles to nearly nothing. The weight of envy makes him slide lower and lower into his seat. He plays with his marker and acts nonchalant. Acts like he is unaffected. But in truth he feels like crying. He feels like going home. He feels like quitting-- 

When his latest book is suddenly slammed onto the table, he yells and jumps a foot off his seat. Eyes turn to him again, this time with thinly veiled distaste rather than disinterest. He looks up at his assailant to find a lanky young man donning fashionable sunglasses and equally fashionable clothes. 

“Sign, please,” the guy says in a tone that borders on demanding. 

------

What surprises Jonghyun isn’t the fact that he has a “fan” in someone like Lee Taemin, as he introduces himself later. It is more astonishing to him that other people immediately follow his example and accost Jonghyun with copies of his work—some that look well used and dog-eared to the point that he is afraid to touch them. More and more readers who claim to love his writing flock over, while this Taemin character stands by. Silent, watchful, critical. 

As he doles out autograph after rushed autograph, Jonghyun can’t for the life of him understand how the situation reversed itself in the blink of an eye. 

“Uh… thank you?” he expresses uncertain gratitude. “I was. Surprised.”

“Mm hmm, so what do you want to do next?” the guy counters, folding up the sleeves of his baggy tee-shirt. The crowds have long dissipated. Security has rounded up all the stragglers, even the rowdy ones trying to get too close to that overly popular writer who went by the penname of Eonsook. But no one seems bothered by Taemin. No one cares that he is still here, still engaging in lazy conversation, going at his own pace. Everything about this is so peculiar. Everything is the opposite of his expectations.

“Well, I was about to go home and eat dinner, so—”

“I meant,” an exasperated look berates him. “What do you want to do for your next project?”

There is no answer for that. Jonghyun doesn’t plan these things out. He sits in front of the screen and starts to pour things onto it until he realises none of it is usable. Then he gives up. Rinse, repeat.

But he is expected to answer now. He is expected to say something rooted in a fully formed thought. He is expected to answer this man, this person who appeared out of nowhere and somehow managed to single-handedly create the interest Jonghyun was looking forward to. So, is there also an expected answer? Is there a right and a wrong response? Should he take the question as a cue to say something else, something scripted for such interactions? He doesn’t know.

He settles for a vague, “Uhm, is there anything in particular that Taemin ssi likes to read?” If he has learnt something from his time writing about politics, it is this: the best answer to a difficult question is another question.

An indifferent shrug replies. “Don’t really care. As long as there’s sex in it.”

He’d make a great politician, Jonghyun thinks as he starts to gather his things. “Well. I’m sure you’ll find plenty to satisfy you, then,” he gestures around them at the nearly vacated hall. 

The man on the stage waves to him, he waves back. They will probably speak on the phone later on, and Jonghyun will bombard him with questions.

“But I like what you write,” Taemin continues, drawing is attention back. Physically holding his chin and turning his face so they are looking at each other again. “I want you to write more. Much more. A series!” there is a hint of excitement on those puffy lips.

Jonghyun knows not to aggravate people like him. People who are probably more dangerous than they appear to be. He takes a cautious step back. “I… I wish I could, sir. But you see—”

“I’ll pay you to do it.” A sure motion pulls an expensive-looking wallet out. A wad of cash is counted before nearly all of it is set onto the table. “An advance. I’ll give you three times that when you’ve finished the first draft. How about it?”

He stares at the fan of ten thousand won notes. Rent, he reminds himself. You must pay rent by the end of next week. But what the hell is he going to write?! “Sir, I’m… I’m really very sorry. I don’t have any plans to write the next book and. And I’m not even sure what to write so—”

“I’ll help with that,” Taemin insists. “You need ideas, I’ll give you all the ideas you need. I’ll… I’ll be your muse,” he decides.

Jonghyun stares for a long uneasy moment. Where is security and why aren’t they doing anything? he wonders. He takes another step to back away from the weird man. But the money is right there, perfect bright green rectangles that seem to have come fresh out of the mint. The overlapping portraits of Sejong the Great are all pleading with him to be pocketed. Just say yes! the king is shouting out, even in that placid gaze. You don’t have to follow through, just take the money and run! He can’t find you, anyway!

No. That would be disingenuous. That wouldn’t be right. No matter how desperate his situation, Jonghyun would never resort to thievery. He shakes his head and stays his hand, making no move to accept the money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Taemin ssi,” he bows and rushes off.

------

Their story begins and ends at Namdaemun.

She looks at its sombre face, artillery fire still marking some of its masonry and disrupting the course of the story. Their story. It is the gate that reaches out for a hug, she thinks when a cold wind picks up and threatens to swoop her shivering self away. It is the gate that offers an embrace, arms angling out from its stiff middle, like a father consoling his sad and broken child. How odd it looked in its place. How quaint, to be the only survivor of its own story. No more kings roam under its elegant archway. No more guards train their arrows from the pagoda. No more tigers rustle nearby under the cover of trees, desperate to find a meal.

This gate… this thing. It shouldn't be here. But someone has shown it their kindness and tended to it; fed it with mortar and concrete and newly painted timber. Someone has seen fit to breathe new life into it.

Their story begins and ends here.

She met him once, then many times, upon the tufts of grass framing Namdaemun. She met him and with every meeting the distance between them diminished from feet to inches to barely anything. She met him, met all of him, met every place on him with every place on herself. His hands would smell of spice. Of coal and heat and rain… perhaps he tended to a garden in their time apart. He had the gentlest hands. When he touched her, they felt like lamps against her skin. His warmth would intoxicate her.

Maybe he was made of fire, she would wonder in the hours they lay next to each other, breath stuttering and pulse racing. Maybe he was a jinn.

“You’re not small enough to fit in a lamp,” she would tease him when they'd stumble over each other.

In her loneliness, she’d dream of him, floating on clouds made of cotton. She'd imagine him traveling from land to unknown land and sea to unending sea. She would imagine him soaring, his skin burnished and his eyes like bronze.

But he is long gone, now. He has left her side and his hands warm someone else's days. She is the survivor of her own story. She is a stiff gate looking for someone to embrace, someone to comfort. She endures, just as Namdaemun endures. They stay and they wait, the gate and her, in the hope that someday there will be a finale to their respective stories.

And then they will breathe a unified sigh of relief.

------

Jonghyun supposes it would’ve been wise to expect a second meeting.

He is still shocked when the time comes: a buzz from downstairs, a murmured excuse about routine maintenance, a knock on the door that sounds far too eager to be just pest control. 

When he opens the door to find the familiar lanky frame, he panics. There are no more disguises obscuring the distance between them now. Each man is plainly visible to the other. Jonghyun feels caught. Trapped, like a wild animal hunted until metal teeth closed around his leg. He frantically searches for something to hide behind, forgetting that he could simply shut the door again.

The creepy man named Lee Taemin invites himself in. He saunters casually, ambling the length of the hallway, looking around the room and humming, appraising it, measuring it. Measuring Jonghyun, who is still shocked and unable to react in a way that protects him.

“Wh-what’re you—?!” he begins when some of the shock has worn off.

“You don’t make a lot of money, do you?” Taemin cuts him off. “Why don’t you accept my offer? I’ll pay you plenty. More than you’ve probably ever seen. Then you can move out of this dump.” Even as he says this, he runs an appreciative hand over a row of books. “I can help you realise all your dreams, you know?”

“How did you even find me?!” Jonghyun counters. 

“Does it matter?” the other drawls, shaking his head in exasperation. He swings his arms around himself as he walks, and when his palms meet, he lets them clap together. Like he’s out on a relaxing stroll in the park. Everything about the setting is preposterous. “I tracked you down, now I’m here, and I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that what’s important?”

He stares, trying to figure out this puzzle of a human being. What is this guy? How is he so at ease right now? What is this game he’s playing and why? Why with Jonghyun, of all people? Does everything out of his mouth sound like that? Like a simple fairy tale? I’ll do this, then you do this, then we’ll live happily ever after. Ridiculous!

He’s only ever seen people like that on dramas. Badly written and poorly acted dramas.

“Please leave,” Jonghyun requests, maintaining a formal tone despite all the peculiarity of the setup. “Or I'll call the police.”

Taemin clicks his tongue. “Not until you answer me.”

“Sir, I can’t be bought for no reason.”

“But I’m giving you a reason,” Taemin points out as if the concept is too difficult for Jonghyun to understand. Which it is. “I pay you, you write for me. I like what you write, I pay you to do more. It’s like…” he gestures, standing in the middle of the room, his stance oddly graceful and formidable at the same time. “Like when a king enjoyed an artist of his court and promised his patronage,” he illustrates. “That’s what we’ll be like.”

The smile on his face is a perfect representation of a magician’s. Maybe he is something of a trickster, Jonghyun thinks. Maybe he likes to put on a show and confuse people.

“The publication house already pays me,” he informs. 

“After you finish the book,” he is challenged. It isn’t a lie, but how does this guy even know?1 “And only proportional to the sales. I’ll pay you regardless. In fact,” Taemin points. “I want you to write these books especially for me. My eyes only.”

So that’s it? Jonghyun wonders. Just a rich kid feeding his own kinks? He scoffs and rakes through his hair, sitting down at his desk to think.

He decides to consider it, because yes, he needs the money. Yes, he wants to stop living in fear of sleeping hungry. Yes, he doesn’t want to be destitute at the age of thirty-one, before he’s even had a real relationship, let alone marry and have kids. 

But can he really uphold his end of a deal like that? Can he really write what this guy is expecting him to write?

“I’m not good at… at sexy things,” he finally declares, motioning with his hands as if to show they were empty. “I have to work very hard at it. I can’t do it the way the rest of the authors do, and—” he sighs, remembering the way crazed readers had flocked to everyone else’s tables. Remembering his sales numbers, and the words of the manager of the obscure bookstore as he complained about having to lug all the unsold copies back into storage.

Trash, he’d called them.

“Really, I’m not even sure why you came to me, when someone like… I don’t know. Eonsook? She’s the better choice, clearly.”

Taemin walks closer, his lips pursed like he is thinking of a convincing argument. Maybe he is, from the way his eyes are so focused and bright. There is an unbreakable determination in his every movement. He crouches in front of Jonghyun, sighing as he looks up. 

“Your first book,” he begins. “A story about a man with a delusion. That he is in love with a woman. They fight, then they grow close together. And then, the man is cured through therapy. But,” he clicks his fingers. “His delusion has been passed to the woman. Brilliant idea,” he compliments. “Excellent writing. And yeah, sure, the sex stuff left a lot to be desired but…” he shrugs. “I liked the story. I liked that there was more to look forward to than just two people going at it. And you wrote to tell us that story, not to satisfy my needs, I could see that,” he assures. “So why not do more of that?”

Jonghyun gives a soft laugh despite himself. “Because that book sold less than a hundred copies. And the feedback was dismal—”

“Fuck the feedback,” Taemin shakes his head, a frown creasing his features. He looks young; too young to be involved in disreputable matters like this. Or… maybe at the perfect age to waste his time on such prurient endeavours. “Fuck what any of them think. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And you do?” Jonghyun doesn’t mean to be so standoffish but he cannot help it. Here is a stranger, coming out of nowhere, to validate him and say nice things about his pathetic attempts at writing. Here is someone trying to convince him that sales don’t matter, popularity doesn’t matter, even the adoration of the readers doesn’t matter. Then what does? Jonghyun confronts with a scowl. What does this guy know?

Taemin chuckles. “All I know is this. I like everything you write.”

------

“This world is built on supply and demand,” Taemin explains. 

He’s still here, hours later. By Jonghyun’s benevolence, of course. They are sitting on the floor, a laptop with a blank word document between them. The cursor is blinking… blinking incessantly. It taunts with each flicker.

Tell your story, Taemin said to him. Tell your story. Write it all down. Whatever you’re thinking of. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as your put it down in words.

Easy to say. Because try as he might, he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even have the shadow of a beginning, forget the middle and the end. There is no story in his mind, no words waiting at his fingertips. 

This is a waste of time.

Taemin continues regardless. “The readers of this kind of stuff... their lives are filled with disappointment. With reality. They want the impossible: sultry encounters, beautiful getaways, improbable scenarios. You see?” he signals like his words are shedding light on abstruse philosophical concepts. “They want what they can’t have. And writers like Eonsook understand that. They supply that demand. That's why she’s always making bestsellers.”

Jonghyun considers this for a moment, seeing some truth in those claims. He takes a look around his own apartment, eyes roving over the small desk and small sofa and small kitchen. It is a liveable space, he reckons. It is better than a half-basement, or a slum with toxic asbestos roofing and poor access. But he is aware that in the bigger picture, he is still poor. He is confined. He is restricted. He is at the bottom of a heavy and insurmountable hill. 

Disaffection comes easily to people like him. And short of being on the wrong side of the law, there is only one way to be at ease with his circumstances.

To pretend.

“But you? You fuck everything up,” Taemin carries on, amusement in his features. “You take that supply-demand model and turn it on its head. You say, I decide what I'll write. I decide what I produce. This is my art, not my bread. This is more than a paycheck for me. This is more than a popularity contest for me. That's what I see you think, and…” he shakes his head, chuckling as he reclines on his palms. “I gotta say, I find that really ballsy.”

A small balloon of pride inflates Jonghyun’s chest at the words, to his own surprise. He shifts and clears his throat. “Th-that’s all well and fine, but… but it doesn’t help that no one will read my stories.”

“Tell me something,” the other contests. “Why did you start writing in the first place? And—” he holds up a finger between them. “Don’t tell me it’s for the money. You could do anything and earn money. Why this specifically?”

“W-well, because… because what else am I going to do with a major in—?”

“No,” another shake of the head stops him. “No. Don’t answer from up here,” Taemin taps his temple. “This isn’t about rationality. This is about how you feel. About why you feel that way. Give me the answer in here,” he reaches forward and pokes a finger into the centre of Jonghyun’s chest.

He stares at the perfectly shaped fingernail, at the faint pink that dissipates into flesh below the joint. Why does he write? What compels him to scribble on stray pieces of paper? What makes him put his thoughts down on phone notes? What is it that surges in his chest when he’s in the shower, when he’s about to go to sleep, when he’s listening to a beautifully sad song for the first time? What makes him write? 

“I… I have a lot to say,” he concludes. It feels like an admission of guilt—freeing. Splitting the restraints he’d been struggling against for… perhaps, years. It is like a large weight has come off his shoulders and now he can stand up straight. Now he can float off the ground. Now he can fly. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I have a lot to say. About… everything. And I—” he shakes his head, looks up from the finger, glances at the blank screen, turns his attention to the face of someone who is listening. Someone who is here and who does not appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I really want someone to listen.”

With a pleased smirk, Taemin tilts his head and nods. “So start talking.”

------

He wonders what sounds he would hear, if he were up on the moon. 

Would he hear the distant roll of waves? The rushing and ebbing of tides, their froth effervescent in the shell of his ears, their folding and retreating as sharp as the feeling of sand between his toes. Would he hear the occasional beep of a passing space shuttle? Would he see the face of another human in the window of the craft as it zooms past, their hands mirroring a wave and their faces reflecting each other's smiles? 

What would he hear in that vacuum? 

Would he hear the patter of his heartbeat, like water dribbling off a tin roof to roll along the eaves and fall against leaves, touch the ground, seep into the earth and become lost? Would he hear it speeding and softening like the tides, waxing and waning like the moon, repeating itself over and over, spinning like the earth does, like the stars do, like this universe does? Or would he feel an urgency in his lungs, the frenzy to drink in as much breath as he could, to gather as much oxygen in each inhale and retain it until his sight shook and his hearing went dissonant and he realised that he could hear nothing on the moon?

Nothing?

Maybe it would be hope. Maybe he would hear the sound of unfiltered sunlight hitting his skin. Maybe he would hear the whisper of a solar wind playing with his hair. Maybe he would hear his smile, his happiness, his joy even in solitude like that. Maybe he would hear something like that. Maybe it would be melodious to his ears, maybe he would dance to it, on the ashen rigoleth, the dead and cracked surface of the moon. Maybe he would float from crater to crater and find himself repeating circles, large ellipses that never ended. No beginning and no end. Maybe he would hear the most perfect sounds that ever existed. Maybe he would hear the sonorous representation of heaven.

Maybe the moon is full of music.

------

Jonghyun stretches his arms and arches his back, rolling his neck tiredly. The light outside his windows has dimmed by a large degree. The sun has gone down hours ago, without his noticing. He blinks and feels around himself to reach for a light switch. An afterimage of the laptop screen remains in his vision for a while as he stands on complaining legs and ankles. A grumble in his stomach alerts him of the time. Dinner time. 

“Taemin ssi…?” he calls out, rubbing his eyes. “Taemin—”

It takes him a moment to realise he is alone. “Eh?” he scratches his cheek, trying to recall the sound of the door opening and shutting. He can’t tell how long it has been since the other left. There are no traces of his visit, no discarded teacups, no dirty plates with crumbs, nothing. He checks the bedroom, the bathroom, just to be sure. But it’s true: he has been a bad host. 

Jonghyun really has been doing nothing but writing. 

Searching for his phone to type out an apology, he realises belatedly that he doesn’t have a contact saved under “Lee Taemin.” With a repentant pout, he hums to himself. Next time, he promises himself. I’ll make it up to him next time.

When he’s settled down in front of his laptop again, this time with a steaming bowl of kal-guksu, he makes a choked sound at how much he has typed. Scrolling through page upon page of a very coherent-looking storyline, a reverberating surprise runs its course through him. Did he really do all this? Was that guy really serious about all that stuff? Has his inspiration finally returned to him, after all this time, all these years?

A muse… he feels the hint of a smile playing under his cheeks. He has a muse. 

“That… isn’t that something imaginary?” Minho asks him when he excitedly gushes about the encounter. “Like, something that old men used to think up so they could make paintings and all that?” 

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call me old,” Jonghyun dismisses. They’re lying on Minho’s carpet, listening to music. The sun is streaming through tall slider doors, and the usual sound of traffic is absent on a Sunday morning like this. Even the shadows look blue, their hue fluid and sparkling like light bouncing off of water. He feels calm, he feels like he is cradled in a hammock. As they relax side-by-side and read off their phones, there is a plot swirling in the back of Jonghyun’s mind. It buzzes and stirs, waiting to break out and lay itself down in orderly lines and sentences. He nurses it, pets its back, scratches it between its ears. He gives it a name. 

But it can wait.

“Look at this,” he scrolls through a namuwiki article on the Muses, holding it out for the other to see. “It says this famous novelist from America calls his bowling trophy a muse. Wah…! He’s written so many famous books!” 

“He’s old, too,” Minho snorts before he’s swatted at by an annoyed Jonghyun. “OK, OK!” he defends. “OK. I get it. You have a muse. So, is she hot?” he grins and rolls onto his elbows, a happy glimmer in his large eyes. “Does she pose for you? Do you get to take her on dates? How does it work?”

“It’s a guy,” Jonghyun frowns. 

“Really?” Minho hums, the slightest disenchantment pulling at his lips. “But it says here that muses are supposed to be beautiful women. Look,” he wrests the phone away from his friend and goes to the image section of the article. 

His point is proven by several old and colourful depictions of elegantly posed women, loose garments draped over their voluptuous fronts. There is no hint of an awkward lanky male form in dark and brooding clothes that blend him into his bleak surroundings. The women’s expressions are calm and filled with wisdom, unlike Taemin’s youthful fervour. The only feature that is barely reminiscent of the young man are the dark, mystical eyes.

Something inside Jonghyun grows uneasy.

“I mean…” he shrugs, hoping to give an explanation. He doesn’t have one, not at that moment. He doesn’t know how to defend his experience. All he knows is a name, some very sound advice, and the promise of money… money he hasn’t yet received, mind. He realises he is dealing with a stranger, after all. That if he isn’t careful, his prefatory suspicions of Taemin being a dangerous guy might still come true.

“Look, why don’t I introduce the two of you when he visits again?” he offers as justification, trying to push the issue aside. “You’ll like him, he’s got an... entertaining sort of personality, you’ll see—”

“I have a better idea,” Minho rejects the response. “Why don’t you just let me read one of your books, eh? I searched for your name and nothing comes up, you know? Are you really getting published at all? Or are they just taking you for a ride and stealing your work—?”

“Let’s just,” Jonghyun holds his hands up between them. He feels alarmed at the turn their conversation has taken. “Look. Let’s talk about this later, OK?”

“Hyung…” Minho makes an exasperated face, but he’s a good friend. His words are rooted in concern. He slowly settles back onto the floor, giving up on his argument, intertwining their legs. The soothing sounds from his music system take over once again.

What remains is Jonghyun’s fear of losing a dear friend.

------

“Who are you, really?” he shoots his misgivings the first chance he gets.

It has been many weeks since their last meeting. He has been progressively furthering the new book, or whatever it turns out to be in the end. What first sat as an idea in his scribbled notes has grown tall and strong. He now has chapters, and multiple plotlines that diverge from and converge on each other. He has dialogues, he has beats, he has imagery, he has descriptions. He has woven all the ends to make one whole, one complete mass, one continuous flow. Things are coming together, and Jonghyun is amazed at his own progress.

But his gratitude doesn’t dilute his distrust.

As soon as he barges into the apartment, Taemin demands to read through whatever there is so far. For a long time, he sits reposed on the sofa: silent for once, interest wavering only when he is addressed.

“Huh?”

“Are you just some rich chaebol kid looking to spend his dad’s money? Is this… just fun for you?” Jonghyun expounds on the interrogation. There is some insecurity in his tone, some residual lack of confidence from previous encounters that have left him wounded. Even he can tell. But he continues, unabashed in his self-preservation. “All this… this muse stuff. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you,” Taemin offers an apathetic shrug. “I like your writing.”

“I thought you like books with lots of sex,” Jonghyun frowns and counters, pointing at the tablet in the other’s hold. “I don’t have any of that in there.”

“Are you planning on keeping it that way?”

“Well, I wasn’t really going to, but—wait, no, listen to me,” he is nearly distracted, and the momentary look of triumph on Taemin’s face leaves him flustered. “I need to know who you are. I need to know why you’re doing this, and I need to know now,” he places his ultimatum. “Or I’m not writing another word.”

Taemin sits up and releases a slow exhale. His gaze is amused. It roves over his host, appraising him like a teacher would a child on his first day of school.  

“What if I don’t tell you?” he posits. It’s not a challenge. His tone is chatty, conversational. As if he’s asking, what if cars could fly. He leans forward and smiles that magician smile again. “What will it change, if you know? Is it going to fix your life? Is it going to rid you of all your problems? Is the world going to make sense?” he motions with his hands. “Of course not. So why do you want to know?”

“Because—!” Jonghyun wants to say it will sate his curiosity, but he can’t admit that. Something about that feels like a confession. He can’t speak his mind like that.

“Look, I like that you’re curious,” Taemin reads his mind anyway, still smiling. “I like that you want to learn about things you don’t understand. I think that’s important for a writer. But I think what’s more important is figuring out what the real question is.”

He blinks with confusion. “The real question…?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re writing this thing,” the other waves the tablet. “And you’ve advanced really far into the storyline. Things are getting exciting, characters are finally starting to become full people I can be invested in. I can’t put this book down even if the house was burning,” he compliments. “But there’s something missing. And I can’t tell what it is, except that it exists. In there,” another poke into Jonghyun’s ribcage. “Maybe the question you should be asking then, is what is missing? What else do you need? What else is there for you to find?”

A clearing of the throat, a shift of the seat. Jonghyun won’t acknowledge it, but the words resonate with him.

Missing. Something is missing. Something needs to be found. Something is waiting to be discovered. Something that he requires to complete this story… or maybe complete himself. Something that once sat in an empty slot in his chest must be recovered. He doesn’t mean for the thought to be so profound. But it is that very same profoundness that makes him believe it’s probably true. Something is missing inside him. Something is missing from his life. Something is missing from his world. And he needs to find it.

“Will you help me look?” he entreats his muse.

A magnanimous stretch of the arms replies. “It’s what I’m here for,” Taemin grins and falls back onto the cushions, continuing to read.

------

They stand outside the apartment block and Jonghyun is still not sure about this.

“Look, I really don’t think—” he starts to beseech, but Taemin silences him with a wave of his hand. He clicks on one of the call buttons and a ring starts to go, only raising the panic in Jonghyun’s gut.

“Just meet with her,” the other persuades, rational as always.

When someone answers on the other side of the line, it’s as if his entire body freezes until he is nudged. “U-uhh… yes. M-my name is uh… I mean. That is—”

“Is this a prank call?” the woman asks with anger in her voice.

Another nudge shakes his senses up. “N-no…!” Jonghyun insists. “Uhm, we—you and I. We work for the same company. M-miss Eonsook.”

A long pause. Some rustling of cloth. Some whispered conversation in the background. Then the woman’s voice returns. “OK, come on up,” she finally acquiesces before a loud buzz swings the front door open.

“Go!” Taemin hisses at him, grinning wide under the dark sunglasses that have become his signature.

The building isn’t much different from Jonghyun’s own apartment block, but there is something lighter about everything. It feels… nicer. There are planters with pretty flowers along the corridor. The lifts are clean and fully functional. The walls are devoid of posters and advertisements. TV sets can be heard outside some of the doors, as can the whistle of pressure cookers and the nagging of mothers. The atmosphere is homely, welcoming. He doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on anything, so he continues to walk in confidently.

He reads the numbers on each unit as he passes by, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and wishing Taemin were accompanying him.

When he’s at the door he was looking for, he rings the bell and waits.

The woman who answers him is somewhat recognizable. He remembers seeing the straight jet-black hair, the round jaw, the parrot-hooked nose, the no-nonsense stare. Even if he has never before glimpsed her puffy lips or heard her soft voice, he remembers her from the fan-meeting—and possibly from other occasions, when they bumped into each other at the publication office.

Nobody can tell she is one of the most popular writers in the country.

“Ah, hello,” he bows low and his sunglasses slip off his face to clatter to the ground. He scrambles to put them back on, but simply pockets the disguise when he notices the turn in her mouth. “M-my name is—”

“You must be the person who writes as Grapefruit,” she guesses correctly. Her diction holds a soft lisp. Barely there, unlike Minho’s often baby-like pronunciations. He blushes and nods at the floor in response to the question.

“Come in,” she invites him, the grille door swinging outwards.

Other than the ordinary-looking furnishings, her home is full of photos. As he pulls the surgical mask to his chin and wanders through the apartment, Jonghyun cannot help but study them all, turn by careful turn. All over the walls she has displayed pictures of herself, her family, her friends, and another woman. A sister, he guesses at first, before correcting himself when his eyes go to a shockingly intimate polaroid.

He doesn’t realize he is staring until he hears his host pointedly clear her throat.

“Some juice?” Eonsook offers the glass on a tray. He accepts and stands awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.

“Y-you have a very nice place—” he begins.

“So,” Eonsook cuts him off, showing him a seat. “How can I help?”

“H-help?” he blinks, his thoughts clouded.

She raises her eyebrows, wets her lips, digs her teeth into the lower one. “It’s a polite way of asking why you’re here,” she clarifies. He can tell there is laughter waiting to bounce out of her throat. In everything she does, there is an underlying strain of confidence. She exudes it in waves that come off her and lap at his own chest, nearly pushing him back with their force.

“R-right! Yes, of course,” he jumbles with the glass in his hold, looking around for a moment before accepting the proffered seat. “I—I came to ask you for… for advice.”

She follows his example and sinks into an armchair, crossing her legs and watching him for a moment. A long and entertained moment. “Oh?”

“Y-yes…” he insists. “You see. I’m—I’m currently working on this book, and. And I’m at this part that I need to research before I write it. So…”

“What kind of part?” her interest is immediate.

He tries to think of a way to describe it, nervously scratching the back of his neck and fumbling with the collar of his tee shirt. He feels unreasonably nervous, cognizant of the sweat beginning to stream down his back. “W-well…” he tries.

“Is it a sexy part?” she asks.

“N-not really.”

“Hmm, I guessed as much,” she leans back into her chair. “I’ve read your work. You’re not much of an erotic writer, are you, Grapefruit ssi?” she sums him up with narrowed eyes. And yet, there isn’t any sign of malice in her observation. He glance is approving, in fact. Admiring. “Your stories are very different. Emotional. They’re for a very… cerebral audience. Is that always your intent?” she asks with some fascination in her gaze.

He blinks up at the ceiling, thinking of a genuine answer, not wanting to disappoint her for some nameless reason.

“No,” he concedes after a while. “I think it’s just… because of the kind of person I am. I think it requires me falling in love first before… before my characters fall in love.” He runs a finger over the rim of his condensate-covered glass, nodding contemplatively for a moment. “W-what about you?” he asks. “What is your intent? When you write, I mean.”

She hums, crossing her arms across her front. “Intent…” she hisses a breath in. “There doesn’t always have to be one, you know?” she says conversationally. “Like you said, we can feel very strongly about something, and then write about it. Tell a story around it. I think that’s possible,” she accepts. And when she smiles, he feels an odd sense of solidarity with her.

“What… what does Eonsook ssi feel strongly about?”

The woman smirks. “You were staring at her just now,” comes the simply reply. Accompanying it is the smooth motion of a hand coming up to support her chin, a ring glinting on its third finger.

Jonghyun bumbles an apology.

“There is nothing else I feel as strongly about,” she reveals. “There is no one I love as much, no one I care about as much, no one who matters to me as much. And so,” she holds out a hand between them. “I write about her. About us. I suppose…” she finishes with a grin, a clever gleam nestled in her eyes. “I suppose you can say she’s my muse.”

“A muse…!” Jonghyun’s heart runs on a treadmill at the words. “Do you think…” he begins, shifting forward in his seat. She mirrors the movement. “Do you think you could teach me? How you find the courage to tell your stories?” he requests.

“Courage?” Eonsook chuckles. “It doesn’t take courage to make people happy, Grapefruit ssi,” she shakes her head. “Because that is what we do. We ultimately make people happy with our work. They read it, they smile, they feel good. Maybe they forget about it after some time. Maybe some of it stays with them for years. Who knows?” she shrugs. “As long as we get them to smile.”

He feels awe at that. “As long as they smile…” he nods again, this time in understanding.

------

With every jump of his hips, he is filled with a murder of crows that flutter to the far edges of his body—to the villages settled in his fingertips and the townships developed in his toenails. With every jump of his hips the leaves inside him quiver from the force, as birds take to the skies between his stomach and lungs.

When they travel, when they journey through him, his sighs tell the tale of that journey. They sing like bards, reciting how the crows travel carrying messages tied to their feet. The sighs paint pictures of beaks pecking at his outer edges, his boundaries, his geographical territories. With every jump of his hips he is breaking those boundaries, violating the treaties that hold those borders sacred. With every jump, he is less self-contained, less of an uncontested dominion.

He secedes. He surrenders his independence. He lets himself be taken captive by the thrum of the man below him. Inside him.

With every jump of his hips, he abdicates the throne of his identity. He makes the other king. Gives his crown to another head. And the crows carry news of this shift in power to all the lands that were once under his reign. They carry the news, propelled by the sighs, released at every breath, every hitch, every gasp. Every jump.

In his own kingdom, he is now a pauper.

To have meaning, to be defined by a name and description—all this no longer applies to him. The other man has changed his definition. The other man has made him… not him. But if he is not himself, who is he? If he is not who he was born as, if he is no longer the man he introduced himself as, who is he? What is his name, now? What can he call himself? How will he present himself to strangers, if he is a stranger to his own self? If he looked himself up online, what would the results be? Would they just become strange unreadable symbols?

If he is not himself, then he does not exist: or, at least… this is what he has always thought to be true.

But now his hips jump, and his voice breaks, and he calls out a name that doesn’t belong to him. With every jump, he becomes a blurry existence.

------

They grow close, Eonsook and Jonghyun. They become friends.

She talks to him often, sometimes on the phone, other times over dinner. On a second visit to her apartment, he learns the other woman from the photos is Gwiboon, who talks a mile a minute and laughs like an erupting volcano. The two of them accept Jonghyun like he has always belonged in their life, always had a place in their home and their hearts. They are kind to him. They are kinder than most others have been.

Perhaps because there is nothing to hide from them. He doesn't have to lie about what he does for a living, doesn't have to make up stories about how he spends his free time. He doesn't have to shut his doors and draw his curtains with them. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in their company.

It's freeing.

Jonghyun continues to write, faster and longer than ever before. He writes like he breathes. He enjoys how uninhibited it makes him feel. He finds himself feeling more and more confident about this story, even going back to the rejected manuscript and making edits with a red marker. He meets Taemin at a café and spends most of the time scribbling in a notepad as they hide from other patrons in a corner booth.

With every page he writes, a mass of pride grows in his ribcage.

“So, what now?” Taemin asks him one afternoon, having finished the latest draft and giving it his seal of approval. “Where does the story go from here?”

“Hmm...” Jonghyun nurses a cup of coffee. It is early in the morning. He has been organising his books and wardrobe and even his thoughts while the other read. He has been carefully making his way through all that needs to be settled—in his writing and outside it.

“I could write some more about the way the characters feel. You know, build more plot buffer. Or,” he gives half a shrug. “I could. Resolve it in a certain way.”

“A certain way,” Taemin raises an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Well. They could. I don't know. Fall in love, and—” the other is vehemently shaking his head before Jonghyun even finishes his sentence. “What? Why not?!”

“Too forced,” Taemin disapproves. “It would just be pandering to your readers, when the story doesn’t naturally flow that way. Consider everything that’s happened. There is no justification for them falling in love. All they've done is meet a few times and exchange... banter.”

“Sometimes that's enough!” Jonghyun defends, then softens. “Is... is it not?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me!” Jonghyun insists. “Is it not enough for them to know each other? To enjoy the company? To... to feel comfortable with each other? That should be enough sometimes, right? Wouldn't that be enough for you?”

“Is that the real question—?”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Jonghyun shouts, and as he does, he is painfully aware of the fact that this is not how he had planned for this conversation to ensue. He is conscious of the fact that he has made it a confrontation rather than keeping it within the bounds of an emotional exchange. There is a feeling of being put under an unannounced spotlight, its glare harsh against his face. He breathes hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter before him, doubling over in preparation for the rest of his episode.

“Yes, it is,” he repeats in a quieter, gentler tone. When he straightens up, he stares at the other with pleading eyes.

“What am I to you?” he repeats with some desperation.

Taemin looks satisfied at the question, like he has been waiting a long time for it to emerge. He remains relaxed despite the friction, despite the anxiety in his host. He continues to smile like an illusionist, continues to watch like a judge. “Before I answer that,” he begins in a calm, collected voice. “And I will answer it. But before I do, I need to you to tell me first: what am I to you?”

The reaction enrages him. “No,” Jonghyun warns. “No. Enough games. Enough running around in circles. You’re never honest with me. You only talk about this… this shit!” he angrily motions at the tablet the other had been reading from. “You can’t avoid this anymore. You have to answer me now.” He holds a hand up between them and counts. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? What do I mean to you?”

“Hmm,” Taemin rocks back and forth. “You really want me to tell you?”

Jonghyun makes wide, aggravated motions. “Who else will—?!”

“You want me,” Taemin clarifies. “To tell you. Who I am,” he raises his eyebrows. “You really don’t know? Have you really not known? All this time?”

“That’s why I’m asking—!”

“No, you’re not,” the protest is cut off. “You’re asking because other people are asking: what does he do in there all day, who is he with, who is this muse he’s talking about all of a sudden. You’re asking because you need to give them an answer. An answer that isn’t really the answer,” the corner of Taemin’s lip turns up. “Isn’t it?”

“Wh-what…?” Jonghyun shakes his head, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Taemin skips off his stool, meanders around the counter, advances on him.

Jonghyun’s breath sounds like an elasticized gong. His inhales are like rubber bands, stretching on for hours and hours. He is buzzing, like he sits inside something alive. Inside a heart and the lights decorating Namdaemun at night are made of lamps that glow soft and warm as if someone is holding him in an embrace and showering him with solace while their eyes are speaking to him in a different tongue in a speech of a foreign land where jinn live and grant wishes and there is nothing to see for miles except murders of crows carrying messages on their feet telling the world that the empire has fallen the world is coming to an end and the—

------

Mapo bridge.

It talks to him. It asks how he is, if he’s eaten yet. It tells him to turn his head up and look at the blue sky once. It tells him it loves him. It tells him that the brightest moments in his life are yet to come.

Jonghyun cries hard enough that his body shakes from the force. Minho stands very close, looking worried and reaching out for a hug. But he is told to wait. Not yet. He is told to wait, Jonghyun will need him soon.

Words are everything he is. Words are his life and soul. His bone and sinew. His drifting days and sleepless nights. Words have created him, penned him down—not the other way around. They have built him up, bound his loose pages and given him a spine. They have made him Kim Jonghyun. They have made him a writer, a poet, an artist. They have made him what he is. And he would never have realised this, were it not for Taemin.

Were it not for himself.

“I write for myself,” he claims to the sad and bloated waters of the Han, knowing the other is listening. Somewhere. From within the crevasses of his mind, Taemin is listening. “I write for myself.” It is a heavy claim to make. It is heavy as lead. It is tied to Jonghyun's feet as he trains to run his ink across a coastline. The claim is heavy enough to need lugging around on his hipbone. It is heavy, it is full. Like an earthen pot spilling its contents.

His face is drenched when he speaks those hefty words, when he acknowledges them. He sobs and his fingers tighten on the rails of the bridge, the place he would often visit when he felt sad and alone. But he isn’t alone. Minho is here for him. Eonsook and Gwiboon wait in a car nearby. And Taemin.

Taemin exists in the beats of his pulse.

Behind him, traffic swishes past. In front of him, the river hushes his crying. “I write for myself,” he lets go of the full pot and watches it splash, watches its shards rock a little on the ground, after they've separated from the whole.

많이 힘들었구나

He touches the words of the bridge and nearly answers out loud. He nearly says yes. Yes. It was tiring. It was terrifyingly easy to give up on my dreams. He rocks a little in place and finally Minho gathers him into a tight hold, stroking circles on his back.

It was awful, Jonghyun wants to say. But I found him. I found myself. I found contentment. I found it. And now I can walk away from you saying yes. Yes, it was tiring. It was hard. But now my breath comes easily. My heart beats easily. My life runs easily. I am alive. I am free. I am happy.

I love myself.

[hellotinywonder]

(re)Generation 2018: meet your heroes.

DAY THE FIRST, Wednesday:

Snow. Darnit.  I’m going delay my trip a day.

DAY TWO, Thursday:

I got up at 5:30a, trekked down to my conveniently already-packed car through the snow, but the streets were clear, and I began my drive westward and northward. Dawn over snowy mountains is spectacular.

I visited with puppeteer friends in Richmond, saw their local makerspace, and hung out with an old friend from my touring days and her new dog, Dave, a rescued sweetheart from Puerto Rico.

DAY THREE, Friday:

Off to DC, with literally NO traffic. I had brunch with the incredible JoJo (Burlesque Poetess), who is a Doctor Who nerd of equal or greater value, and extended bandfamily from ten years ago.  It’s been so great to reconnect and talk art and ideas and nerdy references. And how we engage with the universe, and how sometimes the universe engages right back.

After brunch I headed to visit my friend Matt and his wife.  It was great.  I met Matt a few years ago at a convention, all because I had PuppetCapaldi with me, Matt used to write and draw for Doctor Who comics, and has since become one of my closest art friends and advisors and person to send random texts to in a crisis.  Good people, but this is the first time we’ve hung out in person since our initial meeting.  It was great.  A few hours later I was off to Baltimore.

It took 3 hours. Which didn’t mean much to me, as I don’t drive DC to Baltimore often.  But yes… I later learned it should be a 45 min trip. I parked eventually and made my way to the hotel for ReGen.  I knew only one person going in, and I promptly sought him out: Drew Meyer.  I snuck into the back of his panel (it’s worth mentioning that I met Drew the same day I met Matt, and PuppetCapaldi did those introductions too) and tried to use context clues to make out what it was about.  I got as far as Drew referring to the Tardis as “sort of like a windowless van”, when I abandoned that notion and decided I’d just make a note of it, so I could mock him in my end of trip summary… like… now.

After touching base, and handing off my puppet suitcase (Drew was storing it onsite so I could attend the March for Our Lives the next day without needing to worry about a giant rolly-bag and crowds) I caught Irene Richard coming out of the panel she had just hosted with Rachel Talalay.  I feel like I’ve known Irene for years, I think it’s how decidedly New Yorker she is, but this was our first time actually meeting.  We hit it off, as I knew we would, and then by some twist of awkwardness and fate, I was standing at a table with Rachel Talalay admiring a scribbled storyboard movement sketch.  I love things like that.  Process-peeks. I realized I didn’t have anything to say to Rachel (aside from the whole: You’re awesome, inspiring, and your eye is fantastic), which is bothersome, because I’m a fairly interesting person at times, and I want to learn so much from her, she’s a powerhouse in the industry I am just starting to dabble in, and am always keeping an eye on.  I didn’t have any puppets with me to reinforce that I make stuff, etc.  That’s fine, there was a whole weekend ahead.

I skipped out to dinner with Drew and his friend Brent, and shortly after went home to my friend’s house, where there was a party.

The party, I won’t get into too much, but I walked in and it was like knowing everyone.  They were activists, peers, they had a prison letter writing campaign going on in the dining room.  I had such a wonderful time meeting everyone, it was a completely unexpected bonus.  I miss my punkrock anarcho activist friends. Good to see organization like that in Baltimore.  I slept in a room with multiple accordions.  Perfection.  Thank you Jonathan for your hospitality and your excellence.

DAY what is it now? Four? FOUR, Saturday:

I got up early, mostly because I had been and would be antsy about giving my panel on puppet and prop-making that night.  No one else in the house is up, and I need coffee and to get to the March.

I get a Lyft to town, remembering seeing a Starbucks a block or two away from the hotel. I’m traveling with just a little backpack and my travel mug as my puppets are stored at Drew’s so I get out and head off to it.  *Normally I’d avoid Starbucks and hit up a local cafe, but the Baltimore Harbour is rather commercialized I couldn’t find an indie place to scope out.  I was not alone in this…

I walk in, an amalgamation of bleary-eyes and nerves, and to my left I see a familiar figure and hear a voice, and at first I dismiss it, as I don’t quite place it- holy damnit.  It’s Peter Capaldi. ***Now, I am going to stop you here.  Peter Capaldi is a big deal to me.  I met him last year, PuppetCapaldi in tow, and some friends got me to make a 24 hour comic about it. (It’s here https://tinyurl.com/y9cfma2t) worth a read, and it’s flipping cute, and I might reference it once or twice more.***

He’s talking with Rachel. I make my way past them, because they are having a conversation and the day is young, and I am about to go shake my fist at government, and I need coffee and… While I’m waiting in line, they finish their conversation and get up. Fine, universe, I might as well, I wanted to reconnect with Rachel anyway, so I do.  I say hello, I explain that this is a very bizarre and rather delightful start to my day at least. Rachel introduces me, Peter shakes my hand. “I’m Peter.” “Valerie.” We talk for a short while. Peter grabs my travel mug and inquires about my Scottish flag sticker with EU stars super-imposed. I explain that, while I am not from the UK, I’ve kept up on Brexit and I talk about meeting with the remainers outside of Westminster, and when I was in Glasgow- Glasgow?  Oh yes, and then I point to the sticker next to it, which is a map of one of my favourite cities in the world: Glasgow (my travel mug is adorned in stickers from places I’ve been recently, namely Glasgow and Berlin, and Tokyo…) Peter doesn’t quite recognize it, so I point out The Clyde, and it clicks. “Oh!”  He says, then we start to talk about Glasgow.  It’s brilliant.  He points to a place on the map and shows us: “I have a flat right around here.”  I show him where I stayed, across from Kelvingrove. “Oh, that’s the West Side.”  He’s right, but I act jokingly incensed.  Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow, and then it’s time to go.  We say our goodbyes.  And they are on their way and I will see them later and…. I need coffee.

I walk back to the hotel a few minutes later (to set eyes on puppets, make sure everyone’s all set, and tuck them away at the Pixel Who booth, who have lovingly adopted us for the weekend), glowing.  It occurs to me I just got to talk to Peter Capaldi about Glasgow.  Not Doctor Who, not The Thick of It, not Puppets, just Glasgow, a city we have a mutual fondness for.  This is somehow the best thing ever.

Okay, get your head together, Valerie.  It’s time to go to the March.  So I do, it’s about 4 blocks away, an easy walk and the whole time I’m overwhelmed with what today might end up being like. The March is indescribable.  I went to the local Baltimore version, knowing DC would be too much to contend with if I am to teach a puppet workshop that evening, but I believe it was worth stepping out wherever and being counted in the hundreds of thousands of people demanding better gun control in the US.  Kids are on the microphone, empowered by their peers, and finding their voice, and demanding their safety, and I’m already just emotionally dilated and I begin to cry. It was such a powerful morning.

After a couple hours, I’m starting to fade.  I leave the March, return to the hotel, get some food and grab my date, a 3 year old, beat to hell, semi-retired PuppetCapaldi.  He is the goshdarn belle of the ball when it comes to conventions like these, especially when Peter is present. We go to a panel interview of Peter.  As he’s my aforementioned ArtHero, I am terribly interested in what he has to say, but I don’t care as much about meta Doctor Who information unless it’s fun anecdotes of monsters and puppetry, of which there are a couple.  The only thing I am interested in him answering related to Doctor Who is what was it like to make something like this in the world of Brexit or Trump, or how does Doctor Who intersect with our current reality, because sometimes it seems to offer direct commentary, and Saturday (with the March) was just a particularly important day.  A sort of: did Doctor Who, the franchise, feel it has a duty of care, with how it couches its viewpoint in media, etc.  I never got to ask that question, but someone asked one similar. His answer was lovely, talking about how ultimately Doctor Who is being made for kids, and giving them the globalist (universalist) perspective of The Doctor will help shape their thinking and the world as they inherit it.  That world leaders should be afraid, because Doctor Who is communicating with the generations that will replace them. It wasn’t quite the question I had, but it was close enough.  Thank you, whoever asked it.  I looked for her after (she had blue wristlets), but never found her.

I ran into Rachel again after this, and donated to WhoAgainstGuns and got a lovely postcard of the (now dismantled) Tardis interior, which I love, a set I desperately wish I could have seen, could have been on, and I did try.  She signed it to me. “To Valerie from Starbucks” and we talked about how we both ended up there that morning for lack of other options.  I apologized for bothering them, but there was no need.  It also caught me offguard to be remembered. That’s a long time problem for myself.  I’ve written about it many times before.  I am getting accustomed to the concept that people do in fact have object permanence when dealing with me.  It’s nice to be remembered.

I’m about to go get our little family photo taken, when Michelle Gomez passes by and sees PuppetCapaldi she makes “the face” as I have come to call it. “Whaaaaarghourgh!”  She yells as she’s rushed by.  I make a note to find her later.  She made the “I know that guy!” face, and I think she wants a picture with it.

I am currently, in present as-I-write-this day, realizing how darn wordy I am.  I’ll try to condense. We have our photo taken.  Peter puts together that I am me.  The woman from this morning, but also that we have met before, once he sees the puppets.  I let him play with the finger puppet, and before I know it we’re looking into the monitor (THEY HAVE A MONITOR, BLESS YOU!) and I’m talking about finding focus, etc.  A photo is taken of me adjusting Peter’s arm while he stares down the camera, and then one where I look at the camera but he, and all puppets present, are focused on the monitor. Both are super adorable.

We’re removing puppets, etc and Peter says “You made all these, yes?”  Oh yes.  Someone prompts me and I mention the puppet I brought that is loosely based on Armando Iannucci, not that anyone would recognize it.  “I would recognize him”  Peter says. “Bring him by and show me.”  So, that’s that.  I’m off.  A bit thrilled that I’m getting a reputation as the puppet lady.  I mean, I’m certainly working at it, but attaining it is an altogether different feeling.

I’m sitting outside in the hallway playing with two little girls who were there for photos and talking to them about puppets and Sesame Street, and that sort of thing, when Peter and his folks pass us.  The girls and I (and PuppetCapaldi) wave at them, and I continue to pack my photo into my Spacejunk sketchbook and then I’m alone in the hall.  I head for the elevators and as I turn the corner I walk into the most wonderful scene:

Young Theo Tidemann (who I did not know at the time) has just started playing ukulele at Peter’s request, while we’re all waiting for elevators. Theo starts “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”  It’s wonderful.  It’s sweet. It’s about to get even better.  Peter starts to sing along, then slowly we all do.  A bunch of strangers, singing in impromptu harmony.  It’s so magical. Singalongs are like my religion.  That metaphysical energy of communion through song?  It’s transcendent to me.  Early on I realized that I was in a perfect moment, and I thought of this kid I was about to meet, and he deserved a video of this. So I juggled my puppets a bit and took some poor quality video with my phone, it pans up and fades out, and it doesn’t matter. It’s the perfect moment, and we can rewatch it anytime.  (It’s on @hellotinywonder’s instagram… https://www.instagram.com/p/Bgt7jO8Ar25/ and BBC-A put it in an article about Doctor Who’s Day recently) Other things happen that day.  I get a moment with Michelle, she takes a photo with PuppetCapaldi, but I’ve never seen it since.  I am still looking for it.  It’s a great exchange, though. Showing someone your art because they are excited about it.  I’m pretty proud of that. I play ukulele in a room of other ukulele people… it’s ukubiquitous!

I sit in a dark corner and just breath a bit. I end up talking about puppets with the custodial staff, and it’s one of the most delightful conversations of the weekend. Throughout, I am adrift.

PUPPET PANEL!  It went WELL!  Kathy O’Shea David helped out and brought her army of puppets as well, I would go on, but really, it was mostly just me talking about puppets, how to build, what to use, asking questions, answering questions, and corralling  a puppet petting zoo.  Unexpected hit of the posse was Kyle the Fish! Everyone loves Kyle, I demonstrated my feelings on ventriloquism with him (when using a puppet, in my opinion, moving your mouth doesn’t matter, if your focus on the puppet is correct, and your manipulation is believable and you hit your lipsync, people will just accept it.) As I started to put puppets away, when my panel was over I looked up and saw Kyle, some kid was manipulating his mouth, and it was so moving.  I make reference puppets like I do fanart, to expose people to the other stuff I do. Do you like PuppetCapaldi?  He’s a portrait puppet, a skill I possess, and can do for anyone! Do you like this Rick from Rick and Morty? He has moving eyes, a mech I designed, and also use over here… People fell in love with Kyle, who is my very own intellectual property, and that meant the world to me.

At some point, I and my puppet rolly-bag float away to bed.

DAY I FORGET, IT’S THE LAST ONE, Sunday

I drive myself in this time, so I can scoot off when I’m done. Puppets stay in the car, with the exception of PuppetCapaldi, my date, and Armando, who I debate quietly… I mean, he’s janky, he’s not quite right, he’s not a portrait puppet, he’s just *based* on Armando Iannucci… do I want to show a piece to Peter that I don’t fully stand behind?  I’ll decide later.  I stuff him into my travel tote which I realize then is my tote from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.  I sigh. I am the biggest nerd ever, even when I don’t mean to be.

I have Coffee with the Creators.  This is delightful.  I get to pick some people’s brains, and let others just tell me about what they do.  I am thrilled to get to speak more with Simon Fraser, a comic book artist for Doctor Who, I swear, I do collect them as friends, it seems. I also get to meet Steve Gostelow whose table I’d been eyeing throughout, but we missed eachother.  He was a monster maker, and sculptor, and having a materials and process geekout was fantastic.

There’s a moment when Rachel is about to come to our table, and she has to get up and leave, we make this brief sort of eye contact and I realize as she’s headed out, that it’s fine.  We’ll catch up later, that is such a strange and wonderful feeling.  She tells me later she had to run up and get her photo taken with the three Doctors.  Adorable.  Flipping Adorable.  I will see her again in a little over a month, and that is spectacular.

I am walking around the con, taking it all in and Peter and his small group walk by, I’m talking with my new fellow blue-haired early 30’s lady friend Gale at Nightengale Needles, and I look up and see him.  I have nothing to say to him so I resort to my clown communication skills and make a friendly, but decidedly silly face.

It is returned.

This is a professional milestone, in my book.

Later I am in the vendor area, and I meet up with Simon Fraser and his family.  We talk a bit more, he likes PuppetCapaldi (really, that puppet handled nearly all my introductions, it’s great).  I am looking through his portfolio of work for sale, mostly because what he is selling is traditional blue pencil and ink, and I like just looking at people’s work, understanding how they develop a peice.  Then I see the page.  It’s 4 vertical panels of Osgood throwing her scarf to a falling Twelfth Doctor.  She saves him.  He is appreciative and grumpy.  She looks like me. I’ve seen this page, I’m told it’s from a Free Comic Book Day issue, from Titan, I assume.  I was eyeing a wallet made out of it on Etsy, I love it.  I love the composition, the dynamics, the SHELOOKSLIKEMEness of it all.  And here it is.  Waiting for me.

I rarely buy things at conventions, but this page has been in my mind for almost a year? And I love it, and now it’s mine. And in some strange cosmic organization, it was always mine.

On my way out I touched base again with Steve Gostelow.  I show him my “Celastic: Do It Old School!” button.  While he didn’t use Celastic, he still appreciates it. We talk a bit more maker shop and it’s wonderful.

Okay, the last line for meet and greet and autographs.  As I said in my comic, these are the people PuppetCapaldi was made for.  We had time, and I struck up conversations with all the lovely people around me, especially this woman, Michelle, who gave me a clif bar.  Smart folks.  I showed her the comic, which gave her a bit of context into what was about to happen.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with getting an 8x10 glossy photo signed, but that is not where I am at.  When people set down what they would like to have signed, I pulled out my do-not-lose-me-orange A4 #Spacejunk notebook and open to a random page.  That is what I want signed.

When I’m about to meet Peter, again, I take off PuppetCapaldi, that’s not what this is about. The woman in front of me is having her Missing DoSAC Files book (one of my favourite books ever) signed “by Malcolm”.  Peter pens a short, furious, and F-laden diatribe for her. She thanks him and wishes him a happy birthday. “Ah yes!” He says. “Thank you.” He goes on to sign a photo she had in her collection of signables. “You know, I’ll be 60,” he starts, “and when you’re 60 the government gives you a little pass.  And I can take all the buses and trains for free.” The public transit junkie in me is thrilled. It’s always nice to have common geekery with the people you look up to.

Oh, then it’s my turn. Okay, then. I try to briefly and calmly (everything is madness around me) explain that I am here to ask him for some advice, or encouragement, that I, and many like-minded friends of mine are all at these weird professional empasses, and I look up to him, and have for some time, even this puppet has gotten me work out in the big crazy world of TV and Film.  He smiles and grabs a blue sharpie (which I realize I had secretly hoped he’d use blue, despite the several black, silver, and gold sharpies on the table).

“Shall I make it out to you?” “Sure.”  I say, (I mean, fair is fair, I’ll share the advice, but this is my letter, sorry kids.) “...I’m Valerie.” I continue. “I know.” He says and continues to write.

I’m again caught off guard at this display of object permanence. This hero of mine knows me.  Knows my work…

He is writing, but stops. “Have you got your Armando with you?”

Ulp.  More object permanence.

“Well, I mean, yes, but it’s not quite-” “I want to see it!” He puts the pen down. He’s written something about stars aligning.

I dig Armando out, explaining that he’s only *based* on him, for a show I’m building… I slip my hand through the secret hole in the sleeve, and lift the puppet’s head.

Peter makes what I have described earlier as “the face”.

He gasps, giggles, then buries his face in his hands. Armando looks around a little frantic, and a little jangly, scratches his head.  Peter lifts his head, locks eyes with me, locks eyes with the puppet, and devolves into laughing.  “It’s *so* like him!”  he says.  “I need to show this to him.” His handler takes our photo together.  Peter explains “this one is special, this is for a friend of mine.”  A woman who I guess knows Iannucci’s likeness also gets it and now she’s laughing.

“I’m going to send this to him!” Peter tells me while his friend takes the photo, “He’ll love it!”

Peter sits back down, again telling me how much Puppet Armando is like Proper Armando and recomences writing. He just keeps going, we’ve stopped talking, and it’s rather quiet, surrounded by the din of the convention. Sharpie on paper, scratching.

Someone behind me taps me on the shoulder and checks to see if I am doing okay. I tell them I am fine, and I am. I am perfect.

He’s stopped mid-sentence, and is just writing “work” over and over in the margins.

He finishes.  Having filled the page, which is adorable. “There. Is that alright?”  He asks.  I tell him it is. And I thank him. “Good luck.”  he says, handing it up to me.  “And have fun.” (I will.)

“You are very talented.”

All of this means so incredibly much to me, I don’t think I can properly explain. I thank him again and look up. The rest of the world races back into my consciousness.  Michelle, my new friend from the line, is only a little bit crying.  “Are you crying?”  I ask.  “Maybe!”  She says. And I realize she is, because she gets it.  Because she read a silly little comic about this weirdo art girl who is just collecting advice, inspiration, and encouragement from the people she looks up to, and somehow today it’s coming together perfectly. 

Empathy Abounds.

Peter and I say good-bye, and I’m off to put Armando away more properly.

(Oh, I also scurry back to the table to pick up Armando’s eyebrow which fell off.  Peter looks up and I hold the eyebrow up to my own and it all registers.  Such a puppeteer move, you guys.)

After that it’s just a farewell fanfare finale.  I say goodbye to everyone and then I am off.  Completely rejuvenated artistically, emotionally, professionally… I can’t describe it all, and I’ve been doing nothing but describing it all for seven pages of a google doc!

I drive through the evening and end up in Staunton, VA, just as the sunset turns to night, to stay with my friend before heading home the next day.  We order Chinese, as she’s also just come back from performing and we are prolevel ladies that deserve a night in.  We’re talking about art, and Fringe festivals, my weekend, and hers, it’s great to continue this creative thread outside of my Baltimore adventure. I open my fortune cookie, which says: “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend.” That’s sort of how I’ve been living my life, as of late. We make more tea.

Pan Up.

Fade Out.

[fearandloathinguniverse]

When Raoul met Oliver

We arrived at Tumblr sometime in late April, I was driving the car as my attorney was giving directions while under the effects of cocaine, we were looking for our blog space and had already passed several other blogs that showed the variety of individuals that inhabited this odd yet stimulating land. I was barely able to make out our location when he suddenly shouted: “There it is!” I sharply turned the car to the right to not miss the location my attorney had pointed out. As we stopped I saw It was a house, it was colorless with a generic house shape and no windows, just a door on the front. “Our blog lets go check it out.” My attorney said getting out of the car. I looked around the somewhat deserted area around our blog, I thought to myself how we were going to get any support if we were on the outer rims of Tumblr.  I carried my luggage into the blog house, it had a giant tv on the wall with a couch and a table that had a smartwatch on it.

“You should take that” my attorney yelled from the other room where he put his luggage “It will give the locations to other blogs and more information.” He was reading this out loud off a tablet from the table the watch was on “The big monitor can help us search for other blogs we want to visit as well and check our own ‘asks’ or receive a message from the ‘mod’ whoever the hell that is “ he continued on as I strapped the watch onto my wrist and turned it on. “Grey people are anonymous Tumblr inhabits with no identity, called anons for short.” 

“What do we do know?” I asked as I looked around on the watch looking for some clue of what to write about.

“Ask blogs are pretty popular on Tumblr, you should go interview someone from those blogs since asking questions is the whole point of the blog. Just interview someone fast because inactivity for too long with no content may lead people to think we’re just some guys who wanted to get past the safe mode or troll people.” My attorney said still reading from the tablet now with a joint in his left hand.

“Who should I interview?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know just go look on the screen and get to it!” He yelled as he walked over to the tv typed in ask blogs and pressed a button that looked like a compass which caused the TV to start searching for ask blogs. Several based on fictional characters turned up but one that appeared to be the most popular were asked blogs based on a line of characters called ‘Vocaloids’

“There, go find a Vocaloid ask blog and interview the person. It’s that easy” he said as he sat down on the couch “Try this Fukase guy or Miku or Oliver he looks friendly.”

“You whore, I don’t even know what a Vocaloid is, just let me sit down and relax”

“Then learn about them when you travel out to one of them just get something to write about, the sooner the better.”  I had no way of arguing with him right now, he was high off his mind from that joint. With little recourse, I cussed him out as I left the house and got into the car and looked for the nearest Vocaloid ask blog based on the only reasonable name my attorney listed inside. Oliver had plenty of blogs on him so it wasn’t too hard to find one but it was hard to pick which one I wanted to interview, Christ, some were flat out scary. There was a vampire, a creepy crawler, a mermaid, one whose eye was replaced with a mouth and another who was a dummy or something. I found one who was obsessed with knives named ask-okniver.tumblr.com  or Knife for short and decided he would be interesting, I have an interest in knives and maybe he could lend me a good hunting knife. I punched in his location and hit the road to his blog. 

The journey wasn’t too long and I pulled up to his house in a few minutes. Okay, be calm don’t alienate him, tell him your name and what your business at his blog is, those words kept going through my head as I walked up to his door and entered his blog. I stopped in my tracks as I saw several grey people standing around in almost a circle around the body of Knife who was motionless on the ground. Jesus Christ what were these grey monsters I thought before I remembered what attorney had said about them just being fellow Tumblr inhabitants. I walked up to them to look at the body of Knife, he didn’t have any visible woods but seemed to be sleeping but he wasn’t breathing. I checked my watch for information and saw that the ‘mod’ had written something that said “Fun fact: Knife does have an on and off switch. You just gotta find where it is.” So this kid is a robot? That makes this even more interesting but I knew it wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t find the switch to turn him on. One of the anons said “I'm going to make a guess. Is the on/off switch along his spine like Data from Star Trek?” My watch buzzed as the ‘mod’ answered with “Good guess! But it’s incorrect!” Another anon said, “well if Knife's turned off then I guess I could pull off his bandages to see if the switch is there.” As he began to pull of Knifes bandage around his eye. The sight was phantasmagorical, the left side of his face was grey and rusty orange with a black hole where his eye should be, the entire section looked like the skin had been ripped off.  I guessed it wasn’t there either,  I was thinking of calling it a day but then the watch rang with a message, “Perhaps there is someone you can ask for hints. Someone who was made by the same person as Knife.” I thought this over and remembered that there were other Olivers living around here and that maybe they would have information. I was really hoping to get at least one interview so I could go back home and hey if I turned the Knife back on him might be grateful and even more willing to be interviewed, well shit I better get going then.

I dashed out of the house and looked on my watch for the Oliver who seemed like they would know the most about the mechanic of their body.  ask-a-dollie.tumblr.com Perfect a doll robot thing, of course, it would know the most about machines. I drove off as fast as I could to Dollie's house and made it in a few minutes, I jumped out of my car and kicked the door open like a madman and located Dollie who was sitting on the floor and yelled "You! little doll.. robot thing. I am a journalist and I need to know if you have any information on the whereabouts of an on/off switch on your friend Knife's body. I need to ask him questions!”  I was met with a quizzical look from the mangled face of Dollie who said, “Whats a Knife? I don’t know what a switch is either.” He continued to stare at me confused with that yellow eye and I noticed a red-eye beneath it was also staring at me but it looked far more sinister. I realized I just made an ass of myself as this doll clearly knew less than I did and I didn’t research this beforehand, I slowly backed out of the room as Dollie continued to look puzzled. I got back in the car, calmed myself down and looked for another Oliver to ask preferably a normal version. ask-ollie-and-co.tumblr.com seemed like a normal one and he was close by so I decided to go to his blog. I arrived and went inside with a little more composure so wouldn’t appear like a maniac again. He didn’t seem to be home but I noticed on the desk blueprints of his body, I looked through them quickly and found where his on/off switch was located, it was on his left shoulder blade.

“Behind his heart,” I said to myself thinking it sounded poetic in someway maybe I was just overjoyed as I quickly ran back to the car and drove back to Knife’s house to deliver the good news. I arrived back at his house and ran inside and pushed past the anons.

"anons, step back. I am a doctor of journalism and I have figure out where the switch is” I said as I walked up to Knifes body and reached for his hoodie before stopping as I grabbed it. I didn’t want to pull off this kids clothes in front of all these people, I would like some creep for god sakes and I don’t want that reputation on this site. So I casually reached for a knife that was on the table and ripped a small hole in his hoodie where the switch would be. I stood back up and said, “Behold, The answer was behind his heart.” I still thought that sounded poetic as I announced it to the crowd. Our watches suddenly buzzed with a message that said “You found it. Your actions will have consequences.” That last sentence caught my eye, consequences? What could it mean, it’s not like it will hurt him to be woken up and he seems to have been asleep for a while so he should be fine, I noticed the others in the room seem concerned as well but I had to get an interview or story of some sort for my site so I said, “I don't think we have a choice. I know I don't, I have to talk to him.”  I leaned down and opened the panel and flipped the switch to on. Knifes eye opened up letting us know he was awake. I took a few steps back as he stood up and stretched a bit, he reached to close the panel on his back. He suddenly had a look of worry on his as he pulled off the hoodie, I stepped back a little more as I noticed the scars and bandages. He looked at his hoodie in horror with tears forming and he looked up and said, “ What did you do?” I didn’t know whether to be scared or to laugh, I thought he would be happy to be awake but it seems that he feels worse and I didn’t know why, he fell down and sat with his face pressed into his knees with his hoodie in-between. My thoughts on this situation being comical left and I just felt bad.

“Sorry about turning you back on kid, but it seemed like a good option at the time. Clearly wasn't, so I feel bad and I want to know if we can do anything to help you.”  He didn’t look at me as he said, “Just go away.”

I felt a knot in my stomach surprisingly, I saw my chances to talk to this kid fly away. I finally looked at the hoodie and realized he was upset that I tore a hole into it, I felt really bad and I decided to try and do something helpful. The first thing I had to do was lock up those knives, I didn’t like the idea of that kid having them while he was like this and I got an idea from those scars on his bodies that I might be right. 

“I should probably leave but I’m locking up these knives so you don’t do anything stupid with them,”  I said as I started picking up knives from around the house but as I grabbed one off the table I noticed some pictures on it. The pictures had Knife and some other Oliver in different places, an anon walked up behind me and said “Those are pictures of him and his boyfriend. He loved so much, but he’s gone now.” 

I looked at the pictures and pieced together how upset the kid must have been, so upset that he might’ve shut himself off. I contemplated whether or not to give these to him or lock them ups with the knife collection, I didn’t know if they could trigger some kind of bad reactions or if they would comfort him. Fuck it. I walked back out to Knife and handed the pictures to him.

“Do you still want these here?” He looked up and grabbed them from 

“Please.” He said sadly. “ Don’t touch anything” he followed up with as I left back to the kitchen. I ignored his request and continued to collect the knives, there is nothing more depressive and self-loathing then someone who just lost someone they loved, I knew it was safe to keep these locked up. I gently carried his knives and put al eighty fucking two of them into a cabinet. Damn this kid had quite a few knives, most were butter knives but I still considered myself lucky for not getting cut, I had thoughts about taking one but I didn’t need to give a reason for the kid to hate me more. I grabbed the nearest lock and closed to cupboard with all the knives and locked it, in hindsight the lock wasn’t a very strong one and I’m pretty sure any halfwit fool could see that it could be broken with a hammer but it was all I had to use at the time. I walked back to the main room and was about to head out but I still felt bad so I turned back to Knife.

“Can I at least fix your hoodie before I got? I feel bad for tearing it like some animal, I just didn’t want to be seen as some creep who took off little boys clothes.”  I didn’t know shit about sewing but I intended to just make some gesture of goodwill even if I probably couldn’t fix it.

“Don’t touch it. Leave. Go away… just go away” was his response, this kid seems to hate me now, I had no chance at that point to interview him. I could only walk out with my head down in defeat. I didn’t understand why he was so upset about a sweater that could be fixed, I walked outside and turned back to see more people talking to him. I heard someone ask why the hoodie was important and I stopped within earshot to hear Knife tell a story about how another one of his friends had left it for him as a goodbye gift. It was a farewell present from a person close to him and I damaged it. Shit, the only word going through my head as I drove home depressed and tired. I got back to the house to find my attorney had already made a mess of the place, he was stretched out on the couch with a drink in his hand.

“About damn time, how hard is it to get an interview?” I didn’t respond as I took my hat off and poured myself a drink. He sat up and looked at me “Did something happen?” 

“I didn’t get an interview but I at least have a story to write about,” I said tiredly.

“Okay, see it wasn’t that hard.” If I wasn’t so tired o would’ve poured my drink on that bastard but I was beaten down by the day I just had and I still had to write this story, so I just walked to my room and got to typing this story.  The strange and decadent adventure has made me reconsider whether or not this change will be for the best, I already feel like life is trying to beat me down again, can I really survive in this place or should I suck it up with thoughts that will be fine later on, I guess I just have to take the ride and see where I go.

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Knife belongs to ask-okniver.tumblr.com 

Dollie belongs to  ask-a-dollie.tumblr.com