#I keep getting sick and dealing with WEIRD HORRIBLE EVENTS. IN MY HOUSE NO LESS.

[dyavol]

[malfoymania]

LOYALTIES | 2 | D.M

masterlist

CHAPTER TWO

LILY KINGSLEY

"Are you going to come and do the next charms essay with us?" Hermione asks me as we leave our last lesson.

"She wishes. She's got detention with Malfoy" Ron smirks. Harry's standing next to him trying to suppress a giggle, but fails. I groan and throw my head back.

Hermione is quick to shut him up, smacking him with her potions book. "Ronald be quiet, or I'll find a way for you to join them."

Both boys raise their eyebrows and quickly stop their sniggering.

"I'll join you guys later. Wish me luck." They all shoot me sympathetic looks before I turn and head to Flitwick's room.

As I walk, I can't help but rewatch the events that played out earlier in my head.

"Oi, Potter! Who did you have to suck off in the Ministry to let you walk free then?"

Harry, Hermione and I are walking towards the great hall for breakfast when we hear the one voice it's too early to deal with.

"Fuck off Malfoy." Harry responds, still walking trying to not acknowledge his presence.

"I expect there's a cell in Azkaban with your name on it."

I can normally take it when Malfoy has something to say about me, but I can't stand when he has something bad to say about my friends. I turn on my heel and stomp up to the boy and he stops in his tracks.

"Will you fucking stop talking for once? Literally no one wants to hear what you have to say."

I try to stand tall against him, but he always seems to have grown every time we have an altercation.

He sucks in a breath and his mates laugh and do the same. I give them a glare and even though they'd never admit it, they had a look of fear in their eyes. As they should.

"I don't recall anyone asking for your opinion Kingsley." Malfoy folds his arms and tilts his head to the side. He's trying to mock me.

"Well have it. Maybe fucking learn from it too." I spit back, his eyes lighting up at the response he's getting.

"Bite me Kingsley" he smirks, leaning forward trying to intimidate me. Just you fucking wait.

"Come on Lily, don't waste your breath on him" Harry mumbles, taking my hand ready to pull me away.

"Go on off you go, back to the house we'd all rather you be in."

That's when I snap. I lurch forward ready to grab Malfoy by the collar, but Harry grabs me and holds me back before I can. I'm struggling in Harry's grip when the blonde stumbles back in shock, bumping into Professor McGonagall as she is walking past.

"You two, my office. Now."

I lean back against the cold brick wall that's just outside of Flitwicks room. I'm tired, hungry, and sick of wearing uniform and detention with Malfoy is not going to help.

"Kingsley. We meet again."

I slowly open my eyes and see the smirking blonde i've been dreading since first period.

"Don't talk to me Malfoy." I stand up slightly taller, not wanting him to see that I'm tired. If he knows i'm tired, he'll think i'm weak. If he thinks i'm weak, he'll taunt me more.

He chuckles slightly as Flitwick opens his door. The professor has boxes in his arms filled with books.

"Come in you two. I need to go and run these back to the library, so I'm hoping I can trust you both to carry on from where you left off reading this morning?"

We both nod and head into the classroom. I take a seat in the far left corner trying to keep my distance from Malfoy. He follows me and sits on the table next to mine, obviously. If he can find a way to piss me off he will.

"There's at least 30 chairs in this classroom. Why would you chose the one closest to mine?" I snarl, pulling out my book.

"I thought we weren't talking."

His quick response angers me. Purely because he didn't answer me, it was quick thinking and now I can't think of a response.

I scoff and try to ignore the fact that he just took a small win by having the last word. At least this might mean he stays quiet for the hour that's ahead of us.

"You're pretty feisty by the way Kingsley. I actually thought you were going to lamp me one earlier."

Oh here we go.

I don't look at him, but I can feel his stare burning into me. It feels really weird it just being him and not having the rest of his crew lingering behind. He's alone and still an asshole. There's no hope for some people.

"Yeah? Well I would have if Harry didn't hold me back."

"Sure." I hear the creak of his chair, indicating that he's leaning back in it. I don't move my head but I move my eyes to see that his feet are resting up on the table.

"Don't fool yourself Malfoy, you nearly shit yourself when you thought I was going to."

"Nah, I actually thought it was kinda hot."

My head snaps up and I look at him for the first time since we entered the room. His hair is resting against his eyebrows, floppy and messy.  He looks so at ease. Cocky. Me on the other hand am getting increasingly hot and red. A mess.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What Kingsley? Can't take a compliment?" He pushes the gum he's chewing on against his cheek and bites his tongue, adding to the cheeky demeanour that I hate so much.

"Not from you, no."

"Why not?"

"You're horrible Draco. Nice things don't come out of your mouth."

He smiles when I say that. More sincere than before.  "What?" I snap. I'm trying to stay cool but it's not working. I'm not sure if my heartbeat is quickening or has stopped completely, but either way I don't like it.

"I've never heard you call me Draco before." He says with a slight softness unlike before.

My head spins slightly. I run a hand through my hair whilst trying to ignore the flutter that I just felt in my stomach.

"Well it's your name isn't it?"

He doesn't respond this time, he just looks at me before pulling out his book and turning to the right page. I look back down at the parchment in front of me, but I'm reading the same line over and over again whilst my head keeps replaying what just happened. The silence in the room is quite frankly making me feel sick.

I don't dare look up for the rest of the detention. Flitwick arrived back into the room a few moments after the painful silence fell between Draco and I, meaning he couldn't say anything else to make me sweat profusely or blunder up my words.

By the time it turns 6pm, we're both dismissed.  I take as long as I can to put my book in my bag, leaving enough time for Draco to leave the room before me. Once I hear his footsteps fade into the corridor I head to to door too. The whole hour that I was supposed to be reading, not one word actually processed in my head. All I could hear was Draco calling me hot. To say it was disturbing is an understatement.

"That was fun."

I let out a yelp as a tall figure emerges from next to the classroom door. It's Malfoy.

"Merlin! Don't do that Malfoy." I seethe, trying to catch my cool again whilst tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I hear him chuckle which infuriates me even more, but I ignore him and carry on walking trying to follow McGonagall's advice.

"Oh come one Kingsley! Was I not good company?" He asks, following me down the corridor.

"No you were not. Now leave me alone." I spit.

"Wait Kingsley, hang on" Malfoy's hand lightly grabs ahold of my shoulder making me stop in my tracks. His eyes are looking directly into mine. They're holding less cheek than before; now they're softer- warmer, even.

Before he gets chance to continue, Goyle and Blaise call for the blonde haired boy from down the corridor. The look that was in his eyes only moments ago disappears and now hold pure ice and darkness.

"It wasn't hot, it was psycho behaviour. Don't try and threaten me again" he growls lowly, but loud enough for the two boys to hear as they approach.

"How was detention with with Slytherdor?" Goyle asks, mock dripping from his words.

"Horrendous. I can't even bare the thought of spending anymore time with her." Draco mumbles whilst turning away from me. The persona he was acting out right now was not what I had just witnessed in detention, and i'm not sure which confused me more; the way he was acting in Flitwicks classroom, or how quickly he was able to switch to the Malfoy we all know and definitely don't love.

In any other situation I'd be able to fire a witty remark back, but in the current moment i'm in too much shock and confusion of what just happened to even think about fabricating a response. Instead i'm left standing there speechless watching the three boys pace away, with Draco's peculiar gesture burning into my skin.

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[angstyaches]

Shoes on the Covers

Here, have an achy, angsty Shayne and a soft boi Charlie (who we’ll hear more from in the next chapter, which is a continuation of this). Takes place within a few days of the events of Chapters 2 and 3.

Trigger warning for... gaslighting, psychological abuse? (If anyone knows how to properly warn of this trigger, particularly when it’s a parent-style figure that’s involved, please inbox me. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.)

Swallow the World, Prolgue: Part 4

6:15pm

“Did you miss the bus?”

For someone who claimed to have the humans’ best interests at heart, Madelyn was obsessed with the idea that everything they did, and every system they put in place, was a failure in some way. Easier to blame the bus schedule for making her foster kid come home late than consider the fact he didn’t exactly want to come home on time.

“I took a walk,” I told her. I’d hoped said walk would lift the sick feeling I’d had since lunch time. In a way, it had; my stomach wasn’t flipping over and making me gag anymore, there was still a weird ache in my gut.

“Well,” Madelyn smiled. “I’m glad you’re home safe.”

I frowned. I knew better than to trust what sounded like genuine concern.

“Dinner’s on the table.”

“What?” I couldn’t help the slight wobble in my voice. My heart and my stomach both felt like they’d taken a bungee jump off a cliff. “But I – the last one was only last week.”

“Well, Watson found a friend for you while he was out hunting for himself,” Madelyn explained. “Luckily he happened to be carrying a warding jar, and was able to do half of your job for you.”

“I don’t think I can do it today, Mads,” I said. “I feel kind of off.”

I flinched as she clapped a freezing-cold hand to my forehead. Her other hand closed around my elbow, nails digging into my leather sleeve.

“Your temperature is normal, by human standards,” she said. “You think your petty complaints matter in the grand scheme of things?”

I swallowed and shook my head. Although my belly made no noise, I felt it rumble and cramp. I resisted the urge to pull my arm against my stomach; with anyone else, it might have evoked sympathy and helped my case, but I knew it would just make Madelyn more impatient with me.

I leaned my shoulder against the wall, wishing for nothing but to be left alone so I could just go upstairs and lay on my stomach and sleep.

“The world needs rid of its demons, Shayne,” Madelyn laughed. “And I need rid of an eyesore in my kitchen. Plus, Watson and I have friends visiting tonight. Human friends.”

“If the demon’s in a warding jar, the humans will be fine,” I muttered.

Madelyn slowly shook her head. Her nails dug deeper into my arm.

“This is the thing you’re made for, Shayne. Don’t you crave revenge for what those things did to your parents? Have you stopped feeling angry and sad about what happened to them?”

“No.”

Madelyn tipped my chin up with her finger. Her hair was smoothed back from her face, the blacks of her eyes running deep and steady. From afar, she might have seemed like a beautiful young woman, but up close, and from so many years with her, I could see the places where her century on earth had weathered her.

Her thumb brushed against my cheek. Nausea began to swell in my stomach again, so now my insides were aching and churning.

“You want to go and lie down for a few minutes?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“Alright.”

I let out a breath of relief.  

She beamed. “Give me a kiss first.”

I swallowed and leaned a little closer to her cheek as she turned her head. Her skin was blistering cold against my lips, but nothing compared to demon flesh. I felt my stomach wriggle in discomfort at the thought of devouring. It was all I could do to keep my face looking neutral as I pulled back from her.

“Good boy. I’ll call you when Watson’s ready to come and restrain you,” she called over her shoulder as she walked down the hallway. “We don’t need a repeat of what happened last time.”

My hands were shaking as I eyed the stairs. Fourteen steps and about twenty more, and I could be on my bed, basking in a few moments of peace before fulfilling my duty.

But instead, I waited for Madelyn to disappear through the arched doorway to the kitchen, then backed up to the front door.

8:36pm

The last time I’d been here, the place had been in shambles. Now, it was re-plastered and painted a shitty shade of pale brown. Walking into this room in particular – the west-facing bedroom on the first floor – made my head spin a bit. New furniture. Plain and boxy. Not very Charlie-like.

“No posters or anything?” I asked.

Charlie frowned and waved his hands for me to shut up. His glare was undermined by his oversized sweater and chequered pyjama bottoms. He listened for any movement from his parents before he cautiously closed and locked his bedroom door.

“Parents don’t want anything out of place,” Charlie said in a low voice. His hair was wet from showering, which explained the steamy, soapy air. “In case potential buyers come to view the house. Hence, no posters.”

I picked up a small brown bear from his nightstand, holding it up in front of my face by its legs.

“And what do the potential buyers think of Mr. Teddy?”

“His name’s Vincent,” he mumbled as he grabbed it from me. “Don’t touch him. Hey, how did you know which window was mine, by the way?”

He was referring to the pebbles I’d thrown to get his attention from the back yard. I could barely remember what had made me do it.

“Used to be mine.” I shrugged and flopped onto his bed, the back of my head against his pillow, watching him put Vincent back in the exact same position I’d found him in.

“Oh.” Charlie glanced around the room, probably trying to picture how it had looked. “That’s cool, but still just a lucky guess, when – oh, come on, no shoes on the covers.”

I instinctively started to life my feet, but then Charlie grabbed my ankles, sat down on the bed, and pulled my legs across his lap.

As he began to undo the laces of my boots, I once again tried to breathe through the ache in my gut. If I’d been at home, I would have rolled over onto my belly and waited for the pressure to settle everything down.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Charlie asked, dumping one of my boots next to the bed. “Did you find something out about my… situation?”

A trickle of nausea moved slowly towards my throat. The plan had been to talk to Watson that night, find out what he knew about more complicated possession cases. He was less likely to become suspicious than Madelyn, especially when he was halfway between bi-weekly human feedings. But when Madelyn had mentioned him restraining me while she released ice cold demon flesh into my body –

“Shayne?”

I looked at Charlie as he dropped my other boot to the floor. I was supposed to be the one helping him, yet here I was, showing up in his room for… what reason, exactly? Because I was suddenly unable to deal with something I’d been putting up with for years?

“No,” I said. “I didn’t find out anything.”

He sat back against the wall, hair dripping onto his sweater, eyes heavy with sleep. He’d probably been getting ready to go to bed. I had no idea what time regular people went to sleep.

I wondered if his head had been hurting since the disaster with the warding jar. I couldn’t think about that morning for very long before I started shifting my weight uneasily.

I pushed myself up by my elbows. “I should go.”

Charlie held my legs in place across his lap, the blue of his eyes appearing softer in the low light. My stomach muscles trembled with the effort of holding myself up, making my belly clench and hurt even more.

“Five minutes ago, you were literally throwing stones at my window,” he laughed. “You might as well just tell me why.”

“My stomach hurts.”

“You came all the way here because your stomach hurts?”

He raised his eyebrows. I looked down at the pale yellow duvet cover as his expression darkened. I hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding so horribly childish, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

“You devoured a demon?”

“No.” I let my head rest back against the pillow again. “You think you’re entitled to every detail of my life now?”

There was a churning sensation deep in my gut. I tried to put my hand over my belly in time to calm it, or at least muffle what I knew was coming. I wasn’t looking at him, but if Charlie had been about to reply to my remark, he was interrupted by a gurgle originating beneath my t-shirt, jacket, and hand.

There was a moment of stillness in the room, in which I wished I’d just taken my chances at home after all. Then I felt Charlie’s weight shifting on the mattress. A moment later, his fingers were brushing my leather jacket further open, nudging away my hand.

My ears started to ring like someone had just screamed next to my head. I sat up on my elbows again. Charlie pulled his hand back, eyes widening.

“Sorry, I just thought – never mind.” He looked terrified, a fact I didn’t appreciate. He tapped my leg with one finger. “I’ll get you some medicine or something, if you let me up.”  

My anger fizzled out as quickly as it had burst into flame. I wasn’t even sure it was anger after all. I didn’t move my legs. The light pressure had felt kind of soothing on my stomach for a second, and although my face flushed at the thought, I hated that I’d scared him.

I cleared my throat, an apology burning the back of my tongue but refusing to come up any further. “Can you just put your hand back? Please?”

“Where, exactly?”

I blinked in surprise. I’d expected at least a little hesitation, after the last time. I traced my hand down to the middle of my stomach, running my fingers up and down across my belly button.

He leaned his hand against the same spot. My belly gave a low gurgle, as though in response to the inexplicable warmth of his hand.

Charlie made a low whining sound in his throat as my stomach groaned again. “Hurts, huh?”

“Mmm.” My bones started to feel heavy as Charlie’s hand massaged through the ache in my belly, gently ruffling my t-shirt.

He stopped the motion of his hand, like he’d just thought of something.

“Do you feel like you might be getting sick?” he asked. “Do you have a fever, or nausea, or anything?”

I swallowed a thick feeling of dread. There it was. He’d already eliminated devouring; now he was eliminating actual sickness. Quickly concluding that I was either faking or exaggerating.

“Um, no? I don’t – I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Okay.” His fingertips rubbed in little circles again. “I guess – in the long run, digesting demons and sending them across the fabric of existence can’t be easy on your tummy, right?”

Emotion wrenched at my throat at the softness in his voice. His hands were so careful, like he was afraid he was going to break me, or make my stomach more upset. 

I shrugged in response to his question, even though I knew that he would eventually get fed up of my shrugging – and of me. 

[notoriously-blonde]

Looking for a Beta for some of my fics.

These being:

Switch-A-Roo: 4/11 chapters. 14,326 words. Adrien Agreste. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Tikki. Plagg. Kwami swap. Before Reflekdoll came out. Original designs. Different weapons. [Those 4 chapters are currently under revision, which is what I’m looking for a beta for, and have much more words. I am looking for a beta for all further chapters.]

Roughly 3 years ago, Hawkmoth sent out the first akuma, sending the entire city of Paris into a panicked frenzy. Now, almost three years later, so much has changed...

The two heroes who had fought against Hawkmoth, Ladybug and Chat Noir, have brought in two other heroes and have gained so much experience.

Tikki has always been a sticker for rules: don’t tell anyone your identity, stay on a need to know basis, dot use your powers unhindered, and don’t switch miraculous.

Plagg... Well, Plagg couldn’t care less about the rules. If he can sleep, or cause mischief, he’s all good. But, what no one knows, is that Plagg has a soft heart... and, seeing his kit in pain, emotional or not, doesn’t sit right... especially when he can’t even have any fun.

(In which Plagg shows a soft side, and just wants to have fun before it ends... not that he’ll let his time with his kits end so early.)

The Death Of Ladybug: not on AO3.

(Adrien walks down an empty street in the middle of nowhere, reflecting on the events of the week. On all the horrible events. Ok the death of his love. The return of the miraculous. His self banishment.

He used to walk with someone with him. Now all that walks beside him is his shadow, The only thing he can hear is his heart; along this Boulevard of Broken Dreams.)

SNEAK PEAK:

[Adrien was struggling to keep his mind empty, not wanting to think about the last two weeks. It was too painful. Everything was too painful.

Blinking, he sees the road he’s been walking for the first time. It was a long, desolate, abandoned road, so very far from Paris. From the mansion. From his friends. From the miraculous... from her-

No, he can’t think of that! Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, he realizes that he has done that exact thing five times in half as many minutes. Sighing, he restarts his mindless cycle of removing all thoughts from his head. Accessing that legendary “nothing box” part of his brain that so many people have complained about.

But, his mind has finally been activated and he can no longer stay inside his nothing box. So, wanting to remain as far away from those thoughts, he focuses on the things in front of him.

The lonely road...

Suddenly, the lyrics of a song he heard not too long ago popped into his head.

’I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known’

Seeing the road in front of him, completely desolate, except for him, this couldn’t be more true. Now, he didn’t really know this road, not for certain, but it does seem familiar. Just so similar to the roads he used to walk before-

No! He can’t think of that.

’I don’t know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone’

Seeing that he is no longer home, and is now homeless, this new, yet familiar road is his home.

Walking alone. He’s always done that. All his life. Neglect from his father. Next to no friends. House staff not conversing in anything. Nathalie not really ever caring for him. The only person that has ever walked beside him was constantly was his mother and Plagg...

He stops in his walking, tilting his head slightly. He should be crying, or at least sad about those statements. But he’s not. He doesn’t really feel anything. Nothing, really. Even then, thinking about his mother had come more easily and hurt less than what happened just over two weeks ago.

Just a week ago, his knees would have buckled from just even thinking of the mere thought of it. That’s why he’s avoiding it at all costs. He doesn’t deserve emotions after what happened. He doesn’t deserve the luxury of collapsing. Not after that.

‘I walk this empty street, on the boulevard of broken dreams, where the city sleeps, and I’m the only one and I walk alone’

Broken dreams. That stuck out. How many times has he dreamt of freedom? Too many to count. How many times had he dreamt of love? Even more so. Having the latter dream ripped so suddenly from him- his knees start to wobble, so he focuses on something else. Something that isn’t that. The miraculous. That gave him freedom. Losing that freedom-

Nope! His knees are wobbling too much!

Something else! Think of something else! Anything else! He silently chides himself. Resisting the urge to collapse through sheer will power, even as his body is pleading for rest. There is no rest for the wicked.

That gave him more stability.

‘Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me. ‘Til then I walk alone’ the lyrics came without warning this time. He doesn’t want to listen to them, but it’s within his mind. There is no escape. Not this time.

A foreign feeling starts to push against his eyes. Not knowing how to deal with this, since it’s been so long since he’s felt anything, he looks up to the sky. Hoping that it’ll keep this from coming. He’s scared of whatever this is. He doesn’t want it.

Looking up into the sky, he feels a wetness start to trickle down his face. He wonders why that could happen. It’s not even raining.

Is he crying?! This doesn’t feel like what he thinks he remembers. Is this what crying feels like after such a long time?

As he’s looking up into the sky, his tears falling down his face, any other memories he could’ve retained from that song are lost to the nothing box, to be forgotten for all eternity.

With his mind more active than it had been in days, memories start to break through his fortified will. Completely unwanted.

THE fight. THE loss. It’s threatening to break through his carefully crafted shields. So, once again, he shifts his focus. This time, to Paris.

Everyone knew about what happened. He really just doesn’t want to think about it.

Right now, in Paris. Nino is most likely worried sick, since he had left his phone at home as well as turned it off. He left anything identifiable. His wallet, stamped with the Gabriel logo. Any clothes stamped with the Gabriel logo. Left his room spotless-his steps faltered at that- clean. Super, super clean.

He had even cut his hair into a messy, uneven, short shell of his normal style. Making him completely unrecognizable to anyone. Nino wouldn’t be able to recognize him, neither would Alya. He even takes pride in the fact that he believes that not even Mari-]

Pain Splitter: not on AO3. Just hanging out in my google docs with The Death of Ladybug.

(Akumatized Adrien! When Adrien suffers an injury while in an akuma battle, and the restoration doesn’t fix it, things happen. Emotions churn. And things are revealed.)

SNEAK PEAK:

CRACK! his head slammed into a brick wall again, making his already foggy brain more unfocused. He stands back up, wobbling On his feet a little bit, his pupils blown wide. “Ouch.”

He stumbles against the wall, resting his forearm against it for support. So far, this akuma is… what’s the word… Anyway, he’s been knocked around way too much, even by Chat Noir… umm… word...ummm… Standards! Chat shakes his head and immediately regrets it as his head explodes into a world of unbearable pain. He clutches his head and lets out a horrible scream. Then he slides onto the ground.

“-t!...-t” Hmm. Someone is saying something, but he doesn’t want to move. Moving hurts. He doesn’t like to hurt. It’s not fun.

“-AT!” Its getting louder. Loud hurts. Hurting isn’t fine he likes fun. So he doesn’t want to hurt.

“CHAT!” His head snaps up, and it immediately… hurts a lot. It’s too hard to think of bud things. This way is fine.

Suddenly, a blur of red lands beside him. Ow, no. No blur. Blur hurts. Hurt isn’t fun.

He pushes away the offending blur with a small whimper. Huh, he can whimper. That’s new!... wait… is it?

“Chat?” There it is again but this time it’s not loud. That’s good, loud hurts… That name. No, he doesn’t want to Chat… but that voice. He’d do anything for that voice.

“Chat Noir?” It says again. Is he missing something. Chat Noir?... wait. That’s him!

He blinks a few times and the red blur morphs into a girl.

Woah, awesome. I Wanna do that!

“Do what?” This girl asks. What?! She read his mind!

“No. I didn’t. You said that.” Huh. Apparently the shapeshifting blur likes to lie.

The blur sighs. “Can you use Cataclysm?” It asks.

…

“What?”

“Cataclysm.”

“...um….big word….uhh… ummm…”

The blur looks at him funny. He. Hehe. “Hehehehehehe.”

“What?”

“Heh. Funny.”

“Oo-kaaayyyy” She says that word funny. Hmm.

“So, Cataclysm?”

“Cat-a-What-now?” Cat… it’s a familiar word.

Why?

The blur sighs. “Okay, repeat after me.”

“Who’s me?” The blur is very tricky. Why can’t they just be good.

It sighs again. It’s does that a lot.

“Cat…”

Hey, I can say that! “Cat…”

“A”

“A” this is weird.

“Clysm.”

… word. Bad word! Very bad. It hurts!

“Cl…”

“Cl?...” that’s a weird noise.

“Is”

“Is…”

“Mmm”

I can do that noise. Reminds me of cookies “Mmm”

Suddenly his hand goes all black. Want it black before? Anyway, it has black bubbles now.

“Can I touch?” He wants to touch it.

“No!” He winces. That was loud. Loud is hurt. Hurt is not fun. Not fun is bad… Apparently this blur can make loud, bad noises easily.

“Oh.” His face suddenly deflates… and it deflates! Why is it deflating. Wait… what is deflating? Anyway, bad thing!

The blur sighs again. “Here, touch this.”

“Yeah!!!” He winces hard as the blur seems to turn into everything. Suddenly a thing is pressed into his hand. The one with the bubbles. The thing, whatever it was, is now gone… along with the bubbles.

“Nooo! My bubbles!” They were so cool too!

“Okay, lets go somewhere.”

“No! I want the bubbles!” He flops onto the floor, but regrets it because now he hurts. He’s regretting a lot of things.

Something picks him up, and he lets out a surprised mew. More like surprising mee, because he did not know that he can mew like a kitten.

“Iiii’mmmm aaa Kkkiiiittttyyhhghbggb.” He coughs as a strangely bad yet good tasting thing his his mouth.

Depressed and Feral: Hanging out in my notes, with many other fics. This takes place after the events of Desperada. It explores the effects that , I personally believe, Desperada left on Adrien.

A trumpet sounds, and a bloom of gold dust erupts from his right. It sends Adrien into a panic, and he tries to pull Ladybug back. But, before he can pull her far enough, another trumpet sounds and then she turns into dust.

He almost breaks down on the spot, then and there, but he pulls himself together enough to pull back the snake head.

A hiss sounds through his ears, and then he’s in the sewer again, looking into Ladybug’s eyes.

“We now have five minutes, within this time range, you can go back as many times as you want. But as-“

He envelopes her in a vice-like, crushing hug, one he’s found himself doing multiple times already. A thousand times already.

15,462 times already. 15,462 times he’s had to witness her being captured. 15,462 times he’s seen his own failure. 15,462 times he’s failed her.

Suddenly, the man hole cover opens, and a trumpet sounds, and Ladybug is enveloped in a plume of gold dust.

——

Adrien wakes up with a bloodcurdling scream, covered in a cold sweat.

He looks over to Plagg, and all that comes to mind is: “Perfect team huh?”

Those mocking, sad eyes are looking at him with pity. He can’t handle it. Not now.

So, with a shiver, he turns around to look at his phone. Holding that he got more than 30 minutes of sleep.

01:01 it reads, and he sighs in frustration and dispare. Frustration because he can’t get enough sleep, despite being constantly tired. Dispare because it hadn’t even been a minute after he fell asleep and he already had a night terror.

Shaking, he tries to pull off his covers and sheets to get to the shower to wash the sweat off, but the sheets cling to his feet and legs.

After a minute of struggling, he finally Rios them off and slides to the ground on unsteady feet.

Slowly, he makes his way over to the bathroom, dutifully ignoring whatever look Plagg is sending him. Whether it be pain, pity, or sadness. He can’t look at those green eyes again.

Not for a long while.

Even if the events of Desperada happened two and a half months ago. Just the name alone sends a severe shake down his spine.

He turns the water on hot and strips his clothing before slipping under the warm streams of water.

He lets the water wash away his thoughts. Clear his mind of anything and everything.

Normally he would go out as Chat Noir to ease his mind. But... ever since Party Crasher...

He couldn’t even save her then... how can he save her from anything else...?

Another shiver racks his body, and he reaches a hand out to the wall to steady himself.

His eyes burn, but it’s become a normal sensation.

People say he’s just Ladybug’s sidekick, just a permanent type miraculous wielder that isn’t important. They’re right, after all. He only holds her back... creates problems. He can destroy anything he touches, it makes sense that he would destroy any relationship he has with anyone. His arm buckles with another shake, and he slams into the porcelain tiles. But, he can’t find it in himself to care.

If you like how any any of these sound, please DM me here on tumblr, or my Gmail: obliviousblondesunite@gmail.com

[kaylinwrites]

Life of Pi, The Martian, and Man vs. Nature

[Started January 2019]

By: Somebody who firmly agrees that chemistry is a sloppy b****, and got irrationally upset when Richard Parker didn’t say goodbye. What an animal.

I’ve been out of the loop on here for a while, and I’ve got oversharing-syndrome, so I originally started this essay with a very long explanation of how reading on my phone made me suddenly into reading again. But then I was like, what, is Audible sponsoring me or something? As if. 

So I’ll spare you the backstory. The short of it is, I ended up reading Life of Pi, and finished it within a few days. Reading a really good book is practically a drug, so I started a new book right away, another book everyone seemed to have read, The Martian. 

I got about four chapters in before I started to think things were looking familiar. 

If you haven’t read either book, you should. I’ll wait.

. . .   . . .   . . .

If you don’t have the time or patience for that right now, I’ll give you a quick summary of what goes on in each. If you’ve already read them and don’t care for my summaries, skip on down to the next row of dots.

Life of Pi is about an Indian guy named Pi, naturally. The first part of the book explains his childhood. Pi is the son of a zookeeper, so he knows a lot about animal behavior. When he’s sixteen, his family decides to move to Canada, so Pi, his brother, his parents, and a collection of zoo animals also headed for the Americas hop on a boat to cross the Pacific. On the journey, their boat sinks, and Pi is the sole human survivor. Other survivors and inhabitants of Pi’s 22 foot lifeboat include a zebra, a hyena, and briefly, an orangutan. (RIP Orange Juice.) Oh, and there’s also the tiger, but Pi doesn’t notice that at first because the tiger is seasick and was hiding under the tarp for the first, like, five days. 

(Side note, that’s a very fun reveal, because everybody knows Life of Pi is the book with the tiger boat, so when we think the tiger isn’t there, it’s all like “Hey, where’s the tiger? I feel cheated out of a tiger”, and when the tiger shows back up, it’s all like “Oh s***, there’s the tiger.” Extremely good book.)

So the second half of the book is about Pi’s very unglamorous day-to-day life at sea. He eats raw fish and drinks turtle blood, and walks the fine tightrope of keeping the tiger happy so it won’t eat him, while also making sure the tiger knows he’s in charge, so it won’t eat him. Good thing he grew up in a zoo! Pretty stressful, constant threat of death, but a happy ending. 

The Martian is a book set in, I’m assuming, the near future, wherein a group of astronauts are on a research mission to Mars. Six Sols (Mars days) in, there’s a big sandstorm, and the team has to evacuate and leave Mars altogether. Mark Watney, botanist, mechanical engineer, and all-around great guy, gets separated from the group as they make their way to their rocket (MAV, but whatever), and the team has reason to believe he’s totally dead, so they leave without him. 

Surprise! Mark’s not dead, but he’s soon-to-be, because Mars is a deserted, uninhabitable, hell-planet. So, naturally, he has a crisis, but then decides he’s going to try to survive long enough for rescue. He starts growing potatoes, and tries to keep his equipment running long enough to contact NASA and tell them they messed up big time. There’s a lot of Mars shenanigans, which is to say, Mark almost dies a bunch of times, but he’s pretty smart. Good thing he’s a mechanical engineer! And botanist, I guess, but potatoes are less exciting than blowing up rocket fuel. Very stressful, constant threat of death, but a happy ending. 

. . .   . . .   . . .

Way back in middle school, when we learned about conflicts, they taught us there were three types: Man vs. Man, Man vs. Self, and Man vs. Nature. I’ve heard they’ve added more now, but the only one I care about for this essay is Man vs. Nature anyways.

Man vs. Nature is all about the character(s) winning against a force of nature, be it a wild beast, a natural disaster, or even a zombie plague. Examples of Man vs. Nature stories could be anything from Lost to Jaws to Little House in the Big Woods to The Hunger Games. There’s a lot of possibilities, but the Man vs. Nature books that I’m interested in are survival stories.

More specifically, the type in which the main character is alone for most of the story. I haven’t actually seen Castaway, but I’m imagining that fits into this category. The idea is to throw a character into an unknown and hostile place, and see how they manage to survive alone. 

I believe the first story of this type I read was in elementary school: Hatchet. Looking back on it, it doesn’t seem nearly as hardcore as getting stranded on Mars or being trapped in a lifeboat with a tiger, but that’s hindsight. When I was reading this at 11, it was an absolute thriller. It even had a moment of sick horror for me. I remember reading the chapter where Brian find the pilot’s decaying corpse and freaking out a little because it was the most graphic thing I’d ever read up to that point. Nevertheless, I remember that book as being adventurous, riveting, and very real.

I think one of the most interesting traits of these stories are the realism. If you’ve ever read The Martian, you know that the author definitely did his research. There’s something very cool about watching a character work out problems not with magic, or because they’re the chosen one, but with their wit and sheer determination. Life of Pi would not be nearly as fun to read if the tiger was just magically chill. Pi only survives because he knows how to work with wild animals, and while to some, that may seem convenient, I find it makes for a fascinating story. 

This brings me to the first characteristic of survival stories that makes them so compelling: good old fashioned gritty problem solving. Because any problem that crops up in a survival situation has to be solved immediately or the outcome is likely death, it forces characters to find solutions. Sometimes these solutions are quite creative. Sometimes they go horribly wrong. 

This connects to the second reason survival stories are so interesting: the main character is alone. They have to do everything themselves. And if it goes wrong, there’s no one there to pull them out of the s***. 

The Power of Friendship is a fantastic trope. No one can deny that seeing characters band together to accomplish their goals and become closer as a result makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And exploring the way characters interact with one another and develop their relationships is interesting, sure. But isolating a character is also a goldmine of a trope. Think of the episode of a show where the rest of the team is incapacitated and the remaining team member has to save the day all on their own. It allows that character to prove themselves as a competent problem solver, and show their strengths, and in the end, they save their friends, and there’s all the more Power of Friendship.

But when the character that’s isolated doesn’t have any friends, so to say, what happens? Being indefinitely cut off from the rest of the world makes for some interesting exploration of humanity as a whole. 

From a writing perspective, it’s a fascinating challenge. For one, when your main character is your only character, they have to be able to carry the story by themselves. In Life of Pi, the first half of the book is devoted to letting the reader get to know Pi, so they’ll be rooting for him, and understand his thought process a bit better. The Martian throws backstory to the wayside and tosses the reader headfirst into a catastrophe. The reader is hooked for the time being, and by the time the initial catastrophe is over, Mark has proven himself charismatic and likable, so the reader is alright with following this story through his lens. 

There’s also the psychological side of things, the reflection, which is the third thing survival stories do that’s weird and awesome. The writer can decide how much focus to put on the character’s sucky situation. The Martian plays this pretty light: Mark has a few moments of existentialism, but he hangs on to his humor and general will to live throughout the entire novel. Mark’s narration never truly loses the personality that made it so likable in the first place, even if it gets a stronger undercurrent of “F*** Mars” as the story progresses. In his situation, the threat of death is looming and ever constant. Everything seems to break, potato plants die, and one misstep means suffocating in the cold wasteland that is Mars. Life of Pi has a more passive dread. Once the tiger is reasonably under control, not a lot happens. This is the classic ‘stranded in the wilderness’ type of survival story, but with even less space to do things. All Pi can really do is collect water and fish. This makes his narration more introspective, and sometimes more numb. He spends a lot of the story grappling with his faith, which is a key component of his character. 

(Mark and Pi are interesting to compare in that regard: Mark is so obviously a man of science. He trusts in NASA’s work, and his own calculations. Pi has enough faith to practice three religions, and though he sometimes loses trust in God, in the end, his faith is stronger than ever.)

What I’m saying is, these stories can go one of two ways in regards to reflection. If a survival story is more immediately threatening, the story will focus more on the problems and solutions that come up and the writer will build a story more based around the events, though the main character’s personality is still important to keep the audience caring about the outcome. If a survival story is more slow moving and passively threatening, the story will focus more on introspection, and the writer will build the story around the character and how they react to their situation. Both serve the purpose of seeing how people deal with things alone, physically or mentally.

An honorary mention for things that make survival stories compelling is the lack of antagonist. Some may say the point of Man vs. Nature is that Nature is the antagonist (duh) but I would argue that it isn’t. Nature is really just doing its thing, and Man is the poor schmuck with bad luck. Despite what Mark Watney might say about Mars, it isn’t actively trying to kill him. It’s just existing and coincidentally killing him. And I know I said Life of Pi is more passive, but it might have a stronger claim to an antagonist in the tiger than The Martian does in Mars. But even then, Pi and the tiger reach a sort of understanding by the end, and there’s no longer a true threat besides starvation or one of the many other side effects of being stranded in the middle of the Pacific. 

(Speaking of side effects of being stranded in the middle of the Pacific, Life of Pi absolutely had my suspension of disbelief snatched right up until the part where Pi, half dead, meets another lifeboat out in the middle of the mcfreaking Pacific ocean. There’s no way he didn’t hallucinate that. It’s probably a metaphor, but it gave me so much whiplash I couldn’t figure out what for. Still a fantastic book.)

Survival stories above all give us perspective on our place in the world. As the world grows smaller and smaller, I hope we can remember to keep telling stories like them. They remind us of things we shouldn’t forget: Nature will always be stronger than us, though we can hold out against it. Mankind has a strong will to survive-- for ourselves, for our relationships to others, for our faith, or maybe just out of pure spite. I love both Life of Pi and The Martian for their exploration of these topics, and for being so unexpectedly but delightfully similar. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go live in the woods, surviving off berries and pheasants that I’ve shot with my bow, and contemplate the nature of man.

[TL;DR What does Mars and tigers have in common? They’re both orange. And also trying to kill the main characters of two well-loved novels.]

[the-voice-of-hell]

The Septagram

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-   Previous   -    First   -

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***

Rosemarie Miller was walking a cart of looted groceries home through relatively barren streets.  A few homeless anarchists were grooving at a public fountain, hopping through the water to cool off as needed.  She was jealous of their easy-going ways.  The reason the pigs all high-tailed out of the region was always on her mind.  Would she see the murderers?  Would she have to deal with them?

The only reason she’d stayed behind was because she was trying to find her best friend, Jennifer Smith, and ended up missing a window of opportunity for an evacuation escort.  She certainly wasn’t going to risk the wilder stretches of highway without an armed guard, so it was safer just to stay at home, in the flat part of Renton.  The worst part of missing the opportunity was when she finally did find Jennifer, and learned the weirdo had stayed in town for the chance to rip wicked bicycle moves.  Thanks, Jen.

The sky was hot and blue.  That part of Renton was so flat that it felt like being at the bottom of a bowl, decorative hills off to the sides, infinite scorching void above.  She looked at the new stainless steel apartments along the way.  Should she just steal one?  Was that where the anarchists were sleeping at nights?  There was no evidence the door had been jimmied, so probably not.  She reached her apartment, set down the groceries, and fished out her keys.

Suddenly, a distraction.  That dragonfly sound of a bike chain speeding her way.  As much as she knew it was Jen in her head, in her heart it was the murder clubs.  She whipped around to see that goof zipping her way, dorky chipmunk teeth smiling, bleach blonde bob whipping the breeze, big light eyes behind dark-framed nerd glasses.  Her frame was typical of a short, slightly pudgy person, but her limbs were bulging with creepy muscles.  If she dehydrated enough she could do bodybuilding competitions.

“ROSIE!  WHAT DID YOU GET ME?”

Rosemarie wasn’t going to play the shouting game.  She waited until her friend was close enough to hear above the chains.  But Jen didn’t stop, was heading straight toward her now at full speed.  Rose cringed, falling to one knee.

Jen hit the brakes and twisted the bike’s frame in just the right way to spring off the ground with the momentum, spinning three times horizontally as she flew over Rose, and landed with her bike across her shoulders like Jesus carrying the cross.

“WHAT THE FUCK JEN!?” Shouting after all.

“What?  That was fucking sick.  You used to like my stunts.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me!”

“I hope not?  I’m still sorry about that, and I’ll say it as much as you need me to.”  She dropped the bike and sent it rolling to rest by the building’s stoop with one hand.  “I wub you, come on!”  She went in for a hug.

“No!”  Rose held her back with a talon-like finger.  “You’re sweaty and disgusting.”  She relaxed.  “I’ll make you something if you want.  But you need to shower first.”

“Bossanova.”

Suddenly out of the clear sky they heard a thunder crack and peal.  It rumbled and dissipated.  Strange notes played in the wake, like the brass section of the world’s worst marching band, but weak as if from miles away.  They were both looking north to Seattle proper.

“Doesn’t look like a storm,” Jen said.

“Maybe they’re gonna drop the bomb.  Come die with a full stomach, loca.”

***

Clark Upton was a fortunate man.  He had lived a long life of excitement and romance as a dancer, dance instructor, and choreographer in some of the gayest cities in the world.  But this was Seattle, and it was starting to feel like the end of his run.  Although his coughing had cleared up since most of the people evacuated (had he just been allergic to exhaust all this time?), there was apocalyptic air about the events that precipitated the change.

And now there was an apocalyptic air in the literal air outside his apartment.  It had been a sunny summer day one minute, and then clouds began to rapidly form - between the buildings themselves.  He was below those clouds on the seventeenth floor, but he could see that there were apartments in taller buildings that would be above them.  The thunder began as soon as the clouds had, as a rumbling vibration through all the buildings, through the bodies of those still living there.  It was building to a climax of some sort.

“Thurston?  Thurstooon?”  He called for his friend, but couldn’t make himself release his grip on the balcony rail.  This wasn’t right.

Thurston Connor was another gay dancer and friend, staying with him while in town.  The tall beautiful black man with his perfectly shaved head did not come to his call.  Clark began to fear he wasn’t even in the same dimension as the guy.

Then the thunder burst out in a great crescendo and red sheet lightning bridged the clouds and the bus tunnel entrance on the streets below.  Something began spilling out of the bus tunnel.  Dark forms, tumbling and spinning and leaping, shiny instruments in their grips.  It was like someone had taken a paper bag full of different noxious species of insects, shook them up to instill anger, and dumped them onto the ground.

The thunder subsided into a rolling menace, but less deafening than its initial burst.  And under that sound he could hear them.  It was a marching band.

“Oh dear.  I’m having a stroke.”

He laid down on the grate floor of his balcony, amid clay pots and chair legs, and he waited to die.  It was a lonely feeling.  As good as his life had been, he’d known many moments of loneliness and he did not love them.  He wished that he’d had a husband - someone who would be there for this.  But then, it was never in his character.

The wind whipped wildly below him, carrying the discordant notes of the hellish stroke band.  What was that tune?  “Inna Godda Davida”?  Yes, it was definitely in there, scored with the skill of Souza and played with the skill of Bob Log III.  But there were other tunes being played simultaneously - pure torture.  Oh no.  One of the tunes was Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

Clark made up his mind.  Death was horrible, and he couldn’t stand it.

***

A thunderstorm had started in the north.  Must be that summer thunder - not very common in the Puget Sound region, in Park’s experience.  It didn’t look like there were enough clouds to cause any kind of rain, but it was hard to tell because it was very far away.

The headache was getting worse.  He was in a previously vacant house they’d commandeered for barracks.  Normally as evening began to fall, he’d be on the roof.  He’d set up tall chair there so he could get a good view of the neighborhood and radio to get extra attention on anything suspicious.  But this night, he found he was needing rest more than usual, and came down after just a few minutes.

For unit cohesion the guys were living with members of their respective agencies.  All the Tacoma PD plus a few State Patrol and other local cops were sharing this house and the one next to it.  More than half of them were on patrol or other tasks at the moment, leaving just a few guys behind.  They were taking nightcaps and gambling in the living room.

“Hey guys.”

“You want in, Park?”

“Not right now.  We got any good painkillers?”

“Legal or otherwise?”

“Watch it, Rickard.”

He ended up taking some Excedrin from one of the first aid kits on the kitchen counter, washing it down with a beer, leaning there under a bright kitchen light.  He thought about joining the guys out there but really he didn’t want to play.  He just wanted to hang out with Infante.  He was afraid he’d made a bad impression earlier.  Why was he being so weird?  He shook his head, regretted it, then gulped more beer.

Infante came in, grabbing a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose out of the refrigerator.  “Hey boss.”

“Hey, Infante.  You don’t have to call me boss.  Hell, I think we have the same salary.”  He tried to smile but it looked like something crinkled and painful.

“Eh… It’s just easier.”

“I don’t recommend drinking that all by yourself.  Gotta stay in fighting trim.”

“I know.  I was gonna split it.  We got glasses on the table.”

“Good man.”  Why do I keep saying that?  Christ.  He had to get some air again, but up on the roof was too much tension, scanning the horizon for any sign of mischief.  He went out the front door without saying goodbye.

The sky was getting dusky.  People were having a lawn party across the street.  A few children waved at him but mostly they didn’t like police.  One even put his hand on the top of a baby’s head and turned it away from him.  It didn’t bother him too much.

A dark-skinned woman in badly stained clothes staggered in the direction of the party.  Her hair was long with puffy curls of varying sizes and shot through with little bits of plant matter.  She was holding a hammer.

Park resisted the urge to pull his gun and quickly stepped between her and the party.  “Ma’am, please.  Stop.”  Palms up.

She looked at his gun then looked at his face, scowling deeply.  “I need to go.”

“That’s fair but maybe you should lose the tool and clean up a little.  There are children over there.  You’ll scare them.”

“Don’t care.  I need to see Elijah.”

She started walking again and he hustled in front of her.

“At least give me the hammer.  I’ll hold it for you.”

She looked confused, thought about it, picking up the hammer as if she’d forgotten she was carrying it, and then handed it to him.  “I’m gonna need that back.”

He nodded and mutely accepted it, then followed about fifteen feet behind her.  The hammer looked like it had been used to smash up a green compost heap.  New, but recently rendered disgusting.  He shook his head.

She walked up to one of the houses, stood at the porch for a moment scanning the crowd, then went inside.  He hustled to close the distance and stood inside the door, trying to hold the hammer out of sight.  Two little black kids played video games, but the house inside looked too nice to have children.  Visitors.  Park just watched her walking the house, looking for someone, listening to hear if she got in trouble.

Someone almost bowled him over coming inside.  “Excuse me officer.  Need more soda pop.”

“Elijah?  Eliijah?”

The pop seeker yelled.  “He ain’t here!”

She came back into the hall and stepped closer to her.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well what the fuck are you doing in his house?!”

“Hey!  Calm down!  There’s a cop riiight theeere.”  She pointed at Park.

The messy lady was a little more clearly visible where the light of the kitchen came into the hall.  She was thin, with thick and strongly curled eyelashes but thin eyebrows.  She looked like she hadn’t changed clothes since the evacuations began.

“OK, fine!”  She gestured angrily as she spoke.  “Why are you and these boys in Elijah’s house?  Why are those people on Elijah’s lawn?”

“He knows us.  We’re just usin’ his food and nothin’ else.  He wouldn’t mind.”

Park waved from the entrance.  “We’re here but our priority is keeping people safe in the neighborhood.  You’re not from around here, but you knew the owner?”

She scrunched up in impotent fury.  “Yes I know Elijah.  I don’t know her!  I don’t know them!”

The boys didn’t like the look on her and jumped up, running past Park out to the lawn.  The game beeped and yelled at nobody, controllers on the scuffed up old hardwood floor.

Park took a step toward her and offered a calming gesture, palm down.  “You’ve been out there, right?  Fighting your way here to find your friend?  Listen.  You can just stay in this house.  Take a bath, wear some of his clothes, catch some real rest, OK?”

The soda hunter said, “Mm-mm, that’s between y’all.  I’m just gonna get this soda pop and get, alright?”

The skinny lady blew past Park to head outside again.  He turned to follow her.  She started asking party goers.  “You know where Elijah is?  You know where Elijah is?”

Park held the hammer behind his back and offered a sympathetic look to the people.  To a woman nearby, he quietly offered, “I can do something about her if you need me to.”  She shook her head.

“Ippy.  I know you.”  A Q-balled thirtyish guy with strong arms regarded the skinny lady.  Nobody turned down the music - some R&B diva going off the rails.

“I don’t know you.”

“We went to high school together.  You me and Elijah.”

“I don’t remember you.  Do you know where Elijah is?”

“Maybe he was at work when the shit went down, ended up evacuating before he got home.  I haven’t seen him since it all happened.”

She shook her head slowly and looked stricken.

The bald guy looked kindly, “Aw girl, it’s OK.  He’s probably fine.”

“I don’t have anyone.”  She turned around and went past Park back to Elijah’s house.

The guy looked hurt.  “What am I?  Chopped liver?”

Park followed her into the house.  In the living room, he got assertive.

“Ma’am, stop.  Look at me.”

She stopped in the hall and slowly turned.  Park did not like the look on her.  He’d seen the expression on other people before - like they had their own lives, whatever was going on was the most important thing in the world, and that every cop in the world could blow away and they wouldn’t care.

“You don’t have to stay here, you can do what you want.  But get a grip.  Clean yourself up.  I am not gonna let you have this hammer back unless you show me you aren’t unhinged.”

“Then keep it.  Go away.”

He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Iphigenia was glad to be rid of the cop.  A chance to go cry in peace.  She knew she’d never see her people again.  Everyone died or left her behind.  Her mind was spiralling the drain.  She went to Elijah’s room and walked toward the bed.

There was a big dark shape there - another woman, old, sleeping?  She had her eyes closed, head on a pillow.  But her breathing was steady and easy - not the kind of racket the average person made in their sleep.

No, Ippy did not have time for other people, awake or otherwise.  She went to the poorly maintained guest room.  It had a bunch of half-folded laundry on the bed and she just flopped across the top of them in that slimy stinking condition.

Park had dropped the hammer in a garbage can on his way back to the cop house.  Inside, he saw the poker game had ended prematurely.  Only Infante and Rickard remained, sitting on the couch and looking through a book of DVDs.

“Wanna watch a movie now?  What happened to the game?”

Rickard said, “I don’t know if I wanna watch something, really.  Just...”

Infante said, “The game just got … not fun.  We all started to get the creeps.  Maybe just ‘cause somebody mentioned it, then we all started feelin’ it.”

“Huh.  Yeah,” he looked at some kind of green stain on his hand from the nasty handle of the hammer, “It’s pretty creepy out there.”  He looked back to them.  “But that’s kinda strange.  You guys alright?”

Infante dropped the book, leaned back, and looked at Park.  “You alright?  You look like you’re sleepwalking but somebody wired your eyes open.”

Park felt like he was blushing and looked away.  “That bad, huh?  Fuck it, I’ll try to go to sleep.”  He made a few stops along the way, grabbing a harder beverage from the kitchen and looking around for more useful medicines.

There was still daylight coming through the windows and he shut the curtains as well as he could.  He took off his gun holster and hung it near the bed with care, then stripped to a tank top and boxers.  He turned off his radio, swallowed a ZzzQuil with a glass of ill-tasting rum, and settled down.

A few minutes later, still wide awake.  It was like his eyes didn’t want to shut, were made of lighter material than that.  He sat up, went to a corner and turned on a fan, then returned to bed.  The white noise helped, and eventually the chemicals did too.

***

Maddy and Jason had to hike up a very steep hill to get out of that neighborhood.  Exhausted, they took a rest stop at a lake.  It was surrounded by private residences and they didn’t know which might have some paranoid lingering homeowners with guns, but there was also a senior care home on the lake, and it felt a bit more safe.  There was just nobody in sight.  Not a soul.  Only a few ducks and geese wandered the surface, off in the distance.  Jason felt like splashing some of that water on his face, but knew it would be full of bacteria - and he still had open cuts from the crash.

“A place like this has gotta have a nurse, right?”

“Safe to say she’s out of town, daddy.”

“Ah, but I bet she left some supplies in her office, right?”

“I don’t wanna break and enter.”

“It’s alright.  Anyone would be understanding, given the circumstances.  We can’t exactly motor on over to the nearest urgent care clinic and get patched up, can we?”

“I guess.  But let’s do our best to not surprise anyone, OK?”

They knocked, they yelled, and they broke and they entered.  The place was bereft of human life.  Fortunately, as with most of their journey, there weren’t any corpses either.  Safely evacuated.  They improvised some medical treatment, ate some food, drank lots of water, and ultimately decided to call it a night.

In a room with two beds alongside each other, they laid themselves out.  Maddy insisted to leave the light on, but they lowered the blinds.

“We’re doin’ good, hon.”

“Oh really?  I don’t think so.  I messed up pretty bad today.”

“I would’ve done the same thing at the wheel.  Don’t think about it.  Listen.”

“What?”

“We should steal a car tomorrow.”

“Whaaat?  No!”

“It’s gonna be a reeeally long hike down I-5, Baby.  We shouldn’t have to do that.  You know I avoid talking about the … bad men, but do I have to remind you?  The plan was to breeze by them.  Eighty em’s pee aitch.  Can’t do that on your Keds.”

“They’re New Balance and… I just don’t think it’s good.  Everyone is going to come back, and lots of people are gonna find stuff stolen.  We shouldn’t make anyone go through that.”

“Well listen then, I got an idea.  When we take the car we write down the license plate and make, all that.  And then we use the information to find the people, let ‘em know we’ll cover the damage.  Right?”

“...I guess.  I guess so.”

“OK, snuggle up buttercup.  Let’s catch every Z and make ‘em our bitches.”

“*snrk* That’s horrible.  Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night, Princess.”

Outside the blinds, outside the glass, the night air swirled in an unnatural miasma.  The world was changing.

***

Ippy had cried herself to sleep, hugging Elijah’s clean laundry, making it filthy.  But in the night, her eyes popped open.  Somebody was mumbling.  The old lady in the other room.

She sat up, felt like her body was turning into a statue and she interrupted the process rudely.  It protested by making her movements embarrassing and stiff.  She staggered into the hall, footsteps as light as she could manage, and leaned against the wall outside Elijah’s room, listening.

The lady’s voice was quiet as if she wasn’t talking to anybody, expecting anyone to hear.  And yet, she said, ”Iphigenia.  Come and hear.”  Ippy’s body threatened to freeze solid, her eyes widened.

She went inside, feeling along the wall, not sure if she should turn on the lights.  She decided not to.  “Yes?”

“The Sibyls sing.  Will you listen and understand?”  Her body was still.  A shape.  She was breathing evenly between her quiet pronouncements.  Eerie.

“Not like I have anything better to do.”  Ippy almost choked on her words, but then she took halting steps forward, tried to bend her ear.  The old lady was so quiet.

“They never mattered.  You do.  The murderers will come to you, come to die.  They will break upon you like water.”

“What?  How?  What do you mean?  How can I--”

“It doesn’t matter.  They didn’t matter and their deaths will not matter.  But you do, Iphigenia.  If you only think of them you won’t understand.”

She was standing loose in a midnight blue void.  No light, no understanding.  “Fine, fine.  What do I need to understand?”

“The murderers opened the door.  What comes through will change the world.  But you will decide.  Your hand will decide what that means.”

“I don’t care what it means.  Not now.”

“The die is cast.  Alea iacta est.”  She moaned louder than anything she had said, moved fitfully.

“Ah, are you OK ma’am?  You need help?”

The moaning almost sounded like crying for a moment, but then faded away.  She propped herself up.  “Oh girl.  Can you help me get to the bathroom?”

“Yes.  I can do that.”

It wasn’t easy.  The old lady was closer to four hundred pounds than three hundred, but she put in enough effort of her own to make the move possible.  “Oh Honey,” she said.  Her voice had dropped to the soft tone of her prophesying.

Ippy listened close in case there was anything else to glean.  “Yes?”

“You smell really bad.  God love you, but you need to wash yo ass.”

***

Park’s skull was a house and he was living inside.  He had no curtains.  The miasma of the changing world could pour right in if it wanted to.  Maybe surface tension kept those clouds at bay.  There was a light behind them as well, like the brightest sun trying to get through.  He didn’t want to experience that sun.  He knew it was going to hurt.

He sank into the bottom of his cranium, ass wedged into the dip where the brain stem passed the bony cage.  He covered his eyes and hoped it would go away but the light was getting stronger.  He dared to look and up above, his fontanelle was opening again.

The plates of the upper part of the skull were coming unseamed, a star-shaped light streamed through.  The miasma didn’t reach up there, only that illumination.  With the photons came sound waves, rippling through his body, pinning him in place.  A ring of swarthy old white men stood at the edges of the opening, looking down on him.  They were wearing various togas or standing nude but for sandals.

“What the hell?  I’m trying to sleep!”

One opened his mouth, then another, then another.  A humming sound increased.  He began to know things.  He knew they were the Oracles and that their light was going to consume him whether he wanted it or not.

The light, the knowledge, took shape.  He beheld a vision.  At first it was a relief to escape the weird scene in his head, but he still felt the vibrations and heat passing through his body, and knew it was just a vision of the future.

He was in a throne room.  Infante was suspended from his wrists, stripped to the waist, sweating.  A pale, smiling, red-haired white woman was seated on the throne towering above him.  The throne itself was carved to resemble a camel, head snaking up from between her legs, and a massive bone crown sat above her heavily painted face.  She looked ten feet tall, wide at the bottom with huge thighs, spoke in an unknowable voice.  Every word she said caused Infante pain and he jerked on his chains.

Another creature was behind her, even larger, horned, cloaked in shadow.  And then someone stepped in front of her, holding a familiar hammer.  Park couldn’t see her face but he recognized her big black hair, her dark brown hands.

Then Infante began to scream, distracting him.  He turned around and saw the young man’s body tense, muscled, dripping with sweat.  And his face was taut, wracked.  Something terrible was going to happen.  Park felt his pain and his heart almost burst.

Snap.  Back in his skull, then rolling out of bed.  He hit the floor face first and hurt his mouth and ribs.  Did he bite his cheek?  No, but the inside of his lower lip was pressed between teeth and the floor enough to break skin.  And he needed to go to the bathroom badly as well.  He used the bed to climb up to his feet and staggered that way clutching his belly.

After finishing his business there but before cleaning up, the cop sat on the toilet, his head in his hands.  Must’ve been the ZzzQuil.  He’d never used that stuff before.  But somehow he knew that wasn’t true - knew that he’d seen the future.

“The oracles sing,” he said quietly.  “The story is already written.”

Somebody knocked on the bathroom door.  “You alright in there?”

“It’s occupied, Rickard.  Fuck off.”

***

Morning sun coming from on high in the east, streaming over the hill down into the valley of ghost cows.  The red manure haze hadn’t been kicked up yet, fog still clung to stands of trees near houses and around the road.

Blood and glass covered the road like marble.  Alongside the road, along and under.  The mud was red.  It could all be blood.  There could be so much blood that it would mean somebody was surely dead, and you wouldn’t know because the mud was so red.

Tangled roots in the embankments just teased at a notion of escape but there could be none.  They were too thin and the earth too loose to offer a sure grip.  You’d just be pulling carrots too easily, like Bugs Bunny having a good day.

Maddy was in that muddy ditch again, but it was deeper and the car was more mangled.  She was so worried about her father but he was hard to see through the spiderwebbed glass and maddening distortions of the twisted metal.

Plus she had the monster up on the road to deal with.  What had it been?  Had it lived?  Would it come for them?  She kept glancing up there, half sure she was seeing glimpses of it.  No, she thought.  She would get daddy out and he would be able to stop it.  She knew he would be OK because she had already done this before.

“Just another minute, Baby.  Gotta adjust my baby seat, haha.  That’s all.”

He just kept making inane statements of blithe positivity.  Things that didn’t even make sense.  Was he crazy from blood loss and shock?  Would he go into a coma?

“Nobody keeps a good man down.  I’m like a rodeo made outta dynamite.”

“...I’m working my way up to it.  I’ll get out of here and do a tap dance just to show you how OK I am.  Or make a sausage outta one of these cows.”

“You never knew your mom as well as I did.  She could turn a Vietnamese submarine into a pretzel with her nose.  She was my queen, Princess.”

She banged and slapped the metal, shrieking, hoping he would hear her over his mad droning, knowing he wouldn’t.  She left red handprints up and down the car doors.

Suddenly the car door popped free and open.  She fell against the embankment, looking in at her dad with a sense of fear that she didn’t understand.  He was just sitting there coyly, hands in his lap, thumbs together, smiling.

“Hi, snookums.”

“You have to… to get out...”

“I told you I could do it.  Just let me stretch my legs for a minute.”

He started pushing himself free of the driver’s seat using only his legs.  He kept his hands clasped over his belly, body leaning back in that casual pose.  His legs finally popped him free of the dashboard and began lifting him into the air.  They were too long, too thin - and covered in bark like birch trees.

Maddy woke in a panic, but settled down once she remembered where she was and once she realized she’d been dreaming.  She composed herself and dragged Jason out of bed.

As she tried to penetrate his foggy morning demeanor, she became possessed by a worry that the longer they took getting to the Beacon Hill safe zone, the more things could go wrong - the worse the situation would get.

Jason kept up his sunny demeanor, but went along with her demand for urgency.  They decided that cars from businesses or apartments would be less likely to have angry shotgun grandpas protecting them, and set to finding one.

At last they found a business with a garage that they were able to break into.  The sun outside had just finally fully risen, but they were in relative darkness.  Jason found the key that corresponded to the company car they were going to steal - a charcoal grey Prius advertising pest control on the doors - and pushed its buttons.  With a beep the thing came to life, signal lights gleamed on their lowest setting.

“Paydirt.  And the phone number for the owner is right on the side.  How do you like that, Baby?”

“Thanks for listening, dad.”  She poked around in the gloom for a button to open the garage door.  They were able to get their bodies in through a side door, but would need the big one rolled up to get the car out.

Suddenly they both became aware of a sound growing, coming closer.  A marching band?  One so big it shook the earth.  Maddy had found the switch she needed, but she didn’t dare flick it.  Instead, she gripped an exposed structural beam for dear life, half expecting it to grow into an earthquake.  She looked at her father and he looked at her face, etched in confusion and fear.

The rumbling definitely was coming from whatever was making that music.  It was a cacophony of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “March of the Gladiators,” and … Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball”?  The sound and the vibration made it clear, this band wasn’t just marching down the thoroughfare - they were a line stretching from one horizon to the next.

At its horrid climax, the sounds were from all around them, they could hear bodies and metal slapping against the outside of the garage, hear feet running over the roof.  Maddy jumped and collapsed as shadows began to fall in front of the nearest window - the players leaping down from the roof to continue their mad dash over the world.

And just when they thought it was for sure moving away, that their fear could diminish, they heard a joyous voice cry out - echoed by another a hundred feet away, and another.

“QUEEN BYMAAN WALKS THE EARTH.  THOU ART HEREBY SUBJECT TO THE AUTHORITY OF EXALTED LUCIFER!  YOURS IS NOW THE KINGDOM OF HELL!”

The voices died down, piping up again barely audible in the distance, following behind the line of the great unholy band.

“Baby, um… Oh no, Baby!”

She was collapsing under the weight of terror.  He jumped over the car hood to get to her as fast as he could.  Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape, head lolling.  Jason took his daughter in his arms, kissed her sweaty temple, held her close.

“Don’t worry about that, Honey.  It’s nonsense.  Just some… nonsense...”

***

 -   Next    -

     -

[salt-sass-and-lyrium]

So, I think I’m done talking to my mother... pretty much forever.

TW: Mentions of abuse and some other unsavory not happy things. Idk I just don’t want to ruin anyone’s day.

I’ll try and make this not a billion years long post, but let’s see.

Quick recap: From a personal standpoint, I am doing very poorly physically, mentally, emotionally and financially. My mother knows this. As a result of this, I wasn’t able to get my mother a Christmas present. I didn’t think it’d be that huge of a deal because

1. We were doing Secret Santa and she wasn’t my Secret Santa. Ordinarily I’d have gotten her a gift anyway, buuut financially it wasn’t in the cards. So I just got the gift for my Secret Santa

2. I told her in advance that I didn’t get her anything due to not having the money

3. Who gives a fuck?

Anyway, Christmas day rolls around and I don’t have presents for anyone but my Secret Santa. Everyone proceeds to lose their absolute shit. Here’s the post about it. Anyway, I tell Mom that I’m going to do something for her when I get paid (which is today, Friday. Christmas was on Monday) and don’t think much more of it.

So last night, about 9 or so, I get a call from my mom. Which is a little weird because she’s normally in bed around this time. So I answer, and she basically starts the call off by saying how “horrible” of a person I am (for not getting her a present, mind you) and that I was an embarrassment to the family because I offered “disgusting” excuses. I literally said “We we’re doing Secret Santa” and “I didn’t have more money” Apparently those are “disgusting” excuses. When I asked “What’s disgusting about that?” she immediately changed the subject.

Other fun highlights include that I am a “hateful, selfish, ignorant, disgusting little girl” and that everything “has to be about me” and that she “doesn’t want to be seen in public with me” and “doesn’t anyone to associate the two of us”. Oh and she’s “ashamed to have me as a daughter”. And let’s not forget that me struggling and being depressed and suicidal “doesn’t matter”.

Keep in mind: This is all over a Christmas present.

It wasn’t like she was sick and needed medicine and I had the money and said no. It wasn’t like she was stranded on the side of the road and I left here there. It wasn’t like she was sitting with no heat in the dark and I just ignored her. Not like she was starving and I denied her food. Not like she’d loaned me money and I refused to pay her back.

I simply didn’t have the money to get her a Christmas present.

And that’s a level of entitlement that’s frankly sickening to me.

I guess my mother still thinks I’m a small scared child, because she was just flabbergasted when I went the fuck off on her, because you’re not gonna call my phone with that fucking nonsense. So I pointed out the number of times she hasn’t gotten me presents (those apparently don’t matter). I pointed out that she treats me like shit, because she does. And she took SUCH offense to that. I pointed out that she doesn’t actually do much for me, and she argued that she does “everything” for me and that I’m “constantly calling and asking for stuff”.

I literally call my mother maybe once a month and 9/10 it’s to ask “Hey do you know a good place to get XYZ?” or “How do you make XYZ?”

She brought up that she’s lent me her car (she has 2. It’s literally a car she does not use and it just sits there otherwise), but said it was ‘countless times’ (it’s been twice) and that I kept it for months and months (see: 1 day the first time and about week and a half the second time). And not to mention I borrowed her car because mine literally could not safely be driven (first time the battery suddenly died so I kept getting stranded and the second time my brakes went out so... well obvs I can’t drive without killing myself and/or someone else). While I borrowed her car the second time, I must’ve left the lights on accidentally or something, and one of the tires got flat. I of course didn’t realize this until Mom came to pick up the car and the battery is dead.

I apologized, said I didn’t realize it’d happened and offered to fix everything and just call her when the car was ready to be picked up. She declined. I insisted, because she lives like 45 minutes away, no sense in her having to keep driving back out here, and asked her to leave me the keys, I’d take care of everything. She again said no, stormed off angrily and took the keys with her.

She then apparently proceeded to drive all the way back out to my house several times to get the battery charged and the tire inflated. I had NO idea this was happening, because I live in an apartment building, and she had never bothered to tell me she was there (something she doesn’t deny). But she then had the nerve to say that I did not offer her any help in getting the car back up and running (I did, it was the first thing I said) and that I left her out there to work on the car by herself and refused to help. I replied with the obvious: “Ok, at what point did you tell me you were working on the car?” Like, when did you call me and say that you were going to work on the car? When did you knock on my door to let me know that you were there? Did you text me? Leave me a note? Anything?

No. She didn’t. She didn’t have a response to that, and changed the subject again to some even more ignorant shit.

Oh, she also mentioned helping me move. But she literally took 1 trunk load of shit over and complained and insulted me the entire time. She tried to bitch about her knee and how I had her “out there moving furniture” (not true) and I replied “Ok, but did I not literally say “I just need to use your car space. You don’t have to load or unload anything, I’ll do that. I just need you to drive”? Spoiler alert: I did.

But she then got angry because I didn’t “pay her”. First she said she’d wanted an ice cream cone and I refused to get her one (not remotely true, she was referring to a completely separate thing and I took her to a really nice ice cream shop and bought her this huge chocolate monstrosity that she wanted without complaint). Then she circled back to basically I didn’t give her any  money for “all the driving” she did (I moved less than 10 minutes up the road and she made one trip). Which... we’re family. Who the fuck charges family to help them move? She never asked for any money, so I assumed it was just a favor.

In the end, she tried to pull this fucking line “If you feel like I treat you like shit, well you’re going to feel it now. Don’t ask me for anything.” (Aside from the one time she helped me move one load of things, I haven’t asked my mother for anything in well over a year. And that was the car). She said 

“See how you do without  my support.”

And

Excuse you? WHAT support? What exactly are you doing for me? You don’t pay my bills. You don’t feed me. You’re not putting clothes on my back, not putting a roof over my head. You can’t be bothered to try and be there for me emotionally or mentally. You don’t even like touching me. You screen my calls. You mostly ignore me the few times I do reach out to you for help.

SO please enlighten me as to what “support” I’m going to be missing out on.

In any event, she ended the call by telling me that I’m a ‘hateful person who only thinks of herself’ and that I shouldn’t call her and ask her for anything anymore.

And.

Ok.

That was your request. Fine. Completely ignoring that I really don’t do that anyway, sure.

And after YEARS and YEARS of physical, mental and emotional abuse, this is just pretty much the last straw. So I’m thinking of the best way to handle it. Do I try and talk to her face to face, lay things out and deuce? Do I call her? Do I write her a letter? I dunno. Either way, I want to be able to say my peace and not just let her off with the satisfaction of not hearing what I’m saying, so I don’t want to just ignore her completely.

[movieswithkevin27]

Annabelle: Creation

Annabelle: Creation is a good horror film that further solidifies director David F. Sandberg as a man to keep an eye on in the horror genre in the years to come, while also taking a bad original film and delivering a good sequel. Easily compared to Mike Flanagan - if only because of Flanagan taking Ouija and making its sequel not horrible - Sandberg’s debut Lights Out is a film that is incredibly frightening and hinted at things to come in his career. While Annabelle: Creation may not be a full realization of this potential, it is nonetheless a film that really grabs you and terrifies the audience = especially more religiously inclined viewers - due to its chilling representation of a demon doll, demon kids, and large demonic beasts that crack their neck while getting taller. Though flawed, Sandberg’s update on Annabelle is a welcome addition to the Conjuring universe and one that fits perfectly into the universe’s reliance on investigation, mood, and atmosphere, instead of jump scares.

Detailing the creation of the Annabelle doll, how it became a “conduit” for a demonic presence, and the events that led to its unleashing in the original film, the film is set in an isolated farmhouse. After their young daughter Annabelle died, Samuel (Anthony LaPaglia) and Esther Mullins (Miranda Otto) went into a deep depression, one that led to them being willing to do anything to get their daughter back. Now, they are unable to get rid of the thing that came in her place. With Esther laid up in bed with a mystery illness, Annabelle’s room locked shut with the demonic doll hidden in the closet with pages from the Bible surrounding it, and Samuel filling the house with crosses in both the design of doors or in literal crosses, the Mullins’ opt to allow a closed local orphanage into their home with their head sister and six orphan girls. From there, the events of the film unfold as anticipated: the girls discover the doll and absolutely wild shit begins to happen, especially to a poor girl with polio. The film largely leaves alone the bitchy older girls in the group, yet cannot help but sick this demonic doll on the girl with one good leg due to polio. The poor girl.

An exercise in playing stupid games only to get stupid prizes, the Mullins and polio-stricken Janice’s (Talitha Bateman) stupidity is ultimately what makes this film thrilling, as do the actions of slightly less stupid Linda (Lulu Wilson). Nonetheless, the film shows that making a deal with the devil is always a bargain that will unfold in unexpected, yet horrible ways for the participant. The Mullins got their daughter back - or at least visuals of her every once in a while - but did not get her soul back, instead getting a demonic presence that sends chills down my spine just thinking about it. As a Christian, religious horror always messes with me the most with this certainly being no exception. Meanwhile, Janice continues to hang out in Annabelle’s old room against instructions and with full awareness of the fact that this doll is sentient. She even says hi to ghost/demon Annabelle in one of the more stupid moments for her character. Though Linda does the smart route of dumping the doll into a well outside (or did she?), she is still guilty of being stupid. Weirded out by the room only to then see the doll rocking in a rocking chair all on its own, she still opts to go into the room where she has her own encounter with the doll. There is no issue with these people being as dumb as they are - irrationality from kids or people in horror films is to be expected - but it is still a great way of showing what stupidity brings people. Open the door to the possessed room and you get attacked by the thing possessing the room. It should be simple and obvious, but it never seems to be in Annabelle: Creation.

None of this stupidity stops the film from being a great chiller with Sandberg knowing just how to make my religious heart race with encounters with demons, a Valak-esque nun, and then the demon Annabelle spewing some black liquid at Janice to take her soul. It is honestly a traumatic experience at times, in large part due to Sandberg’s ability to scare without jump scares. The scares never unfold as anticipated, but rather taking unique turns or relying on the atmosphere has built or the sinister musical accompaniment that set the tone. Akin to Lights Out, there are undoubtedly flaws to Annabelle: Creation but this never stops the film being one that is truly a fun horror film. It makes you squirm, it makes you scrunch up on the couch as you tell at the characters, it makes you jump at every creak and crack outside, and it makes you look over your shoulder. It is one of those horror films so steeped in its creepy atmosphere that you begin to believe you may seem some ghoulish hellbeast lurking right around the corner of your home. Where the film’s flaws exist - characters, backstory (why did you keep the doll in the house?), predictability, and cliches, namely - they wind up fading into the background in favor of celebrating the film for being scary and lingering with its stiff, cold atmosphere.

Building anticipation for the next installment in the Conjuring franchise - The Nun, which I do not think I can watch consider it gave me nightmares from The Conjuring 2, which never happens to me, but I will watch anyways and cry while doing so - Annabelle: Creation is a welcome return to the best current horror franchise. Furthermore, it affirms that Sandberg is a man who knows how to make a horror film. Though they are textbook and follow the rules of the genre to the letter, they are films that show why the rules were established in the first place: they are effective.