#but i knew it likely wasn’t going to happen because 1989 tv is WEEKS old

[tattooedgoldenretriever]

People don’t realise her Easter eggs are often literal neon signs that say LOVER. Her Easter eggs aren’t these super in-depth puzzles we need to solve. It’s in your face or you realise it was an Easter egg after the thing she is hinting at was released. The music video for ME! is a great example of her Easter eggs. It does have the infamous neon LOVER sing but it also has hints to lyrics from the album and collaborations that appear on the album. They’re not hard to figure out at all, but you can get why people are going to miss them. She isn’t going to do something super cryptic that we have to decipher. It’s obvious.

I genuinely feel there is a big misunderstanding about how she does Easter eggs in the fandom these days. Sometimes five holes in the fence are just five holes in the fence. Sometimes woodvale is just a code word someone forgot to remove. Not everything is an easter egg.

it’s hilarious how everyone (tiktokers & twitter people) was expecting a rep tv announcement and they didn’t get it lmaoooo we literally JUST got 1989 tv!! learn to live in the moment and appreciate things instead of immediately demanding the next thing!!!!!!!

[boxoftheskyking]

Pick Up Every Piece, Part Two

how do you write Wei Ying? All talking. How do you write Lan Zhan? Run on sentences, of course.

have some exposition. everyone is a mess, wahoo.

Part One

---

Lan Zhan’s iron is broken. 

There’s no reason it should be—he keeps it clean and returns it to its original box after each use, and it’s barely three years old. But no matter what he does, it does not heat. He shouldn’t even need to iron his shirt in the morning, but deadline on deadline (and budget cuts on budget cuts) mean that he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in six days and hasn’t done laundry in a week. There are dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, so he’s started avoiding the kitchen entirely on his way to crash into bed so he doesn’t have to see it.

Things break, Lan Zhan accepts this. They wear out, come to accidents, disappoint you, die. But there’s no reason for this iron not to work. There have been no odd smells, the plug is fine—he’s tried three different outlets—and it’s barely three years old.

He stands in his closet in an undershirt and boxers, one hand pressed flat against the heating element, and allows himself a two minute breakdown.

There’s no reason for it. He’s done everything right, ticked every box. He started writing at age ten and hasn’t stopped since. He was top of his class at university, edited every school paper he had access to and founded two more, he got his masters. Even factoring in nepotism—which he doesn’t like to do, because it makes him feel like a cheat—he’s gone about as far as he can as a journalist. He’s won every major award, and with his uncle as managing editor he has more freedom than most in terms of how he writes and what he covers. He served the Republic, fought for two and half years and got a Sunshot medal for it. And yet, after ten years in his chosen field, everything is dying around him. No one pays for papers anymore, no one cares for the truth anymore. Political pundits on TV and radio have taken over the readership; citizens still traumatized by war just want someone to tell them what to think, tell them everything is fine now, tell them to ignore the injustices and messes and misfortunes that surround them. When he started at the Gusu Herald there were fifty people on staff—now they’re down to under twenty, including editors. All the small town papers in the area have closed, but there’s hardly the staff to even consider local stories these days. Lan Qiren tries to hold out as the last family-owned paper in the area, but corporations are circling. It’s like he spent his whole youth building a shining bridge across a canyon, only to find the other side barren and dead, miles of cold steel and no light on the horizon. 

He turns the iron and presses it against his chest, imagines it suddenly turning on, the satisfaction of the burn.

Then he unplugs the iron, puts it back in its box, and pulls on the wrinkled shirt. He pulls up the blackout curtains to let a little of the thin 7am light into the bedroom. There’s no reason to still have blackout curtains in Gusu, but he got used to it years ago and once he gets used to things he tends not to change them without reason. But he’s got plants now, gifts from his brother, and he’s trying to keep them alive. It shouldn’t be that difficult to do, he is conscientious and meticulous, but then his iron shouldn’t be broken either.

No one comments on his wrinkled appearance when he gets to work, which irks him. There is the familiar sound of phones ringing, printers going, file cabinets slamming open and closed in every direction. It’s calming to him, but he can’t help but notice how much quieter it is now than when he started. Part of it is the new computers—when he started here they were still on electric typewriters which were deafening. But mostly it just feels . . . empty.

Not completely empty, not yet. 

“Hey, hey Lan Zhan,” Lan Meiling waves him over to her desk, where a half dozen reporters are gathered around a computer printout. “Did you see this? Jin Zixun’s the new head of the Trade Commission. Just announced.”

Lan Zhan winces and looks over the report.

“But we’re not a monarchy, right guys?” Liu Dong snorts, shoving Meiling’s shoulder.

“It’s not a monarchy, it’s the other thing,” Wang Tengfei says, tapping his chin. “What’s the thing where it’s not passed down by birth, but you still appoint all your family members? That’s a thing isn’t it?”

“That’s just Jin Guangshan,” Liu Dong laughs. “But hush, hush, treason.”

“Come on, what’s the word for it?” Tengfei asks again.

Meiling takes the paper back from Lan Zhan. “Wasn’t he the one who paid for his grades in college? I get them confused.”

Lan Zhan nods. “That was Jin Zixun. Who’s got the story? There should be clippings. ‘92, I think, or ‘93.”

“Who covered that? Any of you?” Su She leans over the cubicle wall, knocking the photo of Meiling’s family onto her desk. There’s no reason for him to be here; he doesn’t cover politics. He’s had the local court beat for the past three years, and has spent those three years writing the exact same story five times a week with different names and charges plugged in. Lan Zhan is completely sure that he’d cover a person fined for unpaid parking tickets and a person arrested for smuggling baby unicorns with the exact same level of interest.

“Wei Ying wrote the story,” Lan Zhan says. The group falls silent, a troubled glance flying between all but him. “Before the merger, in the Gusu Times. Lan Shu can pull the clippings for you. It was a series, I believe.”

Lan Meiling coughs. “You can find a different reference, Liu Dong. Someone in Qinghe must have covered it.”

“It was a good series,” Lan Zhan says. He’s being needlessly stubborn, but that’s nothing new. “Wei Ying got the school registrar on the record.”

Liu Dong scratches the back of his shaved head. “Yeah, but. You know. I’ll call over to Qinghe.”

“It was a good series,” Lan Zhan says again. It’s awkward enough to break up the group, everyone shuffling back to their desks or the coffee maker. Lan Zhan has that uncomfortable feeling that he’s supposed to want to apologize for something. It’s a feeling he gets a lot, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to apologize—he has nothing to apologize for. Wei Ying was a good reporter; he wrote good stories. Everything that happened after that doesn’t change the fact that he was good at what he did.

Su She follows him over to his desk, so his day is about to keep getting worse. Lan Zhan prides himself on being rational, and he has many rational reasons for disliking Su She. He’s a half-assed writer, he wouldn’t know a decently placed comma if it was unveiled to him on a pedestal by the gods, he is a busybody and a gossip, and he lives to take credit for other people’s work. He’ll offer you the phone number of one of his “connections” and then whine about how he deserves a shared byline.

But on many levels beyond the rational, Lan Zhan hates the guy. He hates the way he pronounces words, his laugh, the smell of his lunch, even his handwriting. And he’s always there.

“You knew him, didn’t you, Lan Zhan?” Su She leans on his cubicle now, though there are no photographs to knock down.

Lan Zhan’s instinctual response is Don’t call me that, which is ridiculous because it’s his name. But he hates the way his name sounds in Su She’s mouth.

“What?” 

“Wei Ying. You knew him before the scandal, didn’t you?”

Lan Zhan takes an even breath. “Yes.”

“Did you work with him?”

“He was at the Times, before the merger. He never worked at the Herald.”

“But you knew him in school, right?”

If Lan Zhan wanted to be fair (he doesn’t), there’s no way for Su She to know that this line of questioning is particularly painful. He distracts himself from the sting of it by considering all of the answers he won’t be giving.

Yes. He gave me half a handjob in 1989 and I’ve thought of it every day since.

Yes. He called me his soulmate one day in the library at Gusu University and I’ve thought of it every day since.

Yes, I read the story that ruined his life before it was published, because he came to my home and asked me to read it and he was so proud, skinny and manic and over-caffeinated and burning, burning, burning, and I looked at him and I recognized the same thing that burns in me, the thing that keeps me coming back to this sad beige office every day, that makes me want to fight the inevitable like swinging swords at the sea, and I didn’t tell him not to publish. I told him it was a good story. It would not have stopped him, me telling him not to do it. But I could have tried. And I’ve thought of that every day since.

He just nods, instead.

“Is he still alive, do you think?” Su She asks casually.

The question stops Lan Zhan. “What?”

“No one’s heard from him since the war, have they? Could have died somewhere. Plenty still missing. I heard he went West, maybe, and the fighting was—”

“He is not dead.” Lan Zhan doesn’t know this for sure. But he would know, surely. Wouldn’t he? The thought honestly has not occurred to him in all these years, that Wei Ying might have died.

“Are you in touch?” Su She has a habit of asking questions like this, flipping from casual conversation to an interrogation. It makes him a terrible reporter.

“I served with his brother. He has not mentioned that Wei Ying has died. I have work to do, Su She.”

It bothers him, even after Su She leaves. He hasn’t seen Jiang Cheng in a few years, and they do not write or call each other. Jin Zixuan writes to them all about once a year, and he visits when he’s in Gusu, but he has always been the more sentimental one of the three of them, the survivors. But he thinks that Jiang Cheng would tell him if Wei Ying had died. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t. Jiang Cheng was not at school with them; he may not think of Lan Zhan as a person to notify in the event of his brother’s death. Would anyone think to let him know? It wouldn’t make the papers, probably, so how would he know? Wen Qing, perhaps. If she remembered. If she is also alive.

He feels it like an itch on his skin, something unsettled in his stomach, the idea that Wei Ying might not have survived. He would know, wouldn’t he? He’d feel it, the change in the fabric of the universe. Food would taste different, his voice would sound different. He’d feel it in the moments between sleeping and waking.

He makes a cup of tea and boots up his computer. They all have emails now, which is still a relatively new part of the morning ritual, but he doesn’t mind adding it as he checks his mail, his answering machine. He had a deadline yesterday and isn’t swamped this morning, so he takes down phone numbers and flips through his calendar on autopilot while he thinks about Wei Ying.

Wei Ying probably remembers him. He definitely remembers him, it would be ridiculous for him not to, but Lan Zhan doubts he remembers their college years the same way. 

(His fingers in Wei Ying’s hair, shoved against the wall in someone else’s dark bedroom, cheering and laughter from the drinking game just downstairs, cheap beer on his breath, everything spinning, spinning, his first time being drunk, his brain singing out kiss him, kiss him again, more, more, more, this is your chance, Wei Ying’s left hand on him, awkward and surprisingly tender, Wei Ying’s voice slurring in his ear “Lan Zhan I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad, I’m so glad I found you, Lan Zhan,” before the door bursts open and they spring apart, before Wei Ying ruffles his hair and says, “You probably won’t remember this, huh?” before they leave the party separately, before weeks of silence because what do you say to all of that, before Wei Ying and Wen Qing get together and Lan Zhan says, “I’m happy for you,” which is a lie, a lie, a lie, before Wei Ying and Wen Qing split up and Lan Zhan says, “I’m sorry to hear that,” which is a lie, a lie, a lie . . .)

He could do some digging. It probably wouldn’t be too difficult to find him, and it’s not like Lan Zhan lacks resources. But every time the thought crosses his mind it feels like too much, too violating. If Wei Ying wanted to be found, he would not have disappeared. And if Wei Ying wanted Lan Zhan in his life, he knows where to find him. Lan Zhan is not the one who left.

That’s a bitter thought, and unfair.

The story of Wei Ying is not complicated, and it’s not secret, but it’s never told right. 

They’d met in college, when Wei Ying transferred to Gusu in junior year, in a psych class of all places. Lan Zhan had a double major, because psychology and journalism was a logical pairing, and Wei Ying was meant to take a broadcast concentration but had broken his wrist falling off a roof and couldn’t work any of the equipment. 

Lan Zhan hadn’t known what to do with him at first. Wei Ying had grabbed him for the first group project a week into the semester, declaring, “We’re kindred spirits, you know,” before writing his phone number left-handed on Lan Zhan’s arm. Lan Zhan did not know. They had barely spoken before this, but for the rest of the semester Wei Ying sat by him and they studied together and Lan Zhan pulled strings to get him onto the university paper. And Wei Ying had grinned at him one day in the library, sleep-deprived and rumpled, when Lan Zhan had finished his trailed-off sentence, and said “Ah, my soulmate.”

They were kindred spirits, Lan Zhan believed. Lan Zhan decided he wanted to be a reporter when he was ten and learned the truth about his parents. After an entire childhood of being lied to, he decided his calling in life would be to tell the truth, no matter what. It made him odd and prickly, and usually lonely, but gave him a reputation of fearlessness and ferocity that he would never regret.

Wei Ying was different. He wasn’t so invested in the truth from a moral or political perspective—he was cheerfully amoral back then, in a teenage kind of way—but he loved information and he loved being right. Puzzles and secrets attracted him, and Lan Zhan watched them open up for him like lotus flowers at every turn. 

Lan Zhan settled into their friendship in a way that was unexpected, he began to rely on Wei Ying’s opinion, began to think of things from his perspective when he found himself stuck. And then he’d gotten drunk at a midwinter party and kissed Wei Ying and ruined all of it. It wasn’t Wei Ying’s fault. Lan Zhan had panicked and run and then left for break and never given Wei Ying his home number, and then when he returned Wei Ying wasn’t single anymore. He’d gone to Yiling with Wen Qing and her brother and come back someone’s boyfriend. (Wen Qing! Older, beautiful, stern and razor-sharp, who Lan Zhan had hero-worshipped, the part-time advisor to the school paper who turned down more offers than either of them would see in their lifetimes. That Wen Qing!) And Lan Zhan didn’t know how to handle it so he just . . . let it go. They stayed in touch while Wei Ying moved back to Yunmeng for a while, then got a job at the Times after the war started, and Lan Zhan joined the Herald and went to grad school, always Wei Ying reaching out first. But even after they were both single again and living in the same city, they just stayed apart.

It would be easy—completely unfair, but easy—to blame Wen Qing for all of it. But all she’d done was the same thing Lan Zhan had. Loved Wei Ying, and failed to stop him. If anything, Wen Qing is better than he is—when Wei Ying fell, at least she fell with him.

The downfall was not complicated, and he should have seen it coming. When Wei Ying showed up at his door in the middle of the night with a crumpled print out of his story, Lan Zhan should have seen where it would lead.

It was 1994, three years into the war, and Lan Zhan was in training with the cultivator corps in Lanling. In retrospect, that’s likely how Wei Ying found him—Jiang Cheng was in his unit and must have given the address. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he didn’t stop Wei Ying. Everything was so unreal, the war, the devastation, the training, cultivation itself. Everything he’d known about life, the country, physics, what is possible and what is just a legend, all of it was thrown out into a whirling storm of adapt, adapt, adapt. It was chaos, and Lan Zhan became very good at chaos.

The story would have been a bombshell in any year—over a dozen former assistants, interns, and even one sitting representative accusing the Acting President of the Republic of misconduct and abuse. Rumors about Jin Guangshan were older than his political career, and illegitimate children were hardly rare in government, but Wei Ying had been the first to get multiple accusers on the record along with recordings and photos. Wen Qing, the youngest managing editor in the country and one of only two women, had agreed to run the story.

It was a good story. A really, really good story.

But there was a war on, and Acting President Jin was the only protection the country had against the usurper Wen Ruohan and his army of traitors. Not that Jin Guangshan ever left Carp Tower himself—that’s what the oldest son was for. 

The blowback was immediate—Wei Ying was forced to retract the entire story and resign, Wen Qing was fired and the Gusu Times lost every advertiser and investor on the books. It was only natural for Lan Qiren to buy it up for pocket change, the merger he’d been looking at for years. All of the women named in the story issued statements accusing Wei Ying of lying, of doctoring evidence, of hiring actors that looked like them to fill his false story with fake photos. All statements made after visits from high ranking military officers, of course. He’d heard rumors that Wen Qing’s brother had enlisted and they used him for leverage, which wouldn’t be surprising. He hadn’t expected Wen Qing to give up without a fight.

Wei Ying had written to him once, just after he disappeared, with no return address. 

It’s my fault, it said. Lan Zhan, it was all true, the story was true, but I’m still a liar. I told them I could protect them all, if they went on the record. I promised. I promised Wen Qing. And I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Lan Zhan, I never wanted to be a liar.

And in the end, it meant nothing. Few enough people were getting daily papers, much less actually reading them, and with the immediate retraction, reams and reams being taken off newsstands by military police, it was barely a drop in the storm that was raging. Outside of the newsrooms themselves, at least, where Wei Ying and Wen Qing were nailed up on the wall as a cautionary tale. Free press, up to a point. Sometimes Lan Zhan thinks about what would happen if the story broke today, the impact it could have. But after the retraction, you can’t go back. He can’t think about it too long or the rage overtakes him. Rage for Wei Ying, for Wen Qing, for every person in the article who was smothered and tossed out with nothing. The kind of rage that doesn’t fade, can’t be extinguished.

Lan Zhan shakes himself. Wei Ying is alive. Wen Qing is also alive, most likely. Su She is an idiot.

He only has one message on his answering machine.

“Hey, Lan Zhan, it’s your cousin Lan Liang. Listen, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about. I don’t know if it’s your thing, or if you choose what you cover or whatever, but there’s a kid gone missing here in Moling and some very weird stuff going on at the building sites. I don’t have all the details, but it’s my uncle’s daughter-in-law’s foster kid. Cops aren’t giving them much, so I said I’d call you. I don’t know if the kid went wandering and got hurt or got lost or what, but maybe someone from the Herald can cover it, get the public interest up. Maybe someone knows something. I don’t know. Probably a long shot, but I said I’d call, so there you go. You can reach me at—”

Lan Zhan takes down the number neatly in his calendar. He can call after the 10am meeting, maybe drive out to Moling in the afternoon. The rage is still there, banked and contained and ready to be useful.

Part Three

[bythebigcoolingtower]

Eye on Springfield - An Interview with Raymie Muzquiz

Since working on eighteen episodes of seasons two and three of the Simpsons, Raymie Muzquiz has enjoyed a strong, thirty plus years career in the animation industry, including directing eight episodes of Futurama’s second run. Here, Raymie talks about his spell on both shows, his other projects and the industry itself.

Let’s start at the start, how did you get into animation and end up at Klasky-Csupo?

In 1988-89, I was working for a movie trailer company. I was a production assistant and then a post coordinator for about 2 years. I learned a lot about film post production and worked on a flatbed editor, dubbing machines, etc. (all pre-digital). However, it was nonetheless a miserable, unartistic, poorly-paying job that laid bare all those awful “Swimming With Sharks”, fear-and-loathing tropes of the movie business. My boss was a horror. He’d yell at me about the dressing in his salad, or the variety of bread on the sandwich. I was his presumed personal assistant to deride. Yet he would shamelessly “lick the boots” of celebs and execs higher up the food chain. To this day, I cannot watch movie trailers. On the rare trip to a theater, I sit in the lobby and have my wife text me when the feature starts.

During this awful period I would look daily through the trades for another job. One day in the Hollywood Reporter there was an ad that included a picture of Marge (I think). Klasky-Csupo (just blocks from my apartment!) was looking to staff for Season 2 of The Simpsons. Since I storyboarded all my student films and some action sequences in live-action low-budget features at Roger Corman’s Concorde/New Horizons in the late 80’s. I applied for a storyboard position. What happened next gave me whiplash. I was given a test. Hours after turning the in the test I hired as a staff storyboard artist to start two weeks hence and immediately given a freelance assignment.  

How did I get this plum position with zero experience? This requires some context. The Simpsons was an unexpected TV-animation phoenix rising from the ashes of a poverty-row industry. It is little exaggeration to say that the TV animation talent pool (as opposed to feature animation) consisted largely of old, alcoholic and broken-spirited artists doing Saturday-morning hack-work, subsuming their talent to low budgets and low cel counts. The necessary talent were simply nonexistent for this new, hip renaissance. The doors opened to the young, the students and the inexperienced like me; someone who didn’t go to art school nor drew for a living. It was a singular event for me. I was ignorant that there was even a difference between animation and live action storyboards. I was even naive about my drawing ability. Imagine my reaction when I saw trained artists draw in a professional environment. It blew my mind! My only saving grace was that as a live-action film graduate, I knew film language. I could stage without “crossing the line”. Scenes “cut” together and “hooked up” and I was staging in depth rather than in the traditional “proscenium” cartoon style. My acting was restrained, not broad or cartoony.

I did my first storyboard freelance while still at the trailer company. It was for Jim Reardon; his first directing assignment: Itchy & Scratchy & Marge in 1989.

Can you explain the work you did on the Simpsons?

Everybody probably knows what storyboarding is, so I’ll keep it short. It’s the visualisation of the script/story. It’s TV animation’s biggest step from script to screen. You are staging the characters in space and acting them out and breaking it up into separate scenes that informs the entire rest of the process. Design, layout, key posing, action and timing build off the storyboard.

When you were assigned to work on the show what were your thoughts? It was a phenomenon by that point.

The first season’s episodes of the Simpsons were being re-runned to death. I remember doubting if they’d successfully make more before the buzz died off. When I was hired I couldn’t believe my luck. The Simpsons was THE hip show of the moment. To actually be a creative team member on something fresh and original AND get paid more than beggar’s wages was like winning the lottery.

How closely did you work with the directors and writers, what kind of notes and feedback did you receive?

When I arrived for my first meeting, Mark Kirkland and Jim Reardon were crowded in a small room with folding tables, right off of reception. I believe they were both directing for the first time. Although I was already hired to work in-house, I had to give two weeks to my current, satanic employer, so I was assigned work as a freelancer. It was to board an act of Itchy & Scratchy & Marge by its director, Jim Reardon. Little did I know what I was getting into.

I never had to draw so much in my life! My drawing hand (left) was killing me in those early months. I had to develop a callous on the middle finger. They gave me the “radio-play;” an audio cassette of the recorded dialog to draw to and tons of model sheets.  

I remember being overwhelmed by the volume. And you had to draw in these tiny boxes of the formatted storyboard page. I didn’t have that kind of discipline (I never did: I eventually developed a style of drawing on blank pages, then fielding and formatting them onto a page. Sometimes I scaled my drawings down on the xerox machine. I also drew on post-its (the greatest invention in animation after cels) and taped them onto the formatted sheet.  

As this was freelance, I actually only met with Jim twice: Once for the hand-out and then again to show him my roughs. I vaguely remember him asking for changes that I thought were off-show (I’d seen all extant episodes multiple times on TV by then). Plus this was my first time and really had no expectations of what the process was.

But--he was the director--I addressed his notes and turned in the storyboard to the receptionist without further feedback. This almost became my undoing. In future, I would know the director should go over the storyboard and decide if it was ready, needed further revision or even just check the “bookkeeping”; the placement of dialog, notes and scene and page numbering before releasing it to the producers (all the Executives at Gracie Films across town). However--for whatever reason--this didn’t happen. It went directly from reception to Gracie. And evidently the executives didn’t react well. I was ignorant of all of this for years; until Mark Kirkland told me what happened...

The Executives were displeased with the storyboard and demanded to know what happened. Someone blamed it on the new guy (me!). So it was decided I had to be fired (before I even started my first day on staff)!  

Did I get thrown under the bus? I can’t say. I wasn’t there. I am only relating events second hand.  

Anyway, Mark Kirkland, who shared the room with Jim Reardon and was present during my meetings came to my rescue (again, completely unbeknownst to me). He vouched for my character and said I was worthy of rescue and rather than firing me, I could work with him. 

So I have Mark to thank for my career. If I was fired, it would have been crushing and I think it’s safe to say I would never have become the artist I’ve become in the thirty plus years of my career.

What was the pressure like working on the show and at the studios during that time?

Because of my lack of experience, I found it difficult judging deadlines and the necessary labor (and just pencil mileage) to succeed. Plus I was traumatised by my previous job; I was conditioned to fear punishment and humiliation at anytime for something I did or didn’t do.

The climate at Klasky/Csupo couldn’t be more starkly different; so egalitarian! Everyone was socialising and goofing around. Gabor Csupo couldn’t be a more laid-back boss! Long lunches with side-trips for comic books and toys! Nerf guns in the hall. I shared a tiny room with two other board artists, Peter Avanzino and Steve Moore. They would both have to vacate the room for me to reach my desk in the far corner. We bantered and laughed more than worked. Celebrities would drop by (Most memorable was meeting Frank Zappa). There were events always going on; bowling, screenings and parties. And yet, a ton of thought and drawing was necessary; especially for me. I worried I couldn’t work as fast as other artists. I often had to work nights and weekends to meet my deadlines. However, there always were other artists doing the same thing; they may have been more experienced than me, but they were young and not so disciplined; so I was never alone. Plus, you never knew how off the mark your roughs could be and after a meeting with the director and Brad Bird, you might suddenly be looking at a ton of revision work. I also remember that Brad was busy weekdays and meetings could sometimes only be done on Saturdays. I simply had a lot to learn and time to put in to build my proficiency. And Brad Bird was very important influence in those days: I could be nervous and exhausted preparing for a meeting with him, but he’d so infect you with his enthusiasm and creative vision that you’d end up re-doing the whole thing but be excited about doing it. He emphasized the cinematic aspects and empowered us to be bold and push the limits of traditional animation staging.

You worked on some of the show’s early classics, could you tell from your position how the episodes would come out?

My next episode for Jim Reardon was “When Flanders Failed”. Because of the kerfuffle of the first episode I did for him, I was anxious to be as professional and impressive as possible. I thought the act I did showed improvement. However, the episode seemed to languish at some point (after animation?) and word got around that it was a bust and wouldn’t reach air. My memory is hazy about this, but I was bummed at the time; thinking my working relationship with Jim was snake-bit.  

A season later, it eventually did air. I’m not giving a very good account of this, sorry.

“Flaming Moe’s” was an episode I was excited about. I remember Brad Bird suggesting some very exciting staging that turned my head around. Especially the part where Homer ends up--“Phantom of the Opera-ish”--in the rafters. I think that was a turning point for me; I was going to be a Brad disciple and determined to push the staging from then on.

“Stark Raving Dad”, is memorable to me, but not for a good reason. It was one of the last episodes I worked on; only doing an act. I remember being scandalized that Michael Jackson was the subject of the episode. Being a Simpsons purist, I believed that the show existed in a parallel universe and celebrities were parodied for laughs; it was too hip to be a shill for celebrity. There was no Arnold Swarzenegger, there was McBain. There was no Hal Fishman (our local channel 5 anchor), there was Kent Brockman. Dr. Hibbert was a parody of Bill Cosby. Mayor Quimby was a parody of Ted Kennedy. Even Nick Riviera was supposed to be Gabor Csupo! Having Michael Jackson exist in this universe and embodied in a sympathetic character (rather than a target of ridicule) was seriously “jumping the shark” in my opinion. I believed the show had done the unthinkable and it would prove fatal to the series.  

Of course I was wrong. The Simpsons goes on like a perpetual motion machine. But I couldn’t abide watching this wise and subversive show trample over its principles to star-fuck. Now of course, which celebrity HASN’T been on the Simpsons. As you may well know, “Stark Raving Dad” has been pulled from the series since the premiere of the HBO documentary “Leaving Neverland”, giving some credence to my long ago objection: sometimes it bites you on the ass.

“Black Widower” was my swan song. I remember meeting Kelsey Grammer at the table read and being mesmerized by his voice. He sounded just like Orson Welles. The act I boarded included Bob and Selma’s honeymoon. I wanted to give the staging a Hitchcockian influence with deep-focus, Z-axis compositions (like looking out of the fireplace, across the gas burner to Selma and Bob) and my first-ever use of DX (double exposed) shadows to provide menace. I thought that was my best work of the series.

One of my favourite early episodes is ‘Homer at the Bat’ which you storyboarded. What are your recollections on working on it? Did you get any specific notes when it came to the players?

“Homer” was my third “at bat” (pardon the pun) with Jim. He’s a baseball fan as I am, but he also PLAYED Chicago-Style Softball (baseball with a huge, soft ball). I’m a baseball fan too, but I felt I’d be exposed a dilettante due to my terminal lack of athleticism. I was assigned all three acts of the show as well! I really had to be on my game (again, pardon) and not miss any of the references. I reluctantly took him up on his offer playing in one of the Chicago-Style games one Saturday in Burbank. It was a sacrifice as I had to work weekends to keep up with the workload of this episode. I went with a fellow board artist, who’ll remain unnamed (to remain friends).  

It went terribly. At bat, I whiffed three pitches in a row, and Jim kept pitching more and more out of pity. I missed them all. He finally had to tell me to just give the bat to the next guy. In the outfield, I stunk just as badly. The piece-de-resistance was when my fellow board artist was at bat and swung hard on a pitch. He missed the ball AND dislocated his knee. I ran to him as he plopped down in agony onto home plate with his knee, shin and foot pointed in the wrong direction. “If my leg stays like this much longer, I think I’m gonna start crying,” he said through the pain.  After a terribly long moment, his shin and foot rotated snapped back into place. We hobbled off the field as Jim and his pals resumed the game. Could things have gone any worse? I was certain that Jim had no faith in me by that time. If so, he never said it. He was a laconic guy.  

I worked on it a hundred years ago so I don’t feel the pride I objectively should. The episode went against The Cosby Show and beat it in the ratings!  There’s even an exhibit in The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, that I wasn’t aware of until I went there. No artist other than Matt is mentioned. It’s all about the writers and the players who voiced the show.

I still have the storyboards of Jose Canseco in the bathtub with Ms. Krabappel that Jose objected to and we had to cut. I’ll post them someday.

How do you reflect on your time working on the show? Do you ever watch those seasons and episodes back?

See below for details; but no. I haven’t watched the episodes I worked on or those seasons for decades. I haven’t watched any episodes after the 3rd season at all. I did see the movie.

The relationship between Klasky-Csupo and Gracie Films finished at the end of the third season, when Gracie decided to move production to Film Roman, what was your view of that situation?

With the handwriting on the wall that Fox might pull The Simpsons from Klasky-Csupo, the in-house producer Sherry Gunther countered by getting all us artists to sign a document tying us exclusively to Klasky-Csupo in an effort to block Fox access to the crew. That gambit didn’t dissuade Fox. They pulled the show anyway and took it to Film Roman. At the time, I wanted desperately to follow the show, but naively thought I couldn’t because I was bound by Sherry’s contract. Virtually everyone left Klasky-Csupo for Film Roman anyways; contract be damned.

The studio became a ghost town. I stayed, distressed that I had to work on Rugrats. However, I eventually concluded that being torn away from The Simpsons was the best thing for my creative growth. Wherein The Simpsons was written so well, closely supervised and finding its stride, The Rugrats scripts were mediocre and the gags not funny. Rugrats was a vacuum to fill and I was empowered to add gags and exercise Gabor’s mandate to really push the staging into warped and low-angled baby POVs that defined the series. It lacked the regimentation of The Simpsons and I exposed to all the other processes in making cartoons. On the Chanukah special I directed, I timed the animation, I even helped direct the voice talent and supervise animatic and final edit.

The Simpsons, like many prime-time animated shows, are dominated by writer/producers who closely control the creative aspects and the artists are more or less staying in their lanes.

After the Simpsons you were assigned to work on ‘Duckman’ where you directed eight episodes, what was the step up to direction like?

I didn’t go directly to Duckman. There was a period of boarding on Rugrats and assistant directing on two Edith-Ann specials for ABC. It was a sad time, something like being in purgatory, but one which I believe was necessary in retrospect.

Speaking of being in purgatory, here’s an anecdote. Klasky-Csupo was a bunch of empty rooms after the Simpsons left. I was working on Edith Ann one day and Gabor was walking a tour of potential clients through. I showed them what I was doing and then Gabor directed them to the next room; opening a door to usher them in, various large and small auto parts suddenly tumbled noisily out onto the floor. A car bumper, pieces of trim, a fender and hub-caps.  

You may ask why auto parts were in there? I’ll tell you: When Rich Moore worked there, his office overlooked the corner of Highland and Fountain avenues. Over time, he and his crew witnessed a lot of auto collisions on that corner. They would go and retrieve the parts left behind and hang them on the wall. Rich obviously left without taking his collection and somebody decided to hide them all in this room. Suffice to say, it didn’t look professional and I felt terrible for Gabor at that moment.

When I did become director, there was many moments of panic. I was used to storyboarding to my personal standard and quality that defined my aesthetic. Paradoxically, being a director meant losing close control. I had to depend on clearly communicating to the storyboard artists, quickly learning you can only tell artists so much before they “top-off” and forget what you said. No one took notes! It was all by memory! I always took notes as a board artist. A good board artist makes a director look good. There are far more mediocre storyboard artists than good ones; mainly because the good ones are promoted to directors (I feel the quality has improved over time). And I had to deal with freelancers for the first time. They are the guys that fill-in when there’s not enough staff artists. These people were usually moonlighting for extra money and end up storyboarding your show in the style of the show they were working on during the day. There just wasn’t enough time in the schedule to fix everything without working crazy hours. The Simpsons had layout. So storyboards didn’t have to be so precise and if something wasn’t staged right or acting out in storyboard, you could work with a layout artist in shorthand to correct it. Virtually my entire career has been absent layouts. They are very rare for TV nowadays. This makes the storyboard all the more important. The bar must be high; we call them “layout storyboards”; they need to be closer to model and the acting must be spot on.  

Animation timing was also something I had to get control of; At first, Duckman didn’t have a supervising timing director, who could maintain the quality and the timing aesthetics particular to the show. It was up to the director to check timing. I had almost no experience and it was a new show. No one person had the answers. I could review the timer’s work (so often a dreaded freelancer) and I could see it wasn’t at all right and I’d wholesale erase it, but then I panicked that I might have done more damage than good; suddenly in over my head. It took time, but I got it.

I believe that the director who masters his x-sheets is true master of his show.  I could add quality and personal aesthetics in a new dimension.

Does you background as a storyboard artist influence the way in which you direct?

Absolutely. In animation history, there were directors who didn’t storyboard or even draw. There were a few of these “dinosaurs” on Rugrats. They sat and read the paper when we boarded their shows. But because of the overseas process of animation and the loss of layouts here at home, if you are going to direct at all, you have to be comfortable drawing a detailed, informed layout storyboard. It is literally the blueprint of your show.

That said, I had to mature as a director who storyboarded. It was insane to try and board all my episodes personally, though directors will put some work aside for themselves, especially if its a sequence that would be too hard to delegate to another artist. If a sequence involves a new character, location or prop integral to the story, it may not be designed yet, so I’ll take it on and “feel it out;” designing as I board.

I had to learn how to be a good delegator and a clear communicator. I pitch sequences to the board artist before they begin and give them roughs of designs, poses or staging I think is important for the sequence. From my boarding experience, I don’t like directors who don’t tell you what they want until after you’ve drawn the storyboard. That wastes time and effort. And morale. I want the artists to know my take and hopefully that will inform the storyboard they do. I also know from my board experience that you should balance criticism with praise. Communicate what you like about how they do this and that before you go through critiquing the parts that aren’t working. Ultimately, you want to help the board artists be successful in storyboarding it their way, not my way. If it works, don’t change it just because it isn’t the way you’d do it. Lean into and support what they’ve done.

‘Duckman’ had a cavalcade of guest stars throughout the shows run, did you ever get to meet any of them, and if so, do you have a favourite encounter?

I was always of two minds regarding using live-action stars for animation. Yeah, it’s fun to meet them and some like Jason Alexander can knock-it-out-of-the-park, but sometimes this kind of “stunt casting” backfires. In my first episode, we used Crispin Glover in a stunt role as a crazed maniac with only one line. He showed up brandishing an eight inch hunting knife acting like a REAL maniac. Maybe it was method acting, but we were scared of him and got him in and out as fast as we could. His delivery didn’t work for the line and it spoiled the joke in my opinion, but it remained in the episode. If we used one of the legion of professional voice actors available, we could have worked with them for the perfect “voice” and delivery and nailed it.

We also used Teri Garr for an episode (not one I was directing) and I attended because I was a huge fan of hers. I got to see her behind the mike as she looked over her pages and said acidly, “This isn’t exactly Tolstoy, is it.” That is the opposite attitude you should have when you’re hired. She was soon pitching underwear afterwards...obviously not Tolstoy either.

So I’ll say it again: using celebrities can bite you on the ass.

Performances aside, I certainly did enjoy meeting legends. Carl Reiner played a priest in Noir Gang. Mind you we recorded in a small studio that was in the back of the Rugrats building that was essentially a cavernous storage room. Ed Asner looked visibly uncomfortable when we huddled around him in there. I’ll never forget the look on Marina Sirtis’ face when she arrived to record an episode. Me and a couple of other guys were laying in wait in this sketchy storage area eating our lunches. She was concerned: “is this the right place?” I felt like a lech and stopped going to records that I didn’t have to be at.

Overall, if the celebrity you’ve cast for a voice roll has theater experience, you are more likely to get a good vocal performance. Especially musical theater experience. They are more aware of their voice and have the tools. This goes for Jason and others like Tim Curry and Bebe Neuwirth; all great voice talent to have behind the mic.

You worked on the second run of Futurama, had you been a fan of the original seasons?

No. I didn’t watch the show before. I had to catch up and learn the “canon” when I was hired.

How did you get involved in working on Futurama?

The animating studio, Rough Draft, was something of a clique. They didn’t just hire “anybody” and unlike most studios, they maintain a staff of lifers who usually have the choice positions. I knew Peter Avanzino from our Simpsons days doing storyboards together, so he vouched for me. I was hired to direct on the 2nd season of Drawn Together. So they had a taste of what they could expect from me. I was no longer an unknown quantity when Futurama came around.

One of the eight episodes you directed was, ‘The Mutants are Revolting’, the shows hundredth episode. How special was it to work on such a landmark episode?

It had the most visibility of my episodes, at least internally. They made T-shirts and some publicity art and even the script had a nicer cover. But it was the episode with the most headaches. The scope of the story was huge with multiple set pieces. The opening newsreel, movie in a movie of the Land-Titanic, the asteroid delivery, the party at Planet Express, the riot in the sewers and the flood and “parting of the red sea” climax all required a ton of designs and characters; plus more hand-drawn and CG effects. That’s a lot to manage and marshall for a TV show. Most episodes don’t require the director to do this kind of heavy lifting. I find that when a show demands this much visually, the story ends up being more superficial, gag driven and episodic feeling. Such is the case for this episode. It was visually pumped up because it was representing the 100th episode; meaning I was saddled with managing lots of logistics rather than the usual character-based comedy and emotion of say, Tip of The Zoidberg, which is a relationship story that--as a director--I feel I give more time to flourish and shine with.

‘The Mutants are Revolting’ features some fantastic animation, most notably a brief sequence of Bender standing perfectly still as the Planet Express ship moves around him. Can you explain the challenges of a sequence like that?

That’s a good, insightful question. A shot like this shows off the resources Rough Draft has that aren’t available at just any other studio doing TV animation. The interior of the Planet Express Ship was built and animated in CG. At it’s gimbal point was a CG version of a stationary Bender; locked to field, but who’s feet move with the CG ship. Once the CG elements were approved, they were printed out as wire frame drawings printed onto pegged paper. My Assistant Director drew key poses of the characters on a separate layer in register with the CG print outs, old school on a light box animation disc. This all was sent to our overseas studio Rough Draft Korea for inbetweening and color of the characters only. That came back as an alpha-channeled digital file and layered over the CG animation in our digital compositing department.

Scott Vanzo runs the department and directs all the CG animation effects. I can’t remember who exactly built the interior of the PE ship and animated it, so I’ll rely on IMDb: Don Kim and Jason Plapp. But all the guys in the digital department do tremendous work and allowed us to fine tune a lot of animation (that doesn’t have CG in it); giving us the ability that raises the quality and takes the curse off of overseas animation limitations.

‘The Tip of the Zoidberg’ was nominated for a Primetime Emmy, how proud were you of that achievement and the episode itself?

The episode was one of my favorites; it was character focused and elaborating on canon so a director couldn’t ask for more. As for the Emmy nomination, it’s one of those show business awards that I realized early I can’t get emotionally vested in. The Futurama guys have a formula for figuring out which episode will be submitted. I think it has something to do with each writer getting a shot at the statue. And then from then on it’s just politics.

You’ve also done work on ‘Disenchantment’, giving you the distinction of having worked on all three of Matt Groening’s shows. What’s your relationship like with him?

I can’t help but laugh at this question. I’ve run into him twice out in public over the years and he didn’t recognize me. Once at the Moscow Cat Circus! But that humbling fact aside, he’s a genuinely nice, funny person devoid of pretence and he’s said some very complementary things about my work. However, it’s all business. Like virtually all primetime shows, he’s with the writers at their separate production office. Animation production takes place in a different geographical location. My face time is limited to usually 2-3 meeting points in a show’s schedule. Anything in between are fielded via emails routed through coordinators and assistants.

As well as short form animation you’ve been involved with several feature length productions, including ‘The Rugrats Movie’ and ‘Despicable Me’, what are the key differences between long from and short form animated projects?

I don’t think I’ve ever had a purely feature production experience. The Rugrats Movie(s) were spin-offs from TV series so some processes were grandfathered in from TV production. Despicable Me was truly off-the-wall in that the storyboard artists were working remotely from literally all over the world. No one met each other. I met with Chris Renaud once. I was not allowed to see the entire script, only pages here and there. It was called “Evil Me” at the time. I was truly working in the dark and ultimately, they didn’t use anything I drew. Which to me seemed par-for-the-course: this was one harebrained, inefficient, right-hand-doesn’t-know-what-the-left-hand-is-doing way to make a show. Again, I predicted it would fail. Again, I was wrong.

At the time I was working on Despicable Me, Gru looked like Snape from Harry Potter and there were no minions yet, just an “Igor” kind of 2nd banana that was a shorter version of the final Gru design.  

So my takeaway from those experiences is that I prefer TV production. You don’t have the luxury of a feature schedule, but there is less time for executives to get replaced, sundry monkey-business and creatives pulling the rug out from under you. However, TV is catching up in those regards. See below.

Do you have a scene or episode you’re particularly proud of working on?

I feel fulfilled and proud of directing and being supervising producer on Hey Arnold: The Jungle Movie. I was empowered to work in every aspect of the process and benefit from my experience to make it the smoothest running ship and happiest crew ever. Only at the very end did the executives get into overdrive meddling. But it ran well and looked good. It may not be as funny as my prime time stuff, but I think we elevated the material across the board; writing, design, animation quality. And it was a project put in mothballs 15 years before being resurrected. So it completes me in a way.

Ultimately, I believe work is about relationships and quality of life. The shows where you were empowered and respected and not overworked due to inefficiency are the shows I’m proud to work on. As Jim Duffy would always say, “It’s only a cartoon.”

Often sequences are cut or revised before broadcast. Do you have any favourites that didn’t make it in?

If I had, I’ve forgotten them.  

What are the biggest changes you’ve seen in the industry over your time and what do you think the next big change will be?

The trend seems to be as I get better and more efficient at my job, creators and writers (especially in streaming prime-time) are becoming more entitled, indecisive, mecurial and demanding. As processes have evolved in digital technology, we’ve opened the door for those in power indulging in more rewrites, revisions, reviews, etc. Despite the technical advancements, animation remains expensive and time intensive and good artists (especially in TV) have to work intelligently and diligently on tight schedules to produce funny, inspired, detail-oriented work. Rewrites and revisions burn out artists and make us feel like office machines and though our overlords pay for the last minute re-dos, they are often throwing out higher quality work for patchwork revisions that lower the overall quality of a show.

Who inspired you as a young animator and who do you look to now?

Ironically, I never saw myself becoming an animator. I did do some stop-motion on Super 8 as a kid. But that was because I didn’t have access to peers to act and help. What inspired me were live action directors with strong, individual styles: Orson Welles, Stanley Kubrick, Peter Greenaway and Terry Gilliam. I think of these guys in essence as “live-action-animation directors”. The stylization in their sequence planning, shot selection and composition as well as how production design integrates in their storytelling reminds me of how background design and art direction naturally occur in animation production.  

I’m sure there are new visionaries out there, but I’ve become so disenchanted with modern cinema, I rarely see new movies anymore. I find streaming TV much more interesting. Current movies strike me as self-consciously mannered and hyperactive. I find it endlessly fascinating looking back into cinema history before movies had to begin with three or four production company logos whooshing noisily about.

What advice would you give to people looking to break into the animation industry?

I’ve seen an improvement in the college educated animation students over the years. They seem to be of a higher intellectual standard than before. They aren’t as thrown by the rigors of schedule and they ALL can draw circles around me.  

Be original in your own work, but also be a craftsman (as opposed to purely an artist) who can take criticism neutrally and have the tools to fit in the grand scheme of a show that might challenge your personal aesthetics.  

Denis Sanders, a directing teacher I had in college said the director’s job is to be “an expert at all things”. In animation, that translates into intellegently knowing what to draw. If a character is looking under the hood of a car, know what an internal combustion engine looks like and what reasonable pieces you can have your character toss out of said engine. The distributor, the carburettor. Find and use reference! Go that extra step and inform your work with the texture of reality.

Don’t regurgitate old tropes. A trite example of what I’m talking about: If a character is peeking at another, avoid the obvious keyhole in the door trope. Keyholes aren’t in doors anymore. It’s been a cliche from the beginning of cinema. Rather, crack the door open, slide your cellphone under the door, look through a window or punch a hole in the door and look in. Like I said, this is a trite example, but making non-obvious choices rather than knee-jerk non-choices makes cartoons fresh and funnier.

What animated shows do you currently watch and what’s your opinion on the current state of animation?

It’s a terrible admission, but I’m not watching anything in animation. There’s a lot of animation that seems to be just writer-driven, animated live-action sit-coms. There isn’t a reason for them to be animated. Those are the kind of jobs I get offered a lot. It seems like a more trouble than it’s worth.

Who are some young animators you think we should be looking out for?

Gosh, I don’t know.

What projects are you currently working on?

I’m productively unemployed at the moment.

Where can people follow you on social media?

I only do tumblr: mashymilkiesinc.tumblr.com

[lofitowns]

a miracle and a tragedy - e. kaspbrak

❝ HE HAD THOSE KIND EYES THAT SAID ‘EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY’ ❞

in which you love him and he loves you. but that can’t save him. (fem! reader)

             fandom ; it (2017) / (2019)

            word count ; 4411 (it’s a long one boys)

            warnings ; cussing + character death :(

             (y/n) - your name :: (y/n/n) - your nickname

i haven’t written in forever! so here’s a little come back. if you see any mistakes, please tell me! i didn’t really reread this after i wrote it lol

     you love him, you do.

     You were 15 years old when you realized you were in love.

     1991

     You were sitting on your bed, paper and pens and pencils spread all over. You were seriously stressed out. Your freshman year was coming to a close and finals were starting next week and you had no idea what you were doing. 

     It was a Saturday, you should be hanging out with the losers but your dad had told you if you didn’t get good grades on these finals, you wouldn’t be able to hang out with them at all over the summer.

     You checked your bedroom clock, it was only 2pm. Your dad wanted you to study until at least 4pm. This was exhausting. 

     There was a sudden tapping on your window making you turn your attention to that. There was Eddie Kaspbrak. Thank god your room was on the first floor. He definitely wouldn’t have been able to get up if it was on the second.

     You raised an eyebrow at him as he waved through the window. You laughed at his big grin as you made your way over to open it.

     “Hey! Can I come in?” He asked, looking up at you.

     “Eds, you know my dad wants me to study.”

     “Yeah, well, I can be your study buddy! We have some of the same classes, I can help.”

     You debated it for a few seconds before finally taking the screen off and letting him in. 

     He climbed inside, almost falling to the floor, but you caught him. 

     “You’ve gotta be quiet though, my parents are just down the hall.”

      You studied in mostly silence for a while, every so often you would look up to ask him a question and he would already be looking at you. This made you blush.

      “God, Eddie. I’m so stressed out about this. What if I fail all of them and then I can’t see you guys over the summer?”

     “Okay, first off, you’re literally the smartest person in our friend group. You’re definitely going to pass. Secondly, even if you do fail, I’m going to come visit you every single day. And I’ll bring all your favorite stuff and movies and I’ll hide when your parents come to check on you. How about that?” 

     A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as the boy spoke. You felt like you might cry. No one had ever said anything like that to you before. 

     “Yeah, that sounds great.”

     That’s when you knew you were in too deep with this boy.

     and here’s the miracle: he loves you too.

     He was 13 years old when he realized he was in love.

     1989

     “I can’t go home like this guys. My mom will kill me.” The small boy, Eddie Kaspbrak, said with a face covered in grime. 

     “Dude, you’ve been gone for 24 straight hours. Your face is definitely on a milk carton by now,” Richie joked making Eddie’s face fall in terror, “Also, that puke smells worse than your mom’s slippers.”

     “Oh, shut up, Richie,” You interjected, Eddie noticed you were gripping the handlebars of your bike to the point your knuckles were white.

     “Okay, first of all, my mom’s slippers smell like potpourri, asshole,” Eddie retorted as everyone started to wheel their bikes down the main street of Derry.

     You all started joking, just like normal. Like you hadn’t just crawled out of the sewer after fighting a child-eating clown.

     Everyone started going their separate ways, going to their respective houses, until Eddie was left alone with you. Your house was just around the corner from his so it wasn’t unusual for you to walk home together. But, Eddie felt different this time. He wanted to make sure you got home safe and you were okay.

     Your words interrupted his thoughts, “Do you want to come to my house? To clean up so your mom doesn’t freak out even more,” You offered, keeping your eyes on the bike wheel you were guiding next to you.

     Eddie’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally answered, “Yeah, sure.”

     When you arrived at your house, you checked to see if your parent’s car was in the garage before dropping your bikes in the front lawn. Eddie watched you move the small cat statue on the first step of your house to grab your spare key. You unlocked the door and led him up to your bathroom, grabbing a towel from the hall closet on your way.

     Eddie sat on the seat of the toilet, following you across the room with his eyes as you turned on the tab, trying to get the temperature right, before wetting the towel and putting soap on it. 

     You made your way back over to him, kneeling down. When you started scrubbing his face, his breath hitched in his throat. He kept his eyes on you as you continued your work, focused. You also reached up and tried to get some of the puke out of his hair.

     “Sorry, I don’t think I can do anything about the smell. Or your clothes. You’ll have to go home for that,” You told him, turning around to get some of the grime off the towel. You also grabbed a few bandaids and another washcloth with soap and water to clean his smaller cuts. Good thing he didn’t have any major wounds, not like Stanley.

     Eddie’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. Not because of an asthma attack, not because he had just fought a killer clown, because the girl he liked was sitting so close to him. If he just leaned in... 

     The brunette boy cleared his throat, averting his eyes away from you.

     When you announced you were done, Eddie quickly asked if you wanted him to help clean yourself up. He wanted to stay here with you longer. He knew his mother wouldn’t let him out of the house until school started, even if he just said he was at Bill’s and fell into a puddle or something.

     “It’s fine, Eds. Go make sure your mom knows you’re alive so she doesn’t actually put your face on a milk carton,” You joked, sending him a weak smile.

     Eddie let out a small chuckle, his eyes trained on you. You let out a small awkward laugh, reaching up to rub the side of your neck. He saw you open your mouth to say something, but he just moved forward and took you in his arms.

     “Hey, you’ll get dirty again,” You pointed out playfully, but none the less, hugged him back.

     Eddie could have stayed there forever. He didn’t even care that you both smelled like sewer or that his mom was probably freaking out. He didn’t know what he would do if something had happened to you.

     He slowly pulled away, looking at your face. You were looking at him too.

     “I’ll see you later, yeah?” You asked, smiling softly at him.

     “Yeah, of course.”

     Eddie walked past you, walking back out your front door. Once it was closed, he let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. God, he was in love with you.

     you are allowed to have him.

     1992

     It was Christmas break. There were still three days until Christmas but Bev was leaving to see family in Portland tomorrow and you all wanted to give each other presents.

    You were squished between Richie and Eddie on the plush couch in your living room, watching A Christmas Story. Ben, Bev, and Bill sat on the floor in front of you, if you looked close enough, you could see her pinkie finger resting on Ben’s hand. Stanley was sitting on the chair next to the lit fireplace but was still curled up under a blanket. Mike sat in the chair on the other side of the couch, resting his head on his hand.

    You shivered, causing Eddie to switch his attention to you.

    “Are you cold?” He whispered as to not disturb the others.

    You nodded and in response. He turned around and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch. He leaned over and spread it over the two of you. You sent him a grateful smile, your heart starting to flutter as he hesitantly laid his hand on yours under the blanket.

    You had had a crush on the boy since you started middle school. He had always been there for you, especially after everything had happened with Pennywise. His laugh was like music to your ears and you always wanted to keep a smile on his face.

    Your eyes kept switching from the TV screen back to Eddie, from the TV to Eddie. Your eyes finally decided to stay on the boy next to you. You felt like you hadn’t taken a good look at him in a while. His hair had started to curl more and it lightened a bit. He had grown too, you remember being at least four inches taller than him, but all of a sudden he shot up. He had stopped carrying around that dorky fanny pack when you started high school.

    He turned his eyes to you, meeting your gaze. He moved ever so slightly to be closer to you, fulling wrapping his fingers around your hand.

    The movie ended soon after and it was time for gifts. All of you moved to sit on the floor in a circle. You had done Secret Santa this year so you all didn’t have to buy seven different presents.

    “Okay, I’ll start. I got Bill,” You announced, leaning over to him to hand him a rectangular parcel. He took it and quickly ripped the wrapping paper off. Inside was a blank sketchbook and a packet of colored pencils.

    “T-Thanks, (y/n),” He sent you a warm smile, “I had M-Mike.”

    Mike had Ben, Ben had Stan, Stan had Bev, Bev had Richie, and Richie had Eddie.

    “And that means, Eddie had (y/n)!” Richie teased, nudging Eddie in the side with his elbow.

    “Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna give it to her later,” Eddie retorted, a flush coming to his cheeks.

    A shit-eating grin grew on Richie’s face, “Oh I bet you are Eds.”

    Eddie groaned, putting his face in his hands while the rest of the losers club laughed at him.

    “Beep beep, Richie. And I told you not to call me that.”

     “But (y/n) can call you that? Suspicious.”

    It took a few more hours for the losers to start to leave. Richie tried to stay until Eddie gave you your present, but Bev made him leave, already knowing what you were getting. Eddie had asked her what he should get you since the two of you were so close.

    “Alright, what’s this thing you couldn’t give me in front of the losers?” You asked, pulling him down to sit on the couch facing each other. 

     Eddie chewed his lip nervously, holding the wrapped rectangle in his hands. 

     “Okay, please don’t laugh.”

     “Of course I’m not going to laugh, Eds.”

     He took a deep breath, pushing it across the couch cushion to you. You took it in your hands, taking the wrapping off of it. 

     It was a small brown book. 

     You furrowed your eyebrows, looking up at him. Eddie made a gesture to open it, so you did. It took your breath away.

     Inside were pages filled with pictures, notes, movie tickets from different times in your life with the losers. You let out a breathy laugh, smiling brightly as you flipped through it.

     “Oh my god, Eddie. This... This is beautiful,” You told him, setting the book aside and reaching over to take him in your arms. He wrapped his arms around you in return, resting his head on your shoulder.

     “Well, I’m glad you like it,” His words were muffled by your shirt, “You... You didn’t look at the last page though.”

     You pulled away, reaching over to open the book again. You flipped all the way to the back, seeing a picture of Eddie and yourself that was obviously taken by one of the other losers. You were sitting together on someone's couch, your head was on his shoulder and he had his eyes trained on you, a genuine smile on his face.

     Your eyes moved to a small patch of writing under the picture.

     Do you like me back?

          yes          no

     You let out a small giggle, reaching to the table next to the couch to grab a pen. You circled yes, closed the book, and pushed it back over to him.

     The tips of Eddie’s ears turned red as he opened to the back of the book. A smile pulled at his lips, passing it back to you.

     “Okay, well... Would you want to... Like, be my girlfriend?”

      You let out another giggle, leaning over to him and pressing a short kiss to his cheek. 

     “Of course, Eds.”

--

     Two and a half years later, you were all packed up for college and leaving in the morning. You had spent the whole night before with your friends, knowing it was going to be the last time you saw them for a while. 

     You walked back into your room from washing your face, looking around your near-empty room. You jumped at a sudden knock on your window.

     Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned around. A laugh fell from your lips, rushing over to the window to open it. Eddie’s grinning face there to greet you.

     “For old times sake, right?”

     Eddie climbed through the window and followed you to your bed. You both laid on top of the blankets, Eddie wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you to him.

     Neither of you spoke for a while, just wanting to cherish each other’s presence for the last time. 

     “I’m gonna miss you,” You spoke up, breaking the silence.

     “I’m going to miss you so much more,” He answered, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “And after we graduate college, we’ll go away somewhere. New York, California, I’d go anywhere with you.”

     You giggled, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips, “I’d like that.”

     You stayed like that until the sun started to rise. 

     “Shit,” The boy whispered, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, “I really need to get home.”

     You nodded, getting up with him, “Eddie,” You called softly as he walked to the window.

     He turned around as you walked towards him and planted your lips onto his.

     Your hands cupped his cheeks, his right hand going to your hip and his left going to your cheek as well. The kiss didn’t last long enough for your liking when he pulled away.

     “I love you,” He whispered.

     “I love you.”

     As he crawled out the window, you didn’t realize it would be the last time you saw him for 22 years.

     and here’s the tragedy: it’s not enough.

     2016

     The lights of Jade of the Orient shined down on you as you worked up the courage to walk in.

     It still baffled you how you could forget your whole childhood. Where you came from, your friends, your experiences. Eddie.

     When you did push the door open, a young lady greeted you and brought you to a room towards the back. When walked in, there were already two men standing there. 

     “(y/n)?” One of them asked, stepping towards you. Bill.

     “I’m so glad you made it,” The other greeted, taking you into his arms. Mike.

     You let out a laugh, hugging him back. “Yeah, of course I came.” You broke away from him and pulled Bill into a hug as well.

     Mike opened his mouth to speak when you all heard a voice behind you. You all turned around.

     “I am allergic to soy, anything that has egg in it, uh gluten, and if I eat a cashew I could realistically die,” The man told the waitress, making his way into the room. 

     He paused when he saw the three of you. 

     “Holy shit.” 

     “Good to see you too, Eds,” You greeted, quickly walking to him and taking him in your arms. He immediately pulled you closer. It felt warm and safe and like home.

     “(y/n/n)?” He whispered in your hair.

     You pulled away from him, giving him a warm smile.

     Bill and Mike moved towards the two of you to give Eddie a hug as well. You made small talk while you waited for the others.

     When they did get there, everything felt right. Richie hit the gong and announced the beginning of the meeting of the Losers Club.

     “Look at these guys!” Eddie exclaimed, pointing at Beverly, Ben, and Richie.

      Then you got drunk.

     “So, wait, Eddie, you got married?” Richie asked, his shot glass falling out of his mouth. You were sitting in between him and Eddie

     “Yeah, why’s that so fucking funny, dickwad?”

     “What, to like a woman?”

     “Fuck you, bro.”

     “Fuck you!”

     You let out a laugh, nudging Richie in the side with your elbow.

     “And what about you, Trashmouth, you married?” Bill asked, leaning forwards.

     “There’s no way Richie’s married!” You joked, holding your glass up to your lips.

     “No, I got married,” He answered, looking serious.

     “Richie, I don’t believe it,” Beverly retorted, eating a piece of chicken.

     “When?” Eddie exclaimed, eyebrows raised.

      “You didn’t hear about this?”

     “No.”

     “You didn’t know I got married? Yeah, no, me and your mom are very, very happy.”

     Everyone around the table lost it, Bill choking on his drink and Beverly letting out a loud laugh and covering her mouth. You threw your head back in laughter, glancing over at Eddie who’s eyebrows were furrowed.

     “Fuck you,” He pointed at Richie, taking a sip from the small bowl he was holding.

      Richie wrapped an arm around your shoulders and leaned into your ear, starting to do a Jabba the Hutt impression. 

     You laughed and pushed him off, “Oh, leave him alone, Richie.”

     While everyone was joking and laughing, Eddie turned to you. 

     “So, did you ever get married?” He asked, taking a sip of his drink.

     You shook your head, “No, I just... Never met the right person, I guess,” You shrugged your shoulders.

     Eddie nodded slowly, “Right. What do you do?” 

     “I actually work as a psychologist. I like being able to help people.”

     “You were always the best listener,” He told you, making you giggle.

     “So, you two are still in love,” Richie cut in, looking at the two of you.

     Both of your faces flushed before you spoke, “Beep beep Richie.”

--

     That night, you sat on your bed, blankly staring at the TV screen, it wasn’t even on. You kept seeing flashes of your younger self in your mind. A lot of them with a younger version of Eddie.

     You jumped at the sudden knock on your door. Your eyes turned to the clock on the nightstand, 11:53pm.

     You hesitantly walked over to it, cracking it open. There stood Eddie, looking at the floor. You opened the door fully.

     He looked up at you, opening his mouth to say something but nothing came out. 

     “You wanna come in?”

     He simply nodded, following you inside and closing the door behind him.

     You both sat on the end of the bed where you had been moments before.

     “Do you... Do you remember?” He finally broke the silence.

     You nodded, getting the hint at what he was saying, and he set a hand on top of yours.  

     “I still love you. I know I didn’t even remember you until a couple days ago but I don’t want to go anywhere without you again,” Eddie confessed, turning to face you fully.

     “Eds, you’re married.”

     “Fuck her. I don’t love her, not like I love you. She’s basically my mother and I would leave her in a heartbeat for you.”

     A smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “ Okay.”

     Eddie grinned, moving his hands to cup your cheeks, pulling you into another kiss.

     you are allowed to count the constellations in his eyes as they blink out,

     The house on Neibolt looked the same as you walked inside. The sewers felt the same too. 

     You emerged from a cave after escaping your fear. You were shaken but you knew your work was not done.

     “Hey, fuckface!” You heard Richie yell from across the room. Pennywise dropped Mike who he was holding and turned to your trash mouth friend.

     “Wanna play truth or dare? Here’s a truth, you’re a sloppy bitch! Yeah, that’s right! Let’s dance, yippee ki-yay mother-” He was cut off when Pennywise opened his mouth, showing him the deadlights. 

     A sound of distress fell from your lips as you saw one of your best friends rising into the air. You scrambled to get down from where you were standing when you saw Eddie run out of the cave behind Richie.

     “Beep beep, mother fucker!” He yelled, throwing the spike he had been given at the clown. 

     It went straight in his mouth. You couldn’t look away as Pennywise stumbled back, landing on another spike that went through his back. You let out a shaky breath, turning your gaze back to Richie and Eddie. 

     “Holy shit! Rich!” Eddie exclaimed, turning back to the man on the floor. “Hey, Richie! Listen, I think I got him, man! I think I killed it! I did! I think I killed-” He was cut off. A scream passed your lips and everything felt like it was going in slow motion.

     Pennywise stabbed Eddie through his back with one of his claws. He pulled him off of Richie and dangled him in the air, making taunting noises. A sob left your lips as tears started to fill your eyes. 

     With blurry vision, you watched the clown throw him into a cave and you had never run faster anywhere in your life. You slid down into the cave, your hands shaking as you helped Mike and Ben flip him onto his back. 

     Blood was pooling from his mouth and there was a gaping hole through his chest. You knelt in front of him, Richie shrugging off his jacket and handing it to you. You pressed it against his wound. 

     Pennywise clawed at the entrance, shouting at the seven of you.

     “We have to get him out of here,” You pleaded, brushing some of his hair from his face.

     “How are we supposed to do that, (y/n)?” Beverly asked, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

     “I almost killed it,” Eddie said weakly, “The leper. My hands were at its throat. And I... Could feel him choking. I made him small. He seemed so weak.”

     Mike and Beverly started making a plan when Ben came back and told you all there was a tunnel. The next minutes were a blur as you helped carry Eddie to a sheltered area while the other losers went to distract Pennywise.

     “Oh my god, Eds,” You whispered, pulling the jacket back to look at his wound. 

     “It’s alright, I guess you’ll just have to clean me up again,” He spoke, referencing the time you did when you were younger and when Henry Bowers stabbed him in the face earlier that day.

     You let out a watery laugh, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

     “You gotta stay with me, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? And we’ll go away like we said we would. I’d go anywhere with you.”

     Eddie tried to smile, his lips completely covered in blood. 

     “I’d... I’d like that...” His voice trailed off and you let out a loud sob. 

     No, no no no no. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. You had just gotten him back and he was going to be gone again.

     “Eddie?” Your voice broke. He stilled but you could still hear shallow breaths. You needed to help your friends.

     Your pain mixed with your anger as you looked over to where the losers had cornered Pennywise. You shot up, running over to them and ripping off the spiked arm the clown was trying to use to stab your friends. 

     The six of you circled around the monster that had tormented you, calling him a clown. Making him small.

     Pennywise’s breaths were labored but he still brought out one more jump scare as Mike got closer to him. Your friend reached into the clown’s chest, pulling out his heart as he screamed.

     Beverly grabbed onto the heart first and the rest of you followed.

     “Look at you, you’re all grown up.”

     You all squeezed, watching him shrivel up and everything started floating up.

     It was finally dead.

     You let out a breath as Beverly leaned onto your shoulder.

     “Eddie,” You broke the silence, turning around and returning to his body.

     The rest of the losers followed you as you knelt in front of him, taking his face in your hand.

     “Eddie, hey Eds. We got it,” You whispered and when he didn’t respond, your heart shattered. 

     You heard Beverly let out a sob behind you, “(y/n)...”

     “He’s gone,” Bill spoke.

     “He’s alright, he’s just hurt. We gotta get him out of here,” You argued, turning to look at your crying friends.

     “(y/n), honey... He’s dead.”

     You turned to look at Bev, you knew. Of course, you knew. You didn’t want it to be true.

     “We have to go, come on.”

     You took the man you loved in your arms while Bill and Richie tried to get you to stand up. You cradled his head in your hands, crying in protest as they started to drag you away from his body.

     The six of you rushed out of the sewers, out of Neibolt house, as it was collapsing around you. You almost tripped from rushing down the stairs, Richie’s hand still on your arm to keep you going.

     As you watched the house crumble, you pulled against him, making Ben grab your other arm. 

     “He wouldn’t want to die in there,” You sobbed, finally collapsing from exhaustion into Richie’s arms. The man kept you standing, holding you and rubbing his hand over your hair as you cried.

    You were 40 years old when you realized you had lost your love.

     but you are not allowed to save him. 

thank you for reading :) have a good day!

[panda-noosh]

One and the Same {Klaus x Reader}

  Words: 5.6k 

  Summary: Klaus Hargreeves goes back to rehab. 

  Genre: angst

  Warning: mentions of murder - mentions of drug abuse - mentions of withdrawal - mentions of injections 

  Notes: klaaaaaaaaaus. 

tagging: @purplemetahuman   

  ---

      Reginald Hargreeves was dead.

   The news arrived early in the morning, your trembling body startling itself awake at the crack of dawn, as it did almost every day. With your teeth chattering and your arms aching, legs barely lifting from the floor, you trotted downstairs to the living area, switched on the TV, and that was when his face appeared in front of you.

   You had never met the man. In fact, you had actively avoided him for the entirety of your existence. In some ways, his death should have been a relief for you, a chance for you to finally live the life you wanted without the fear of him lingering behind you.

   But that relief wasn't there.

   Maybe it was because you had spent so long just looking at him; part of you felt like you were experiencing a death in the family, even though claiming Reginald Hargreeves as a member of your family was the last thing you would ever want to do; he was a criminal at best, deserving of his untimely end at worst.

    But still. There was that tight ache in your chest, not so much grief as it was a sense of disbelief. A man you had never met, a man who barely even knew you existed – and yet there you sat, gawking at the TV with your teeth chattering and your muscles heavy, barely able to believe what it was you were hearing.

   Klaus arrived at the rehab centre not a few weeks after the news had broke, and seeing him there was enough to make your head spin even worse than it did on a daily basis. He walked through the doors with that happy smile on his face, waving and complimenting the shocked expressions that greeted him when he walked in the door, because he wasn't exactly an expected sight; everybody knew of him, especially now that Reginald was dead.

   “That's him from the Umbrella Academy,” they would whisper every time he walked past. “Don't mess with him.”

   You rolled your eyes and turned away.

   It could have been you. That petty, childish mindset was all you could focus on when you saw him, because the truth was there – it could have been you. You could have been the one getting praised, the one that was feared, the one that was unbothered by anybody or anything because you knew you could take them on if you wanted, and they knew it too.

   Because despite what the news liked to portray, it wasn't just the seven Hargreeves children who had been born on that day in 1989 – there had been 43 of them, and you were unlucky enough to be included in that count.

    ---

    The day Klaus Hargreeves arrived at the rehab centre, you ignored him entirely.

    It wasn't out of pettiness, wasn't out of fear – it was purely to keep yourself safe, and your identity hidden from him for as long as possible. Quite frankly, you saw absolutely no reason as to why you should introduce yourself to him, but word got around. Word always got around. Names were shared, and people spoke about you even when you didn't want them to – eventually, Klaus was aware of who you were, and he didn't keep his curiosity a secret when it came to wanting to meet you.

   He was always bold, and you knew that. You had seen the news coverage on him, the little clips of him and his siblings stopping a bank robbery or saving some terrified hostages; he was always the one who was throwing himself about, doing the most to keep the attention on him.

   Clearly, things hadn't changed as he grew older. In fact, looking at him from across the room now, you concluded that things had gotten worse long before they had gotten better.

   “Where's this Y/N character you were talking to me about?” he asked, parading into the living room with good old Sebastian at his side; Sebastian was a recovering drug addict, and spent his down-time talking about everyone he could think about.

    He pointed at you, and you quickly ducked your head down when Klaus turned to follow the direction he was indicating; it was much too late, however, as Klaus had already seen you. It wasn't difficult, considering you were sat on your own in the corner. There was nobody else to decipher from.

   His footsteps were loud and clumsy. You didn't even look up, simply biting down on your bottom lip, rubbing the injection scars that trailed along your veins. Klaus waited patiently before realising you weren't going to give him the time of day unless he started the conversation.

    “You must be Y/N. I've heard an awful lot about you.”

   You glanced up. “Is that right? Good things?”

  “Decent things,” he said, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “Also some absurd things that I'm quite curious about.”

   You couldn't disguise the wince, hands tensing on the cover of the book you were trying to read. “Is that right?”

  “Is that your catchphrase? I heard superheroes always had catchphrases, but I don't think I ever caught on to that trend.”

   “I'm not a superhero.”

  He lowered himself to the ground in front of you, crossing his legs before idly playing with the Velcro on your shoes. “So you're one of the lucky bastards who got away from Mr Reginald Hargreeves back in 1989. You must think me and my siblings are total idiots for letting ourselves get whisked away by him.”

   “You were children.”

  Klaus raised a brow. His dilated eyes widened a little bit. “You're not denying the first part of my statement, which-” He clapped his hands excitedly. “-totally confirms my suspicions!”

   “Could you keep your mouth shut?” you hissed, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him back. He laughed, throwing his head back wildly as he caught himself. His elbows bent in on themselves, giving you a good view of the injection scars that littered his own flesh – self consciously, you rubbed a finger over your own, trying not to let your brain retreat back into the disaster you had been trying to wrestle it from for the past three weeks.

   “This is incredible!” he exclaimed, looking back up at you. He was grinning much too widely for someone currently locked within a rehabilitation centre. The expression looked odd against the light blue walls. “I've never met anyone else like me – I was pretty sure the others killed themselves.” He shook his head, still grinning. “And by the looks of things, you weren't far off doing the same thing.”

   You gaped. “You have some nerve.”

   “I still don't know what your abilities are, so I don't know what you want me to be afraid of.” He leaned forward, perched his chin on his hand and stared up at you like a child might stare up at their teacher reading a story. “Why don't you give me a quick demonstration so I can-”

  You were working before he had even finished his sentence; the anger was uncontrollable, and with the state you had been in these past couple of weeks, your abilities were near enough uncontrollable, too. They flared up, a pain dancing behind your eyes that transcended from your skull and fought its way over to Klaus.

   His own eyes popped open, a cry escaping him before he fell onto his back, gripping his stomach.

   You stopped before things could get too far, but didn't let yourself regret what had just happened. Instead, you stood up, folded your arms over your chest and said, “There. Is that what you wanted to know?”

   Klaus started to laugh, still gripping his stomach as his breath came back to him. He looked up at you, amusement still glinting in his brown eyes. “That was exactly what I wanted to know.”

   ---

   “I don't like talking about it. I'm not like you – I didn't have to flaunt it because my dad told me to. I had the choice.”

   Klaus scoffed. “I don't know whether to take that as an insult or not.”

  You shrugged, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your trousers. The sun was out today, shining against the still water of the tiny lake that the psychiatrists and the doctors tried to make you look at at least once a day – apparently nature helped with 'mental balance' though it had been three weeks and you were yet to see any results.

   Klaus was by your side. You weren't entirely sure why. He had done nothing but torment you from the moment you had met, and yet you found his company oddly reassuring. There was something about talking to someone who understood that opened up a whole new world of possibilities, a whole new range of colour that life let you choose from.

   Klaus may not have the brightest colours, but they were a change you were willing to embrace.

    “I'm sorry about your loss, by the way,” you said.

   “Loss?” Klaus popped out his bottom lip, feigning ignorance. “I haven't suffered a loss. Not unless you count the MDMA they took off me at the door.”

    “Your father. He died, didn't he?”

   Klaus clicked as if only just now remembering the death of the man who had raised him. “Oh yeah, that! No, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Quite frankly, I think the ground is too good for him.”

   You cringed; you should have expected that response, and yet it still sent a shiver down your spine. You loved your father. Had loved your father, once upon a time. Before things went bad, before your control slipped, followed shortly by your mental stability.

   You pushed the thought from your mind, turned to Klaus and inspected his own expression. It was more a way of getting yourself grounded again; the curve of his jaw, the goatee he was sporting, the rough waves of his hair that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. There was still dabs of sweat adorning the side of his head, but you knew for a fact that that was just a staple characteristic of someone who had done drugs.

    “No,” Klaus said, a little quieter this time. “You definitely shouldn't feel sorry for me. Him dying is . . . Well, I don't want to say a good thing, because that's a bit cynical, isn't it? And I'm clearly not celebrating, considering I came all the way here for his funeral, but . . . . No. Being sorry for me definitely isn't right.”

    “It's weird though, isn't it?” You picked up a rock and awkwardly lobbed it into the lake, ignoring the startled quack from the duck you nearly hit. “Even if you hated him, you have to admit that losing a parent isn't . . . it isn't right. It feels weird.”

   Klaus pursed his lips. He was yet to look at you, his eyes trained firmly on the lake in front of him. You saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his cheekbones sucked in before he released them and shrugged heavily. “I think I was a bit too high to really feel anything at all when I got the news, and the shock has passed at this point.”

    “Yeah,” you said. “I get that.”

    “I noticed.” Klaus finally looked down, nodding towards your exposed arms. It was instinct to fold them over your chest, hiding the scars that adorned your wrist from years of hateful injections. “Are those from drugs or from other people's experiments?”

   You shivered. “Both.”

  “Did they ever find anything out?”

   “Most of them just called me a monster and sent me on my merry way. Others, I'm still waiting on the results.”

   A ghost of a smile played upon Klaus's lips. He looked back at you and shrugged as if to say that's just the way of life, isn't it? and you could only shrug back. It was a silent agreement between you both, though you couldn't quite pinpoint what you were agreeing on – the fact that life was a bitch? The fact that it sometimes felt as if nothing was ever going to change? For Klaus, it had to have been ten times worse. He was in the public eye throughout the entirety of his childhood, was one of the biggest names around at one point. At least you had been given the choice to hide it, despite the few odd souls who had found out about your abilities and used them to their advantage.

   Used you to their advantage.

   “Have you spoken to your siblings since all of it happened?” you asked, needing something to fill the silence. Silence led to thinking, and that was the last thing you needed right now. It was the last thing you needed all the time.

   “I have,” Klaus replied. “Just the usual arguments and insults and accusations – nothing I missed, to be honest. Although my brother Luther is built like a brick house now, which surprised me.”

  “Luther. He's got the strength, hasn't he?”

  “And the muscle to prove it, apparently.” Klaus shook his head, looking back down at his own arms. “God, I could go for a drink right now.”

   “I don't think they'll let you do that.”

   Klaus pouted. “That's where this whole thing is unfair. I had a drug problem, not a drinking problem – the least they could do is let me have a whiskey to calm my nerves.”

   “Do you actually know how rehab works?”

   Klaus snorted, glancing up at you. “Did you really just ask that?” As if to exaggerate his point, he unfolded his arms and showed you his scarring. “I really know how rehab works.”

  You pushed his arms away. “Alright, you made your point.”

  “Good.” He sighed, leaned back on the grass and ducked his head back to look up at the passing clouds. “It stopped the voices.”

   You started, head snapping round to look at him. “What?”

  “Drugs. Alcohol. Men. Women.” He shrugged, rolling his head to look back at you. “It made it all a bit easier, you know. It was the only thing that stopped me from losing it.” He scowled. “Although some people would argue that they didn't exactly do their job.”

     “I don't think you're crazy. I think you're the same as me.”

   “Very bold of you, Y/N. Maybe we're both crazy.”

    You hummed low in your throat, slowly looking back out towards the lake. “Maybe.”    ---

    Some days were a lot worse than others.

   The bad days you tried to avoid for obvious reasons, despite the advice of your psychiatrist. She always told you that it was better to let the bad days come, to welcome them with open arms because somehow, they could balance it all out. They were a confirmation that you could still feel things.

   She didn't listen whenever you told her that you didn't want to feel things.

   A bad day was detrimental. You locked yourself in your room, curled up in a corner until people got the memo – you didn't want to talk, didn't want to socialise, didn't want to do anything, and if they tried to get in the way of that, you would have absolutely no qualms about putting them in their place.

   You leaned your head back against the window now, inhaling deeply as the trembles overtook your body. You had taken your first drug purely to rid yourself of feeling, of emotions. After your father had died, things hadn't been easy, and the only thing that shed light on the end of the tunnel was the drugs you would gather in your veins.

     You wanted them now, needed them now as the voices echoed in your skull and the dull throb of withdrawal and your abilities thumped through your body. You clenched your teeth, squeezed your eyes closed, resisted the urge to scream-

    “You can't get away from me that easily, Y/N L/N. I have eyes on the back of my head. They might not be my own, but they're there.”

   Your own eyes snapped open, a weak cry of surprise slipping from your dried lips. Klaus, of course, was stood over you with his skinny arms folded over his chest and his hair slicked back in a half-up half-down style. He was grinning from ear to ear, despite the tremble of his own hands that had not turned off since he arrived.

   “Go away,” you groaned, curling in on yourself and turning away from him. “I don't have the brain power to listen to you today.”

   Klaus did the exact opposite, instead sitting beside you with his legs crossed. “Care to explain what's going on in that sweet little brain of yours?”

  “Sorry. It's confidential.”

    “Like most of your thoughts, it seems.”

   “Not all of us are willing to be open books, Klaus.”

   “Not all of you were forced to be open books,” he shot back, and you immediately closed your mouth and looked away – he had a point. You had the luxury of choosing who knew your business, whereas Klaus had long since passed that option considering his entire childhood had been broadcast for the world to gouge as they pleased.

    “So,” he continued, leaning forward. “Are you gonna talk?”

   You didn't even know where to start. Klaus reached forward and started playing with your shoes again, waiting patiently for you to start talking.

    “I'm thinking of my dad again,” you said at last. Klaus did not respond to such a simple statement, and so you pushed on. “I used to . . . Whenever I thought of my dad, I used to shoot up so my brain would go all fuzzy and the thoughts would go away, but I obviously can't do that now. Whenever I think of my dad, I think about drugs, and whenever I think about drugs...”

    “You get sick again,” Klaus finished.

    “It's fine. It'll pass eventually.”

    “Is your dad dead?”

   The question startled you, made your stomach curl in on itself with the reality thrown behind the words. You looked up and met his eyes – he was staring right back at you, and despite the heaviness of the conversation, he still had that tiny little glint of amusement that overpowered every other expression he could have worn in that moment.

    “Yeah,” you croaked out. “Yeah, he is.”

   “How did he die?”

   “Why do you care?”

   He shrugged, letting go of your shoes and leaning back. “Maybe talking about him will help a little bit.”

   Help. As if anyone could help you.

   Nonetheless, you settled back against the corner you were propped up against and spoke the three words that still managed to make bile rise in your throat. “I killed him.”

   Klaus was silent for only a second before he swallowed and said, “I wasn't expecting that.”

   “Nobody ever is,” you replied. “It's a long story.”

   “Good thing we're in rehab and have all the time in the world to waste.”  You pursed your lips. “You know what my abilities are. I can hurt people without even touching them. I can control it better now because I understand it, and I know my body well enough to know when it's about to erupt. But back then, I didn't have a clue how to work it. It was so overwhelming, and every time someone got on my nerves, I would just – I would nearly kill them. My dad was the only one who ever knew how to stop me from losing control.

   “But then it was him I was getting angry at. My mother had left because she couldn't handle me – she still never saw me as her kid, because she didn't know where I had come from. She wasn't-”

   “Wasn't pregnant the day you were born,” Klaus hummed, nodding. “It was the same for me.”

   You nodded slowly. “She just saw me as a burden, so she left. She lasted a good ten years, I'll give her that, but it got too much for her and she left me with my dad – her boyfriend. He took care of me. He calmed me down until things started getting difficult again.

    “I started overthinking my mothers departure, and I got so angry at everyone and everything. My dad tried to calm me down one day whenever I had trashed the living room, and I just turned on him and snapped. He didn't even have time to scream before his pulse went stiff and he fell to the floor.”

   You winced, biting down on your lower lip, raking your nails up and down your arms in any attempt to get the memory out of your head.

   You expected Klaus to say something. Anybody else would have. They always had something to say, some disgusted noise to make and some unwelcome opinion to share; some people called you a monster, whilst others made the usual comment of, “And this is what happens when someone has power they can't tame.”

   But Klaus said nothing along those lines. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his goatee-covered chin on top of them, looking at the ground with his lower lip protruded. He looked almost casual, as if the story you had just told him was some pleasant fairytale made to lull children to sleep.

    You nudged him with your foot. “Say something.”

   He shrugged heavily. “I don't know what you want me to say. Well done?”

   “What?”

   “How long ago did all of that happen?”

   “I was . . . . I was ten, I think. Around ten.” In truth, you knew exactly how old you had been. Ten and eleven months. You remembered because your father had been planning your birthday party a month in advance, insisting that you get a decent party in comparison to the previous year – he had been working and had been unable to wish you a decent happy birthday.

    “Let's see here,” Klaus said. “When I was ten, I had already become numb to the sight of dead bodies, I was being locked in a cellar with a bunch of corpses every weekend, and I had already killed too many people to keep track of.” He looked at you, raising a brow. “I don't have any judgement to pass, I'm afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

   You gawked at him, heart thundering in your chest. It wasn't because of any particular reason – not one you were willing to admit, but Klaus always managed to make you feel like that. Having spent the majority of your life being so different, being labelled the freak just because of where you came from and what you could do, it would never fail to shock you into silence whenever Klaus reminded you that he was just like you.

   You swallowed thickly and looked away, unsure of how to respond.

    “I didn't mean to put a damper on the mood,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that I understand. What you did obviously wasn't alright-” You winced. Klaus quickly reached over, placing his large hands over your own. “-but I understand.”

    Maybe one day those words would be enough. Maybe the knowledge of somebody understanding would settle your brain one day. It was good that Klaus had got the ball rolling.

   ---

    “Just know that you can say no to this at any moment if you feel like it's getting too much.”

  You looked up, one eyebrow raised; as per usual, Klaus had pushed aside a casual greeting and had instead opted for stampeding into your room uttering absolute nonsense.

   “What have you done now?” you asked, setting your book beside you and pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “Also, lower your voice. You're not allowed in my room, remember?”

   Klaus rolled his eyes but kicked the door closed anyway. It slammed with a loud bang that rattled the windows, but you refrained from saying anything – when it came to Klaus, sometimes it was just better to let him do what he wanted.

    He waltzed over to your bed and set himself down, folding one leg over the other before turning to you with a pair of pursed lips and curious eyes. You had seen this expression on his face plenty of times before in the last few months – he was plotting something, and that usually wasn't a very good thing.

   “Klaus....,” you drawled. “What have you done?”

   “I haven't done anything. Yet.” He grinned. “Nothing except get sober, which is kind of the building blocks for this little plan.”

   “Little plan?”

  “I want to let you talk to your dad.”

    You opened your mouth to respond, something casual and sarcastic, because that was just how you and Klaus always spoke to each other. However, the words died in your throat as soon as you managed to register exactly what it was he had just said.

   Your head snapped round to face him, jaw falling open, panic crawling into your throat even though nothing had even been confirmed yet. Klaus noticed your widening eyes and your sudden lurch in breath and reached forward, cupping your face before the panic could get out of control.

   “Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, alright? Look at me.”

  You did so. You had to.

   He tilted his head forward, clunking his forehead against your own. “Don't you go panicking on me, alright? I promise it's not a risky procedure. I've done it plenty of times before, and nothing is going to happen.”

   “You're going to speak to my dad. The man I killed.”

  “The man you killed accidentally,” Klaus corrected, pulling away. “I know I said you could say no at any point, but the voices are already coming through, so if you want to just sit back and listen-”

  You grabbed his arm. “Klaus, what are you-”

   But it was too late. It happened too fast. Klaus may have had good practice with his abilities, but you had to remember that he had been off his head on drugs since he was a young boy – the control he once had couldn't have been in it's prime, whether he was sober now or not. Judging by the tangled look on his face, he couldn't fight the voices off as well as he would have liked to.

   You watched him closely. He closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip to suppress an obvious smile before his eyes burst open and he was staring straight ahead. Almost immediately his expression softened, his grin going from manic to kind in a matter of seconds.

   “Oh, Mr L/N, you are a handsome bloke!”

  Your heart stopped. “Klaus...”

   He laid a hand on your own, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze. “I know, Y/N is looking well. The rehab has really helped fixed some things. Oh, come on, sir. Please don't start crying, or else I'll start getting teary-eyed and that's the last thing I want.”

  You slapped his arm. “Tell me what he's saying.”

  “Oh right, right,” said Klaus. “He was just telling me how well you're looking. He's been looking over you since you were young, and he was devastated when you started taking drugs.” Klaus raised a brow. “Bit of an insult there towards me, but I'll let it slide.”

 “Stop getting distracted,” you hissed. You hadn't realised it, but you were gripping onto Klaus's arm for dear life.

   “He's just happy that you're healthy again,” Klaus continued. “Do you have anything you want to say to him?”

    You had so much you wanted to say to him, so much you needed to say to him, or else how would he ever understand? But being confronted with the question had you falling short; your throat closed over, tears springing to the surface. Klaus shot you a curious glance, curled his fingers around your own as you dug crescent moons into his skin with how tight you were gripping onto him.

    You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded slowly. “Just tell him I'm sorry.”

   “You can say it yourself, you know. He can hear you, even if you can't hear him.”

   “Dad,” you croaked out, the word feeling odd and heavy on your tongue because it had been so long since you allowed yourself to say such a thing. “Dad, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. And I know it won't be enough, it can never be enough, but I'm trying so hard to make myself into a better person for you. I want to be a person you can be proud of, whether you're there to see it or not.”

   Klaus paused for a moment. “He said he's always going to be there to see it. He's been there since you were eleven years old.”

   You closed your eyes, the words smacking into you like a ton of bricks. Klaus sighed heavily, reached round and tugged you into his side. You would usually pull away from him. His jacket would forever smell like weed, and his goatee was rough against the side of your face, but the warmth his comfort brought was enough to have you sinking into his side and burying your face in the crook of his neck.

   “He says he doesn't like seeing you cry,” Klaus mumbled. “Listen, old man, they're a bit upset at the minute, alright? Cut the kid some slack.”

   “He never liked me crying,” you sniffed, trying desperately to wipe the tears off your face. “Fuck, he probably thinks I'm a right wimp.”

  “He may have said that once or twice already.” Klaus hissed, shooting upright and turning to the wall. “And apparently he's got a swing on him!”

   You grabbed Klaus's arm, letting out a shaky laugh for the first time in what felt like years. Klaus looked back down at you, smiling softly at the sound of laughter – he was forever laughing, and you never understood how he did it, considering the circumstances he was in.

   “I love you, Dad,” you said, finally. It seemed like the right thing to say, no matter how unfamiliar the words were after so long of not saying them.

    Klaus paused, waiting for your dads response, but he didn't really need to say anything. You noticed the way his shoulders slackened, the way he looked away and smiled to nothing in particular – your father had responded nicely, and that was enough to have you grinning from ear to ear, despite the tear tracks staining your cheeks.

    “He's gone,” Klaus said at last, turning to look at you. “He was a nice fella.”

  You nodded. “Thank you for doing that, Klaus. You didn't have to.”

   “It was the least I could do.”

   You raised a brow. “What?”

   “Well, you're the only one keeping me sane in this hell hole,” he replied. “The least I could do was give you some closure. And also, I needed to get in your dads good books before I tried anything. Gentleman etiquette and all that.”

  You paused, staring at Klaus as if he had two heads. He looked back down at you, his grin only growing more and more the longer you stared at him.

   He didn't elaborate. He didn't really need to – not with words. Not whenever your fingers were gripping his upper arm like your life depended on it, like you would truly fall through the centre of the earth if you let go.

   You quickly detached your fingers, only just then realising how tightly you had been holding onto him. You made to draw back, but Klaus grabbed your wrists and tugged your hands back into his chest before you could get very far.

   You swallowed. “Klaus...”

  “You always say my name like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I never know what I've done wrong.”

   “What are you doing?”

  “Whatever you'll let me do.”

   And in that moment, with your heart beating at a million miles per hour and that goofy smile playing on his lips, you would have let him do anything. That's why you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his own, only for a minute because human contact was scary and it was something you weren't used to, but you were willing to put those fears aside for the man who had just risked everything to let you speak to the man you missed most in the whole world.

   Klaus responded immediately, his lips moulding against your own as if multiple practice rounds had been made beforehand. He let go of your wrists, cupped your jaw instead as your own arms wound around your waist and settled on his back belt loops.

   The kiss was short lived, but it was enough. He clunked his forehead against your own, his hands falling from your face and dipping down to play with your shoes in that way he always did when you and him were talking.

     “Klaus....,” you whispered.

   He chuckled breathily, opened his mouth to reply-

   A yelp escaped his throat. His head snapped round, his eyes narrowing before he span back around and stared at you in disbelief.

   “What? What happened?” you demanded.

   “Your dad's just thrown his fucking shoe at me!”

[soft-stormcloud]

I Wish

Synopsis: Logan manifests as the first side, before Thomas is even one year old. He can’t handle emotions.

   Trigger warnings: Intense gore; It gets really dark really fast towards the end; Knives. For the record... I see that as a happy ending. Someone else might not. Let’s call it ambiguous

   He woke to blackness.

  Logan knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was in the Subconscious. The net cradled his body, making it difficult to move, murky black smoke drifting in through the holes. He was quickly losing air. He was just created, and now he was going to die.

   He reached blindly forward and gripped onto the net, hauling himself up. Just that move alone took most of his energy. He forced himself to climb, though, climb higher and higher until he crawled his way out of the Subconscious, and into the Mindscape. The Mindscape was miles and miles of pale nothingness.

   It was all very blurry. I wish I could see better, he thought, and then glasses appeared on the floor. He put them on, and his vision turned clear.

   I wish I knew what was going on. A journal appeared.

  He sat criss cross and pulled it into his lap, flipping it open. It was a scrapbook. The first picture was of an infant, captioned Thomas Sanders; 4/24/1989. The last picture was, startlingly, of Logan. It was captioned Logic is born, with a date six months after Thomas’s birthday.

  Logan glanced up as a small, boxed TV appeared in front of him. It was Thomas’s eyes. He was trying to stand up, gripping onto the bars of his playpen.

   “You have to pull,” Logan said, “to get yourself to your feet.”

   Thomas immediately listened to him, and stood up, putting most of his weight on the bars. Logan beamed.

  As Thomas’s mom came in and started squealing, Logan looked to the side, where a floor length mirror now stood. He furrowed his eyebrows, dropping the book and walking over.

   He didn’t look like Thomas. He was… Older. Much older, by a couple of years. He was dressed in denim shorts and a dark blue sweater vest. If he really thought about it, he guessed he saw the resemblance, like maybe he was Thomas in a few years. But that didn’t really make sense to him. Why would Thomas travel back in time to sit inside his own skull?

   A few hours later, Thomas’s dad laid him down for a nap. I wish I had somewhere to sleep, too.

  Then, the Mindscape morphed into a small bedroom, with navy walls. There was a bookshelf, a desk, and a bed, with pajamas folded neatly on top.

   Logan fell into his role easily. The only thing that confused him, maybe even upset him, was that he was the only one there. He was entitled ‘Logic,’ so why was he handling the emotions, as well? He didn’t like the emotions. They were scary, and unpredictable.

  One time, Thomas was hungry, and Logan didn’t know how to get his parents’ attention. He were in his crib, alone. Logan thought maybe making some noise would attract them, so he told Thomas to throw a toy. It smashed against the wall, which eased Logan’s frustration some, but scared Thomas so badly he started crying. Logan told him to break another one. Thomas broke three toys before his mom finally burst into the room, taking him downstairs to get something to eat. Logan noted in his journal that making noise led to receiving care, although something told him he didn’t handle that as well as he could have.

   One emotion Logan never hated was curiosity. He didn’t even know if he could call it an emotion, because it was predictable. If Logan didn’t know or understand something, he felt the need to figure it out. Simple. Easy. Predictable.

  Thomas often spent the afternoons sitting on the carpet, playing with his toys, while his parents watched movies on the couch. Thomas would always try to escape, to try to figure out where all these doors and corridors led to. Logan recently began to remember the places they’ve already been, but there was one door that eluded him. He was so curious it burned up inside him.

He waited for his parents to be engrossed in conversation, then pushed the joystick forward and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

   Thomas shot for the door, crawling faster than he ever had. He must have made it miles before he was snatched. His mom was laughing, like this was a game.

   “You almost got away from me, there,” she said, settling him on her lap.

   “I know!” Logan snapped, huffing. He set the controller down. He had to know what was behind that door.

  That night, Logan tells Thomas to crawl out of his crib. Neither of them remembered doing it before, with the playpen, but it was essentially the same thing- Logan reminded Thomas to pull with his arms, but when they realized Thomas couldn’t lift his leg, Logan told him to lean forward. The crib tipped over, Thomas spilling out onto the floor.

   “That made a lot of noise,” Logan mumbled. “Better hurry up.”

  The door was cracked open, so Thomas easily waddled out of the room. He was halfway across the hall when the very door he was heading towards swung open, his dad looking terrified. He sighed and laughed when he saw Thomas standing there, gripping onto the wall.

   Logan was distressed, thinking it was all over- But then Thomas peeked around their dad, into the room. It had a dresser, and the biggest bed Logan had ever seen, and a TV. Two huge pieces of fabric were strung along the wall. Thomas’s dad put them back to bed, but Logan got what he wanted.

  Before Logan could even process it, it was Thomas’s first birthday, marking six months since Logan was manifested. He didn’t know what to expect. He was proud of himself for managing six months, but it seemed like Thomas’s parents had something planned, and he couldn’t figure out what. It scared him.

   There were balloons, cake, bright decorations everywhere, and a lot of people. Thomas loved it; loved the decorations, the attention, and especially the cake.

   Logan did not.

   It was all too much. This was the worst possible thing to happen- This is the worst thing that has happened! This is worse than when Thomas accidentally ripped Mrs. Fluffybottom! This is worse than when Thomas tried to stand using the coffee table for support, but fell and bumped his head on the corner. There was far too much going on, too much attention. Logan didn’t know what to focus on, what could be a threat, what the next course of action was…

   Thomas started crying- Loud, ear piercing wailing. Thomas’s parents hurried him out of the room to calm him down, and even recognized he was overwhelmed, thank goodness. Thomas was laid down for a nap, giving Logan the perfect opportunity to take one, too.

    He expected to sleep, but found he couldn’t. Gross, awful guilt infected his insides. He gathered from everyone else that this was supposed to be a fun occasion, and… Logan ruined it. He was selfish, and too scared. Scared.

   I wish I didn’t have to be scared, or overwhelmed, or nervous, or angry, or frustrated, ever again.

   Nothing happened. He could wish for anything he wanted- Anything but that.

  Later, after Thomas slept peacefully and Logan did not, his parents helped him open up his presents. He got a lot of new toys and stuffed animals, all of which Thomas loved. By the end, Logan didn’t think he could handle one more new thing. He knew he would hate the last present before Thomas’s mom even opened it.

She and Thomas pulled off the wrapping together, and revealed a small, furry toy. It was harmless enough at first, but then his mom pressed a button, and it was suddenly loud and moving on its own. Logan slammed his hand down on the red button at his desk and Thomas started wailing, terrified of the little thing.

   His mom quickly took it away and turned it off, letting Thomas calm down. Logan caught his breath, gripping his desk. He was ready for this stressful day to be over.

   “It’s okay,” Thomas’s mom said gently, picking him up, “you don’t have to like everything.” She took it and put it in the toybox.

   Both of Thomas’s parents worked, so he was at daycare a lot. They tried not to leave him there on holidays, but decided to go out together on Valentine’s Day. Apparently a lot of parents did the same, because there were much more kids than usual. Thomas played with Legos close to where the older kids were sitting, gathered at long tables with sharp things and pink and red paper. Thomas didn’t quite get it, but Logan could understand everything their teacher was saying.

   He learned that the hearts the kids were making represented the one they had inside their chest, where all their love was stored. It was the source of all their emotions. Logan wished he didn’t have a heart.

   Logan started sleeping a lot- Way more than he should. He knew, deep down, that it wasn’t safe, and Thomas could get hurt, but he had trouble caring. He was just so tired, and Thomas could handle himself for a few hours, right?

   Thomas was with a babysitter, who sat with him in his room to play with his toys. Thomas dug around in his toybox, and pulled out the small, furry one he got for his birthday- The one he didn’t remember being afraid of.

   As soon as his babysitter started it up, the fear rushed through him, and he started screaming and crying. Logan jumped out of bed, gasping and running to the TV.

   “No, no, no!” He grabbed his controller, but it was too late. Thomas was too distressed to be controlled.

  It took hours for the babysitter to calm him down. Logan eventually covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, and started to cry with him. His chest was tight with guilt, and he sat there crying for much longer than Thomas did.

   A few weeks before Thomas’s second birthday, a door appeared in Logan’s room. He sat at the edge of his bed, just looking at it. He finally got the courage to go over to it, slowly opening it. It led to a hallway, much like the one in Thomas’s own house. Across from Logan’s room, was a white door with pink flowers. Smack in the middle was a sign that said, Coming soon!

   Logan stepped back inside his room and slammed the door shut.

  Logan stayed up all night before Thomas’s birthday. He kept reliving last year, how he ruined everything. He was plagued with awful nightmares, the product of guilt and depression. The product of emotions, the things he’s grown to hate.

  He pulled the scrapbook off the bookshelf, which has grown considerably. Several new events arrived, like a picture of Thomas dressed like a bumblebee for his first Halloween, or his first time eating a cookie. For the first time, there was a blank page. Logan left it open on his desk.

   His fear only grew that day, and by the time Thomas’s mom told his dad that the guests should arrive in about half an hour, he was so scared he felt like he might throw up.

  He didn’t want to ruin another birthday. He didn’t want to make Thomas cry anymore. He didn’t want to disappoint Thomas’s parents again.

   He couldn’t do it.

   I wish I had a knife.

  It appeared in his hand. His heart pumped so fast it slammed against his chest, and that just made him angry, like it had the gall to complain. He plunged the knife into his chest, right next to where his heart should be, letting out a scream. He fell to his knees as he started carving, carving, all around his heart, leaving a big hole in his chest. He dropped the knife and reached inside, slowly pulled his heart out, and threw it on the floor.

   He sobbed, and screamed, until his throat was raw, the tears falling onto his still pumping heart. He thought he was crazy when it first started to expand. The more it grew, the more the shape changed, his chest healed. The cavity he pulled his heart out of was heavy with weightlessness.

  His heart grew into a person- One identical to Logan, in a pink sweater with cat ears and whiskers on it, and a skirt. A picture appeared in the scrapbook, with the caption Morality is born. And Logan knew this person was here to save him.

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[chemically-imbalanced-romance]

I Wish

    Synopsis: Logan manifests as the first side, before Thomas is even one year old. He can’t handle emotions.

    Trigger warnings: Intense gore; It gets really dark really fast towards the end; Knives

    He woke to blackness.

    Logan knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was in the Subconscious. The net cradled his body, making it difficult to move, murky black smoke drifting in through the holes. He was quickly losing air. He was just created, and now he was going to die.

    He reached blindly forward and gripped onto the net, hauling himself up. Just that move alone took most of his energy. He forced himself to climb, though, climb higher and higher until he crawled his way out of the Subconscious, and into the Mindscape. The Mindscape was miles and miles of pale nothingness.

    It was all very blurry. I wish I could see better, he thought, and then glasses appeared on the floor. He put them on, and his vision turned clear.

    I wish I knew what was going on. A journal appeared.

    He sat criss cross and pulled it into his lap, flipping it open. It was a scrapbook. The first picture was of an infant, captioned Thomas Sanders; 4/24/1989. The last picture was, startlingly, of Logan. It was captioned Logic is born, with a date six months after Thomas’s birthday.

    Logan glanced up as a small, boxed TV appeared in front of him. It was Thomas’s eyes. He was trying to stand up, gripping onto the bars of his playpen.

    “You have to pull,” Logan said, “to get yourself to your feet.”

    Thomas immediately listened to him, and stood up, putting most of his weight on the bars. Logan beamed.

    As Thomas’s mom came in and started squealing, Logan looked to the side, where a floor length mirror now stood. He furrowed his eyebrows, dropping the book and walking over.

    He didn’t look like Thomas. He was… Older. Much older, by a couple of years. He was dressed in denim shorts and a dark blue sweater vest. If he really thought about it, he guessed he saw the resemblance, like maybe he was Thomas in a few years. But that didn’t really make sense to him. Why would Thomas travel back in time to sit inside his own skull?

    A few hours later, Thomas’s dad laid him down for a nap. I wish I had somewhere to sleep, too.

    Then, the Mindscape morphed into a small bedroom, with navy walls. There was a bookshelf, a desk, and a bed, with pajamas folded neatly on top.

    Logan fell into his role easily. The only thing that confused him, maybe even upset him, was that he was the only one there. He was entitled ‘Logic,’ so why was he handling the emotions, as well? He didn’t like the emotions. They were scary, and unpredictable.

    One time, Thomas was hungry, and Logan didn’t know how to get his parents’ attention. He were in his crib, alone. Logan thought maybe making some noise would attract them, so he told Thomas to throw a toy. It smashed against the wall, which eased Logan’s frustration some, but scared Thomas so badly he started crying. Logan told him to break another one. Thomas broke three toys before his mom finally burst into the room, taking him downstairs to get something to eat. Logan noted in his journal that making noise led to receiving care, although something told him he didn’t handle that as well as he could have.

    One emotion Logan never hated was curiosity. He didn’t even know if he could call it an emotion, because it was predictable. If Logan didn’t know or understand something, he felt the need to figure it out. Simple. Easy. Predictable.

    Thomas often spent the afternoons sitting on the carpet, playing with his toys, while his parents watched movies on the couch. Thomas would always try to escape, to try to figure out where all these doors and corridors led to. Logan recently began to remember the places they’ve already been, but there was one door that eluded him. He was so curious it burned up inside him.

He waited for his parents to be engrossed in conversation, then pushed the joystick forward and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

    Thomas shot for the door, crawling faster than he ever had. He must have made it miles before he was snatched. His mom was laughing, like this was a game.

    “You almost got away from me, there,” she said, settling him on her lap.

    “I know!” Logan snapped, huffing. He set the controller down. He had to know what was behind that door.

    That night, Logan tells Thomas to crawl out of his crib. Neither of them remembered doing it before, with the playpen, but it was essentially the same thing- Logan reminded Thomas to pull with his arms, but when they realized Thomas couldn’t lift his leg, Logan told him to lean forward. The crib tipped over, Thomas spilling out onto the floor.

    “That made a lot of noise,” Logan mumbled. “Better hurry up.”

    The door was cracked open, so Thomas easily waddled out of the room. He was halfway across the hall when the very door he was heading towards swung open, his dad looking terrified. He sighed and laughed when he saw Thomas standing there, gripping onto the wall.

    Logan was distressed, thinking it was all over- But then Thomas peeked around their dad, into the room. It had a dresser, and the biggest bed Logan had ever seen, and a TV. Two huge pieces of fabric were strung along the wall. Thomas’s dad put them back to bed, but Logan got what he wanted.

    Before Logan could even process it, it was Thomas’s first birthday, marking six months since Logan was manifested. He didn’t know what to expect. He was proud of himself for managing six months, but it seemed like Thomas’s parents had something planned, and he couldn’t figure out what. It scared him.

    There were balloons, cake, bright decorations everywhere, and a lot of people. Thomas loved it; loved the decorations, the attention, and especially the cake.

    Logan did not.

    It was all too much. This was the worst possible thing to happen- This is the worst thing that has happened! This is worse than when Thomas accidentally ripped Mrs. Fluffybottom! This is worse than when Thomas tried to stand using the coffee table for support, but fell and bumped his head on the corner. There was far too much going on, too much attention. Logan didn’t know what to focus on, what could be a threat, what the next course of action was…

    Thomas started crying- Loud, ear piercing wailing. Thomas’s parents hurried him out of the room to calm him down, and even recognized he was overwhelmed, thank goodness. Thomas was laid down for a nap, giving Logan the perfect opportunity to take one, too.

    He expected to sleep, but found he couldn’t. Gross, awful guilt infected his insides. He gathered from everyone else that this was supposed to be a fun occasion, and… Logan ruined it. He was selfish, and too scared. Scared.

    I wish I didn’t have to be scared, or overwhelmed, or nervous, or angry, or frustrated, ever again.

    Nothing happened. He could wish for anything he wanted- Anything but that.

    Later, after Thomas slept peacefully and Logan did not, his parents helped him open up his presents. He got a lot of new toys and stuffed animals, all of which Thomas loved. By the end, Logan didn’t think he could handle one more new thing. He knew he would hate the last present before Thomas’s mom even opened it.

She and Thomas pulled off the wrapping together, and revealed a small, furry toy. It was harmless enough at first, but then his mom pressed a button, and it was suddenly loud and moving on its own. Logan slammed his hand down on the red button at his desk and Thomas started wailing, terrified of the little thing.

    His mom quickly took it away and turned it off, letting Thomas calm down. Logan caught his breath, gripping his desk. He was ready for this stressful day to be over.

    “It’s okay,” Thomas’s mom said gently, picking him up, “you don’t have to like everything.” She took it and put it in the toybox.

    Both of Thomas’s parents worked, so he was at daycare a lot. They tried not to leave him there on holidays, but decided to go out together on Valentine’s Day. Apparently a lot of parents did the same, because there were much more kids than usual. Thomas played with Legos close to where the older kids were sitting, gathered at long tables with sharp things and pink and red paper. Thomas didn’t quite get it, but Logan could understand everything their teacher was saying.

    He learned that the hearts the kids were making represented the one they had inside their chest, where all their love was stored. It was the source of all their emotions. Logan wished he didn’t have a heart.

    Logan started sleeping a lot- Way more than he should. He knew, deep down, that it wasn’t safe, and Thomas could get hurt, but he had trouble caring. He was just so tired, and Thomas could handle himself for a few hours, right?

    Thomas was with a babysitter, who sat with him in his room to play with his toys. Thomas dug around in his toybox, and pulled out the small, furry one he got for his birthday- The one he didn’t remember being afraid of.

    As soon as his babysitter started it up, the fear rushed through him, and he started screaming and crying. Logan jumped out of bed, gasping and running to the TV.

    “No, no, no!” He grabbed his controller, but it was too late. Thomas was too distressed to be controlled.

    It took hours for the babysitter to calm him down. Logan eventually covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, and started to cry with him. His chest was tight with guilt, and he sat there crying for much longer than Thomas did.

    A few weeks before Thomas’s second birthday, a door appeared in Logan’s room. He sat at the edge of his bed, just looking at it. He finally got the courage to go over to it, slowly opening it. It led to a hallway, much like the one in Thomas’s own house. Across from Logan’s room, was a white door with pink flowers. Smack in the middle was a sign that said, Coming soon!

    Logan stepped back inside his room and slammed the door shut.

    Logan stayed up all night before Thomas’s birthday. He kept reliving last year, how he ruined everything. He was plagued with awful nightmares, the product of guilt and depression. The product of emotions, the things he’s grown to hate.

    He pulled the scrapbook off the bookshelf, which has grown considerably. Several new events arrived, like a picture of Thomas dressed like a bumblebee for his first Halloween, or his first time eating a cookie. For the first time, there was a blank page. Logan left it open on his desk.

    His fear only grew that day, and by the time Thomas’s mom told his dad that the guests should arrive in about half an hour, he was so scared he felt like he might throw up.

    He didn’t want to ruin another birthday. He didn’t want to make Thomas cry anymore. He didn’t want to disappoint Thomas’s parents again.

    He couldn’t do it.

    I wish I had a knife.

    It appeared in his hand. His heart pumped so fast it slammed against his chest, and that just made him angry, like it had the gall to complain. He plunged the knife into his chest, right next to where his heart should be, letting out a scream. He fell to his knees as he started carving, carving, all around his heart, leaving a big hole in his chest. He dropped the knife and reached inside, slowly pulled his heart out, and threw it on the floor.

    He sobbed, and screamed, until his throat was raw, the tears falling onto his still pumping heart. He thought he was crazy when it first started to expand. The more it grew, the more the shape changed, his chest healed. The cavity he pulled his heart out of was heavy with weightlessness.

    His heart grew into a person- One identical to Logan, in a pink sweater with cat ears and whiskers on it, and a skirt. A picture appeared in the scrapbook, with the caption Morality is born. And Logan knew this person was here to save him.

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[davidcampiti]

A LIFE WITHOUT STAN LEE? -- Part One

This is the first month of my life without Stan Lee alive in it.

I think it’s appropriate to post this essay today, on Stan Lee’s birthday, the first one without him actually here to celebrate it. I couldn’t bring myself to write about Stan the day he died, just shy of 96 years old, and the week and month that followed were no better. Today I can put down some thoughts.

I am a child of Stan Lee. His work with Jack Kirby and John Romita appeared in the first comic book I remember reading – the Marvel-produced America’s Best TV Comics, a 25-cent comicbook that promoted the ABC Saturday morning cartoons.   It's one of the first powerful memories of childhood that have stayed with me for all this time.

Across my formative years, Stan Lee's words encouraged me to learn, to read more of everything -- not just comics. I spent much of my early years in the library and ordering Scholastic books every month through school. I read everything -- fiction, biographies, histories, science books.

Yet I grew up loving the comics that blazed brightly with his public persona and, while my parents toiled at just earning a living and staying alive, I learned much from "The Man." Stan taught me a lot about being a decent human being. It wasn't all, "With great power there must also come...great responsibility," though that was there, as well.

In recent years we corresponded a bit about the morals and messages of his words in his scripts, his Stan's Soapbox, and his many lectures and interviews. I told him we should assemble a book, Everything I Know, I learned From Stan Lee.

He wrote back -- "The paperback you suggested, 'Everything I Know I Learned from Stan Lee,' sounds like it could be funny. Especially if it consists of only one page with only one thing learned -- how to spell 'Excelsior!' Keep the faith, David. You're one of the good guys! Excelsior! Stan"

We discussed it a bit more but, soon after, Stan's eyesight worsened and he stopped answering his own mail; whoever took over had no idea what we'd been talking about. I let the idea drop.

Back when I was 12, I decided my career goal was to work with Stan Lee. Eventually, I achieved that goal but not by submitting stories in my teens and 20s but much later in my life, as an agent and book author. By the time I was 14, he'd gone from editor-in-chief to Publisher -- which meant he'd need more writers, right?

The first time I met Stan Lee and got to take a photo with him, I looked up at him and said, “Smile, and look as much like my Uncle as you can.” He laughed and gave my artist friend Scott Rockwell and me a good half-hour of his time, looking at art and answering questions. That was in 1978 – fully 40 years ago – and I remember it all as if it were yesterday. Stan was a memorable guy who could make you feel like the most important person in the room. I only wish I still had that photo; maybe Scott has it buried somewhere.

Four years later, I sold my first professional comics scripts to Pacific Comics and two years after that was writing a Superman assignment for DC with Kevin Juaire. Instead of ending up at Marvel as I’d hoped – which would’ve required moving to New York and being involved in daily office politics – I became a comics packager, then a publisher, then an agent. That’s how Stan knew me professionally, as a writer and an artist’s agent.

In early 1989, at a Capital City Distribution trade show, my Innovation Publishing was set up promoting the books we would be releasing into comics shops in a few weeks.  Stan was walking by, and I suggested to my assistant Paul Curtis that we should invite Stan to dinner.  He ran over, asked, and Stan said yes!  He not only brought along Carol Kalish and regaled us with two hours of stories about life at Marvel, Stan insisted that Marvel pay for the meal!  Nobody thought to bring a camera, but the memories stayed with us.  As I recall, Steve Sullivan, Paul Curtis and his girlfriend Amy, and I were the happy Innovation team at that dinner.  Kevin VanHook came on the trip but was elsewhere at that time.  He made up for it later at a party by chatting on a couch with Stan and later dancing with Carol.

In the '90s, Stan and I would chat at every opportunity at conventions.

When Marvel released a limited edition hardcover reprint of his 1947 book Secrets of the Comics, I decided to give in to my fannish impulses and use its endpapers as my autograph book.

Stan, of course, was the first to sign it in 1996, and a batch of Silver Age stalwarts followed.

By then we made it a point to get photos together every year across two decades. It was a clear timeline of the both of us getting older.

As the internet blossomed, I helped Stan a little when he first joined AOL. He asked me how AOL Instant Messenger worked, how to turn it on when he wanted to communicate and off when he didn’t want to be bombarded with Messages, and so on. Another time, an article he wanted to read was behind a login/password, and he asked me help get him through that. It tickled me to help Stan “The Man” with such basic web-things.

From the mid-'90s through the early 2000s, Stan would call the Glass House offices about once a month to ask for my perspective on what was going on in the comics biz, since we dealt not only with all the Marvel editors but everyone else as well. Real conversations, not the "'Nuff said, Pilgrim!" stuff. He'd graciously take an extra few minutes to chat with my assistant Graeme, who loved talking to his childhood icon.

Around 1997, Marvel's savvy publisher asked Glass House to create two dozen project proposals for a line of second-tier titles that my company would package. We ended up over-achieving and submitted 28 of them -- one of them for the first-tier Fantastic Four that I understood we had little chance of getting, but I had to try. The art was Joe Bennett's doing a Kirbyesque style.

Stan was kind enough to read over my FF proposal/outline and fine-tune my dialogue for the pages, before I submitted.

Likely worried about how an outside packager controlling so many titles would affect his own position, the editor-in-chief buried all 28 projects until, two years later, he assigned an editor to reject every proposal outright; that editor told me my FF dialogue didn't capture the essence of the characters -- not realizing the words were Stan's.

(Sidebar:  It was so ridiculous, that editor even rejected a proposal that another Marvel editor already saw, bought, and published!)

When Meryl and I got married in 2001, Stan sent us a gift -- a lemon cake and a note saying he wished he could've made it to the wedding. We still have the note; we ate the cake.

In 2006, Stan's POW! Entertainment launched Who Wants to be a Super-Hero? on The Sci-Fi Channel, and my Glass House Graphics contributed all the cover artwork for both seasons of the TV show. We even drew the comicbooks that starred both winners -- Matthew Atherton and Jarrett Crippen, both of whom became our friends.

When my friend, then-GHG artist Will Conrad, worked with him on the Dark Horse Feedback comic book, Stan took the time personally to choose Will out of our roster of artists, and to phone him in Brazil for a long talk before sending him the plot. (And yes, it was a full page-by-page plot.) They spoke several times during Will's month working on the book, each time helpful and upbeat.

The second book, with The Defuser, was more problematic. The network and producers weren't honoring their commitments to the winner, so I reached out to Stan who said, "I don't see any compelling reason to bother doing it, since we weren't renewed for a third season." I replied, "Because you said you would? Because you have the power to do it, and with great power there must also come great responsibility?" He made it happen, and Glass House Graphics's Kajo Baldissimo did the art.

We also drew the box art and insert comic books for multiple DVD animation projects that POW! released, with art by GHG's fabulous Fabio Laguna.

Stan always made time to meet privately with my artists, and my family, for which I was always grateful.

Of course when Comics Buyer’s Guide published a big feature issue for Stan’s 75th Birthday, I contributed an essay and hired the great Marie Severin to do a caricature cover for it and sent Stan a giant print of the art.

Around the time of Stan's 90th birthday celebration, I had Tina Francisco create a new birthday cover for Comics Buyer's Guide, and I penned a long article about him, too.

Of course, we sent to Stan a poster of the color art, and he sent back this card -- as always, written in his own handwriting.

TO BE CONTINUED -- IN PART TWO!

[cinema-tv-etc]

“Just the facts, ma’am” — “Dragnet” (1951 - 1959) (1967 - 1970)

“Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” Such a cool opening for one of the most memorable “cop” TV shows of all time. Sgt. Joe  — My name’s Friday. I’m a cop — Friday (Jack Web) and his detective sidekicks (played by Ben Alexander and Harry Morgan) managed to keep us glued to the television with their subtle tactics in apprehending criminals because all they really needed in their quest was... just the facts. So cool. Dum, de, dum, dum! Check out this very cool short video.

“Stifle it, Edith!” — “All In The Family” (1971 - 1979) Archie Bunker (Carroll O’Connor) had a way with words. He called his liberal son-in-law,  “Meathead”and his faithful wife, “Dingbat “ (and he insulted about every stereotype you can name) without getting his hand slapped from the politically correct community. He was so lovable, though, right? Whenever his wife Edith (Jean Stapleton) had an opinion, he managed to stifle her — most of the time. Check out the time she stifled him here.

“Who Loves Ya Baby?” — “Kojak” (1973 - 1978)

Kojak (Telly Savalas) was probably the only New York City detective on TV who made the Tootsie Roll Pop sexy. And, didn’t he start the bald head craze? (OK, Yul Brenner in the “King And I” helped get this trend started).  Who loves Ya, Baby? We do, we do!  (Look here for clip.)

“Good Evening” — Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955 - 1962)

Maybe you had to be there, but no one could grab an audience with an introduction quite like Alfred Hitchcock. His “series of unrelated short stories covering elements of crime, horror, drama and comedy about people of different species committing murders, suicides, thefts and other sorts of crime caused by certain motivations” kept us coming back for more each week. It seems like seven years just wasn’t enough for this film director and his spell-bounding stories.  Take a look at his one-of-a-kind introductions here.  

“Would you believe... “ — “Get Smart”  (1965 - 1970)

“Get Smart” (battling the forces of KAOS) had an embarrassment of riches in the catchphrase department. Maxwell Smart, Agent 86 (Don Adams) kept his co-hort, Agent 99 (Barbara Feldon) and the Chief (Edward Platt) on the tips of their toes every time he opened his mouth. “Would you believe” these words of wisdom: “Missed it by that much!,” “Sorry about that, Chief,” and “I asked you not to tell me that.” Yes, we would believe anything you say, Agent 86. Take a peek at these “Get Smart” funniest moments here.

“To the moon, Alice!” — “The Honeymooners/The Jackie Gleason Show” (1951 - 1959) Who could forget the wild and crazy antics of New York City bus driver Ralph Kramden (Jackie Gleason), sarcastic wife Alice Kramden (Audrey Meadows), NYC sewer worker, Ed Norton (Art Carney) and his wife Trixie (Joyce Randolph)? These four feisty Brooklyn residents tested each others patience on a daily basis which was the reason millions of viewers tuned in once a week. Needless to say, Alice Kramden knew how to draw blood which is why Ralph gave her the what for... “One of these days, Alice, you’re going to the moon!”   “Just One more thing...” — “Colombo”  (1971 - 2003)

Peter Falk made “Colombo” a household name with his unique way of solving the “whodunit” mystery in this clever television detective show. The Fashion Police would have a field day with this disheveled, cigar-smoking detective. (Oh, that rumpled, beige raincoat... how we loved it.) The criminal always thinks he/she has the upper hand in the investigation only to be caught up in the web of Colombo’s increasingly intrusive presence. Just when the suspect thinks all is well,  the polite detective (who always gets his man/woman), has “just one more thing“ to ask.

“Goodnight, John Boy” — “The Waltons”  (1971 - 1981)

This Great Depression Virginia mountain family sure knew how to grab our hearts. Each episode focuses on the “family of John Walton Jr. (known as John-Boy), his parents, John and Olivia Walton, their seven children, and John’s parents Zebulon “Zeb” and Esther Walton. John-Boy (Richard Thomas) is the eldest of the children (17 years old in the beginning), who becomes a journalist and novelist. In the signature scene that closes almost every episode, the family house is enveloped in darkness, save for one, two or three lights in the upstairs bedroom windows. Through voice-overs, two or more characters make some brief comments related to that episode’s events, and then bid each other goodnight, after which the lights go out.”

“Let’s be careful out there.” — “Hill Street Blues” (1981 - 1987)

“Hill Street Blues“is an American serial police drama that chronicled the lives of the staff of a single police station located on the fictional Hill Street, in an unnamed large city, with ‘blues’ being a slang term for police officers for their blue uniforms.”  In the opening, Sgt. Phil Esterhaus  (Michael Conrad) does the police roll call, concluding with his signature line: “Let’s be careful out there.”

“May God bless.” — “The Red Skelton Show” (1951 - 1971)

“The Red Skelton Show” was mainly known for the comedy sketches performed by Red himself which included an array of comedic characters (Clem Kadiddlehopper, San Fernando Red, George Appleby and Freddie the Freeloader). He also had guest star performers including John Wayne, Phyllis Diller, Jack Benny... the list goes on forever. His opening monologue often included his two favorite seagulls, Gertrude and Heathcliff. At the end of each show, he ended it with thoughts that went something like this.

“Lucy! You got some ‘splainin’ to do!” — “I Love Lucy” (1951 - 1957) That crazy redhead we affectionately know as Lucy Ricardo (Lucille Ball) was never at a loss for words... or hair brained, good-natured mischief. Her cohort, Ethel Mertz (Vivian Vance) was somewhat skeptical at times to play along, but the two BFFs made life interesting for their respective spouses, Ricky (Desi Arnaz) and Fred (William Frawley) to say the least. When Lucy tested Ricky’s patience one too many times, he screamed the only phrase that came to mind (each time): “Lucy, You got some ‘splainin’ to do!” Don’t we all use that phrase ocassionally when we get pissed at our significant others (no matter what gender they are)?

“Yada, Yada, Yada” — “Seinfeld” (1989 - 1998)

Let’s give a big round of applause to Jerry (Jerry Seinfeld), Elaine Benes (Julia Louis-Dreyfus), George Costanza (Jason Alexander) and Cosmo Kramer (Michael Richards) for giving us the best nine sitcom seasons of our lives. Did you know it was actually George’s new girlfriend, Marcy, who came up with the “yada, yada, yada” expression? If you don’t do anything else today, watch this Seinfeld montage.  

“Come On Down!” — “The Price Is Right“ (1956 - 1965) (1972 - Present)

I don’t care how old you are, you have heard — at one time in your life — a game show announcer say, “Come on down!” You know the game show: “The Price Is Right.” And you know the master of all game shows: Bob Barker. The point is, no matter what year you were born, somewhere, on some network, “The Price Is Right” has been on your radar. Unless you live in a third world country. Check out this “Come on down!” video with Bob Barker.

“Sock it to me.” — “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In” (1967 - 1973) The comedy team of Dan Rowan and Dick Martin hosted this psychedelic, fast-moving comedy series that featured series regulars Lily Tomlin, Ruth Buzzi, Judy Carne, Goldie Hawn, Arte Johnson, Jo Ann Worley, Gary Owens, Alan Sues and Henry Gibson. Judy Carne became the butt of the joke when she said, “Sock it to me.” They doused her with water or gently assaulted her with rubber objects. Be careful what you say out there.

“Dy-no-mite!” — “Good Times” (1974 - 1979) “Good Times“ lets us in on the lives of Florida (Esther Rolle) and James Evans   (John Amos) and their three children, J.J. (Jimmie Walker), Thelma (Bern Nadette Stanis) and Michael (Ralph Carter). “Episodes of Good Times deal with the characters’ attempts to survive in a high rise project building in Chicago, despite their poverty” ... and hilarity ensues. Fess up, you know you said the word “Dy-n-Mite!” every time something good happened in your life back in the day, thanks to the adorable J.J. (Although nobody says it better!)

“God will get you for that!” — “Maude” (1972 - 1978)

Who remembers that “Maude“ was a spin-off from “All In The Family?” Yes, Maude (Bea Arthur) was Edith’s cousin —  who  somehow got the spunk gene in the family.  And who remembers that Maude was a “liberal, independent woman living in Tuckahoe, NY with her fourth husband, Walter (Bill Macy)?” And if you didn’t know all that... (say it).

“De Plane, De Plane” — “Fantasy Island” (1977 - 1984)

Picture it: a remote tropical island resort where all your dreams come true. Well, not exactly. There were glitches in those wishes. Mr. Roarke (Ricardo Montalban ), assisted by his adorable miniature side-kick Tattoo (Hervé Villechaize) had the best of intentions of making his guests live out their fantasies, but what kind of show would that be if everything were perfect? You could count on one thing. The beginning of each episode,  a plane arrived with their (we’re presuming rich) guests. Tattoo always alerted Mr. Roarke, by pointing up to the sky, announcing: “De Plane, de plane!” Welcome to Fantasy Island.

“What U Talkin’ ‘bout Willis?” — “Different Strokes” (1978 - 1986)

“Different Strokes” starred Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges (Arnold and Willis Jackson), Conrad Bain (Phillip Drummond) and Dana Plato (Kimberly Drummond) who were perhaps one of the first racially mixed families on television.  Arnold didn’t hold back when Willis came up with some bizarre and/or surprise monologue that got his goat. “What u talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?”  Too cute!

“Book ‘em, Danno.” — “Hawaii Five-0” (1968 - 1980)

This may be my all-time favorite detective show based in Hawaii (sorry “Magnum P.I.”). And it may well just be because of one of my all-time favorite detective catchphrases: “Book ‘em Danno.” Detective Steve McGarrett (Jack Lord) worked so well with Danny Williams (James MacArthur) in each episode to put the bad guys in hand cuffs. (And who didn’t love that theme song!? Check it out here and turn the volume up and enjoy!)

“Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars.” — “You Bet Your Life” (TV version, 1950 - 1961)

Groucho Marx was probably the first choice to host this quiz show that featured a show chocked full of competitive questions — and some hilarious conversation. As it turns out, the comedian was the perfect host. As in all quiz shows, there is money to be won. But, with the right “word,” a contestant could win an extra hundred big ones. All they had to do was say the secret word. Easy Not so fast. How many words are in the English language? But we loved to hear Groucho announce: “Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars.” Sometimes they did. And that was seriously exciting.

“Say goodnight, Gracie” — “The George Burns And Gracie Allen Show“ (1950 - 1958)                              

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/catchphrases-classic-tv-shows_b_8142724.html

[kiss-my-freckle]

Timeline notes

1x1 -

Ressler: Raymond “Red” Reddington attended the Naval Academy. Top of his class. Graduated by the time he was 24. He was being groomed for admiral. Then in 1990, Reddington’s coming home to see his wife and his daughter for Christmas. He never arrives. This highly respected officer up and disappears from the face of the earth until four years later when classified NOFORN documents start showing up in Maghreb, Islamabad, Beijing. These leaks were traced to Reddington. This guy’s an equal opportunity offender, a facilitator of sorts, who’s built an enterprise brokering deals for fellow criminals. He has no country. He has no political agenda. Reddington’s only allegiance is to the highest bidder. Tech: They call him something in the papers. Cooper: “The Concierge of Crime.”

2x1 -

Aram: So he’s looking for someone who lived in D.C. before 1990, has a prescription for Lipitor through Medco, downloads World War II documentaries on Netflix not Amazon and has a digital subscription to both the Wall Street Journal and CatFanatic.

Naomi: I had a life, you know? My daughter had a life with a house and a dog. And then I woke up one day. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have a man like Raymond Reddington turn your life upside down. They accused me of being a part of it? Somehow, I was a suspect. Put my life under a - a microscope every call, every charge. My assets were - I finally convinced them I was innocent. They said I had to go, give up everything. I remember it was a Wednesday afternoon. My daughter wasn’t even out of school yet. And by Thursday, we were in Philadelphia, fending for ourselves.

2x2 -

Liz: I confirmed your daughter was placed in protective custody with her mother in 1990. The Marshal service lost contact seven years ago. She is unaccounted for.

2x8 -

Berlin/Kirchhoff: It was in ’91. The Soviet union was falling apart. A small group of us. Members of the Politburo, the military, KGB, Stasi. Had a plan to push back the progressives, to stem the tide. We were meeting and discussing strategy when a bomb. Red: The Kursk Bombing. Berlin/Kirchhoff: Fifteen died. And with them, our resistance. Rumors began that the Americans were involved. One name emerged. Yours. You came after my daughter. You exposed her as a dissident. She went to jail. After that, my loyalty was questioned. I was exiled to the Gulag, where, one by one, her bones were sent to me.

Liz: You’re working with Berlin? Red: I need to talk to you about a bombing in the Soviet union Kursk, 1991.

2x10 -

Several TV news people: We are just now getting word of a story developing out of Hong Kong. Sources say authorities there have apprehended legendary criminal Raymond Reddington. He’s been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list longer than any other fugitive, but tonight, sources are confirming Reddington was arrested in Hong Kong just hours ago. Reddington was once a rising star at the Pentagon. Sources say he was being groomed for admiral when, on Christmas Eve, 1990, while on his way home to visit his wife and daughter, Reddington vanished. Reporter: Four years later, Reddington resurfaced and was charged with treason in absentia for selling top-secret American intelligence to foreign states.

3x4 -

Red: I was completely swept up in the idealism of the theatre owner - a pipe-smoking cream puff of a German named Gerta. She read “Mother Courage” to me aloud - the whole play in one sitting. A brilliant exploration of the politics of war and those who profit from it. Sadly, it was 1991, and audiences were going in droves to see “Cats.”

3x11 -

Liz. Who is this guy? He claims he’s Reddington? Samar: Yes, and we can’t disprove it with DNA because there’s nothing on file from 1990 when Reddington disappeared.

Devry: March 8, 1985, I ran point on an attack on the Beirut home of Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah. June 1989, I coordinated Operation Minesweep, which provided back office support and oversight for Naval Intelligence operations in Kuwait carried out by the 160th SOAR.

3x16 -

Red: Velov is the one who lied to you, Lizzy, not me. Katarina Rostova committed suicide in 1990.

4x13 -

Red: I first met Stratos Sarantos when he was running guns to Cypriot resistance fighters in 1987. For more than 20 years, he’s overseen my shipping concerns from the Bosphorus to the Suez Canal.

4x16 -

Cooper: Kathryn Nemec is missing? Aram: Yeah, she disappeared in 1991, just dropped off the grid.

Aram: Kathryn Nemec. But she’s been missing since 1991.

5x19 -

Red: In 1990, the KGB and the CIA had almost nothing in common except the mutual determination to hunt down one individual. Jennifer: You. Red: Being a fugitive from American law enforcement is a lot easier than being a fugitive from the two most powerful nations on Earth. And anyone close to a target of theirs becomes a target themselves. Jennifer: Family. Red: Especially family. Unless they’re abandoned on the side of a road on Christmas Eve. Jennifer: After you left, we went into Witness Protection. Red: Put where the Cabal wouldn’t find you.

6x1 -

Liz: Raymond Reddington is a fraud. An imposter who took our father’s place over 30 years ago. The FBI can trace this Reddington forward from ’95. And I know for a fact that our father died five years before that.

6x5 -

Jennifer: It’s not the data, but it turns out the file names were coded using patient-intake dates. October 3, 1991. Liz: The date Reddington was admitted?

6x9 -

Sima: As the ranking officer on that Reddington Task Force, were you familiar with an incident that occurred involving the U.S.S. Gideon in March of 1990? Ressler: I was. Yes. The U.S.S. Gideon was an Ohio-class submarine sunk by the Soviet Navy while on a secret mission in the Barents Sea. 134 men were on board. They all died.

Red: If you found his archives, I need the tape of a phone call he recorded on December 7, 1990.

Cooper: Reddington told us to look for a very specific needle in this haystack. A recording taken on December 7, 1990.

Cooper: We’ll start over. Samar: Uh, I don’t think we have to. December 7, 1990.

Samar: It can’t be a coincidence that Reddington is looking for a recording made on December 7th, and, on December 11th, an assassin injures Bailey and murders a man who appears to have been his lover. Liz: Maybe he used the tape to try and blackmail someone who didn’t take kindly to being blackmailed.

Nuss: A month before the incident, a corporate account was opened in a Cypriot bank known to work with Soviet intelligence. The only person with the power to withdraw funds was the company president. Sima: And who was that? Nuss: Raymond Reddington. Sima: I’m sure many accounts were opened in the weeks prior to the tragedy of the Gideon. What makes you think the activity in this account was connected to it? Nuss: Because a front company for the KGB wired $3 million into the account a day before the incident, and another $3 million the day after it. One week later, the entire amount was withdrawn. Sima: By Reddington? Nuss: Yes. Using fingerprints and a password.

Red: You said the withdrawal required fingerprints and a password. Nuss: It was done remotely. Red: So if someone had a copy of my fingerprints and knew the password, they could have made the withdrawal, and no one at the bank, nor yourself, would have known the difference? Nuss: I, uh - suppose that’s possible. Red: Yes. You know what else is possible? That I was framed by Katarina Rostova, which I could prove if Your Honor would grant me even the shortest - Judge Wilkins: All right, the court will stand in recess.

20, 25, 30 years

Cooper: Remember, he’s been off the grid for over 20 years. (1x2) Cooper: Reddington has brokered some of the most comprehensive international criminal activity in the past 20 years. (1x2) Red: I’ve been moving comfortably through the world for the past 20 years without a trace, and now some two-bit spy killer is gonna put my life and business in jeopardy? (1x3) Fitch: Ray. It’s been, what - 20 years? (1x10) Red: No traffic. No cars to come help. Just me and a car full of gifts. It was more than 20 years ago. (Christmas Eve, 1x14) Tom: Best I can tell, their paths have crossed at key moments in the past 20 years. Quantico, Baltimore. (1x16) Naomi: If you’re looking for him, I can’t help you. You have to listen to me. Reddington - I haven’t I haven’t seen him in 20 years. (2x1) Samar: He’s been on the run for 25 years. His arrest was bound to happen. (2x10) Liz: They put a bullet in your chest, and you have no idea how. You’re the most cautious person I know. The FBI couldn’t find you for 20 years, but they did. (2x21) Aram: Because it was listed in the Fulcrum. 25 years ago, Hanover was a low-level staffer on the Hill. (3x3) Hitchin: I know about the Fulcrum. I’ve seen the list. It’s 25 years old. (3x5) Red: Your past three months have been what my life has been like for the past 25 years. I’m often exhausted. (3x11) Cooper: He disappeared 25 years ago. Could’ve had surgery. (3x11) Dom: I could’ve spent the last 30 years just being her grandfather - you selfish prick. (3x20) Kirk: I’ve been imagining this moment for the last 25 years. (3x23) Red: I know what it’s like to be hunted. I’ve protected myself for 30 years. (4x1) Red: I’ve been disappearing for over 25 years. I don’t need your help to disappear. (4x7) Tom: From 30 years ago. Clearly, it was flawed. (Kirk's DNA test, 4x7) Cooper: But she’s been missing for 25 years. (Kate, 4x16) Liz: He stole it from me 25 years ago. That’s why we needed you to get it back. (Fire memory, 4x19) Red: Understand this was 25 years ago now. I was younger, myself. Intent on building an empire, intent on becoming the powerful criminal the world had been told I already was. (4x19) Red: Nikolaus has been on my payroll since I introduced him to you 25 years ago. (4x19) Liz: From 25 years ago? No. But then, you wouldn’t be very good at your job if I did. (4x19) Red: I’ve spent 30 years building an intelligence network of spies, informants, patriots, traitors. (4x20) Liz: Kaplan spent 30 years tending to his messes while Reddington built his criminal empire, and it took her five months to surgically dismantle it. (4x21) Kate: I’ve been his cleaner, keeper, and confessor for 30 years, and I’m prepared to tell you everything you need to know in open court. (4x21) Dom: My own granddaughter three feet away after almost 30 years, I couldn’t say a damn thing to her. (5x13) Jennifer: Perhaps you’ve heard of him. His name’s Raymond Reddington. He’s been on the FBI’s Most Wanted List for 20 years. (5x18) Garvey: Everything you believed for the last 30 years has been a lie. You’ve spent a lifetime hiding for no reason. (5x19) Sutton Ross: For 30 years, I’ve wanted to be in the same room as Raymond Reddington, the bastard who tricked me into selling the Chinese a dodo bird when they were looking for an eagle. (5x22) Liz: Why he came into my life, why he took your life, why he spent the last 30 years pretending to be Raymond Reddington. I’m gonna figure all that out, and then I’m going to destroy him. (5x22) Liz: Raymond Reddington is a fraud. An imposter who took our father’s place over 30 years ago. (6x1) Liz: We haven’t seen him in over 30 years. He became a fugitive when we were kids. (6x1) Liz: Raymond Reddington. Not the real one, the reinvented one. The one who’s been Raymond Reddington for 30 years, longer than anyone else. (6x2) Aram: 30 years on the run, and a beat cop picks him up at a pretzel cart. (6x2) Sima: You’re aware that, for almost 30 years, he’s maintained a vast criminal empire - (6x3) Red: Getting caught after 30 years? The odds were, I’d be caught after three. (6x4) Red: Officer Baldwin, I’ve been evading the police and law enforcement for almost 30 years. (6x5)

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Something Wicked- Part 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,739

Warnings: Typical Supernatural violence, angst, language, minor character death, blood, you know the usual

Summary: When John gives you a case that reminds you of your past, how will you deal with it. You were only a kid so it wasn’t your fault... Right?

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Please, if you want to be tagged for this series, let me know and I’ll add you! If you want to be tagged for my other fics, I’ll add you! I want to hear what you guys think about this. If you want something requested, send it in!

Feedback is always appreciated

Tags at the bottom

August of 1989

“Dean, it’s going to be okay.” You said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah I know.” Dean muttered. John came out of the Motel bedroom with a duffel bag full of weapons.

“All right. You know the drill, Dean. Anybody calls, you don't pick up. If it's me, I'll ring once, then call back. You got that?”

“Mm-hmm. Only answer the phone unless it rings once first.” Dean recited.

“Don’t worry, John, Dean and I will make sure nothing bad ever happens.”

“Good. It only takes one mistake, got that?” You and Dean both nodded.

“Alright, if I'm not back Sunday night...?” John questioned.

“Call Pastor Jim.” You answered immediately.

“Lock the doors, the windows, and close the shades. Most importantly,” Dean cut off his father.

“Watch out for Sammy.” It was always about Sam. You and Dean needed to protect him with your life. You looked over at Sam and he was watching cartoons on the TV, not really paying attention to what was going on. You envied the kid because you wanted a childhood like the one you and Dean gave him. You tried your best to keep Sam out of the whole monster business.

“Alright. If something tries to bust in?” John slung the duffel bag over his shoulder.

“Shoot first, ask questions later.” You and Dean said at the same time.

“Good kids. I’ll see you in a couple of days.” With that, John was gone. Dean locked the door behind him and sighed.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean. I know it.” You gave him a small smile.

It’s been a while since John left and Sam was starting to get worried. You and Dean knew that he would be back by Sunday but Sam didn’t know that. So, it was up to you and Dean to take care of Sam by yourselves. It was dinner time and Dean poured his brother a glass of milk.

“When's Dad going to get back?” Sam asked in a small voice. You were sitting at the table while Dean was cooking the food. It was his turn anyways.

“Tomorrow.” Dean said, grabbing the pot on the stove.

“When?” That wasn’t good enough for Sam.

“He’ll be home before you know it, Sammy. But you got us right now and I think that’s pretty great.” You smiled at the kid. Dean poured him some food and sighed.

“Eat your dinner.”

“I'm sick of scabetti-ohs.” You smiled when he tried to pronounce the name of the food.

“Well, you're the one who wanted them!” Dean said, exasperated. You knew Sam was being a pain and Dean was getting fed up.

“I want lucky charms!” Sam smiled.

“Sam, there is no more.” You and Dean always made sure that Sam ate first. Dean then made sure you were next before he even thought about himself. But there was only enough food for Sam and maybe another person. You wanted to put Dean first this time so you hid the lucky charms.

“I saw the box!”

“Okay, maybe there is but there's only enough for one bowl and Dean hasn’t had any yet.” You bit your lip. You got up and took out the box, handing it to Dean. He and Sam were having a stare off, trying to decide who got the Lucky Charms.

Sam was a master at the puppy dog eyes and so naturally, he won. Dean sighed and grabbed the bowl of spaghetti, dumped it and got a new one. He placed the Lucky Charms on the table for Sam to enjoy. Sam smiled widely and reached inside, taking out the toy.

“Do you want the prize?” He held out his hand for Dean. You loved the love Sam had for his brother and the love Dean had for him. It made this life just a little easier to deal with.

“Thanks, Sam.” Dean said softly, taking it.

It was Sunday night but John still hadn’t come back. You and Dean were getting angsty and Sam was getting whiny. You realized for the first time just how small the motel room was. It was getting suffocating just sitting here. The most you could do was watch TV or talk with Sam. So, you and Dean were watching TV because Sam was asleep for the night.

“Y/N, we need to get out of here.” Dean said, turning off the TV.

“What? What about Sam?” You asked, looking at him.

“He’ll be fine. He’s asleep and we’ll only be out for a few minutes. I need some air.”

“Fine, but only for a few minutes.” You got up and followed Dean outside. He made sure the room was locked and you found yourself with Dean, in the office lobby, playing the video games there. You and Dean took turns and you were having so much fun.

You hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. You were forgetting how to be a child and this was a good reason to get out of the room for a while.

“Kids, we’re closing up.” You looked over at the owner and nodded, letting Dean finish his turn.

“Man, that was fun.” Dean laughed, walking out of the lobby. You walked back over to the motel room and walked inside. You stopped short when you saw light coming from Sam’s room. You gulped, knowing that no one should be in there. If Sam was truly awake, he would be watching TV. That kid did nothing else.

You and Dean moved closer to the door and peeked in. Your eyes widened when you saw a shtriga leaning over a sleeping Sam. Dean reached for the rifle by the door and pointed it to the monster. The shtriga hissed and looked at Dean when he cocked the gun.

“Dean, shoot him.” You looked at Dean. He was doing nothing and you assumed he didn’t want to hit Sam. Enough time passed and the front door busted open and John rushed in, guns raised.

“Get out of the way!” John yelled. You grabbed Dean and moved him out of the way, just as John began to shoot the monster. The shtriga got away though and jumped through the window, escaping. John rushed to Sam and pulled him awake.

“Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. You ok?” John said, scared. You and Dean just stared at this because you didn’t know what to do.

“Yeah Dad, what's going on?” Sam asked, confused and sleepy. John turned toward his other son and adopted daughter.

“What happened?” He glared.

“We just went out…” You began to say.

“What?!” John yelled.

“Just for a second. I'm sorry.” Dean said, scared for his brother.

“I told you not to leave this room. I told you not to let him out of your sight!” John yelled at his son.

“John! It wasn’t his fault! I was there too!” You defended the older Winchester.

“I’m no done with you, young lady.” John glared at you. What have you done?

 Present Day

You never got John. You didn’t understand the way he did things. He would send you on hunts but he wouldn’t call. He would send them through a phone that you couldn’t track. You didn’t understand why he was doing this or where he was doing this from.

If it was up to you, you wouldn’t have gone. But Dean does whatever Daddy asks him to do. You loved John with all your heart but you didn’t know why he was always so strict with you and his sons.

“Dean, I’m trying here and I’m finding nothing. Maybe dad was wrong. Maybe there is nothing here.” Sam said, frustrated. You were going to Fitchburg, Wisconsin where John was sending you. He didn’t tell you why you were going there. You’ll just have to figure it out on the way.

“You probably missed something, that's what.” Dean was set about this and you or Sam wouldn’t change his mind.

“Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, and newspapers, but I couldn't find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?”

“Yeah, I double checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important, Sammy.” Dean sighed.

“Sam, maybe there will be something by the time we get there. Not everything is meet-the-eye.” You tried to make this situation better.

“Well, I'm telling you I looked and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something I don't know what.” Sam closed his laptop and looked out the window.

“Well, maybe he's going to meet us there.” Dean said with a bit of hope in his tone.

“Dean, I don’t think that he will. He hasn’t really been that easy to find.” You bit your lip gently.

“Fine, maybe he won’t be there but I’m sure there is something in Fitchburg that is worth killing.” Dean said.

“Yeah? What makes you so sure?” Sam asked, looking at his brother.

“Cause I'm the oldest, which means I'm always right.” Dean shrugged.

“No, it doesn’t.” Sam scoffed.

“I totally does, Sammy. And if we’re going by who is oldest, I think I win.” You grinned at Dean who gave you a slight eyeroll.

“Yeah, by one week.” Dean muttered. You giggled and sat back, enjoying the low music for a change. You were glad Dean wasn’t blasting it because that got old when you had to listen to the same albums over and over.

You looked out the window and watched as a sign that said you were entering the town, passed. You were getting kind of thirsty but not for water. You needed caffeine in your system if you were going to stay awake for the next couple of hours.

“Hey Dean, do you want to pull over at the next diner you see? I need some coffee.” All you got in return was a hum and you took that as a yes. The diner wasn’t far and before you knew it, you were leaning on the car with Sam while Dean was inside, getting coffee for everyone.

“Sam, maybe there is a case here. We just need to open our eyes a bit more. You know what they say, the closer you think you are, the less you actually see.” You grinned.

“Isn’t that from a magic movie?” Sam asked.

“One, it’s called Now You See Me, two, it’s a fantastic movie, and three, that saying isn’t any less true if it came from a movie or not.” You looked behind you when you heard footsteps and smiled when you saw Dean. He handed you the coffee and you sipped gracefully.

“Thanks, Dean.” You looked at Sam to see him staring at the park in front of you. It was a beautiful day outside, why wasn’t there more people out?

“Dean, you got the time?” Sam asked, sipping his coffee.

“Ten after Four. Why?”

“What's wrong with this picture?” Sam kept looking at the park. Now that Sam pointed it out, only one kid was playing at the park. Where was everyone else?

“School's out, isn't it?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, so, where is everybody? This place should be crawling with kids right now.” Sam sighed. You looked over to a woman who was sitting by herself, watching her kid play.

“I’ll be right back,” You walked over to the woman and smiled kindly at her.

“Sure is quiet out here.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.” She sighed sadly.

“Why’s that?” You asked.

“You know, kids getting sick, it's a terrible thing. It’s only been five or six but it’s serious, like hospital serious. A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious because they think it's catching.” You looked at the girl and you nodded.

“Well, be safe.” She nodded and you walked away, going back to Sam and Dean.

“All the kids are getting sick, like, hospital sick. That doesn’t seem normal to me. We should check the hospital to see what is going on.” You informed the brothers.

“See, Sammy, I told you there was a case.” Dean said while getting in the car.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be too sure just yet.” You and Sam got in and Dean drove to the hospital. Only Sam was dressed nice enough so you and Dean thought it would be good for him to talk to the receptionist. You handed him an ID and the three of you were inside.

“Dude, I am not using this ID.” Sam said, looking at it. You smirked because you were the ones to make the IDs.

“Why not?” Dean asked, laughing a bit.

“You know why. It says bikini inspector on it!” Sam glared at the two of you.

“Come on, Sam, don’t worry too much. I made the letters really small.” You giggled.

“You made this?” Sam asked.

“I always make them.” You grinned.

“Don't worry, she won't look that close all right? Hell, she won't even ask to see it. It's all about confidence Sammy.” Dean spun Sam around when he was right in front of the receptionist and you and Dean stood off to the side, giggling like a couple of school girls.

“Hi, I'm Doctor Jerry Caplin, Centers for Disease Control.” Sam said with confidence.

“Can I see some ID?” You knew they would ask since it is a hospital. Sam glared at Dean who started snickering and showed the woman his ID. He was quick but the woman didn’t question it.

“Now could you direct me to the pediatric ward please?”

“Okay well, just go down that hall, turn left and up the stairs.” The woman directed. Sam nodded and gave Dean the bitch face when he walked to him.

“See, I told you it would work.” Dean chuckled. Sam wasn’t joking at all and you could tell.

“Follow me. It's upstairs.” Sam led the way and you trailed behind both of them. You reached a long corridor and looked into rooms as you passed. But you stopped short when you saw an old woman in a wheelchair, facing the wall. It was like she could sense you were there because she turned her head and scowled. She didn’t look very evil, just creepy, and your eyes shifted to the wall where an inverted cross hung there.

“Sweetheart.” You looked at Dean who waved you over. You looked back at the woman who was now facing the wall again. You shook your head and followed Dean to where Sam was with a doctor, chatting.

Immediately, when you saw the doctor, something didn’t feel right. You didn’t know what it was but your gut was screaming at you that something was wrong with this person. Of course, you didn’t say anything to anyone.

“Well, thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker.” Sam smiled, following the doctor.

“Well I'm glad you guys are here. I was just about to call CDC myself. How'd you find out anyways?”

“Oh, some GP, I forget his name, he called Atlanta and, uh, he must've beat you to the punch.” Dean chuckled. You looked around and saw all kinds of children in different rooms. Some were awake, some were sleeping and some were hooked up to machines.

“So, you say you got six cases so far?” Sam asked, stopping when the doctor stopped.

“Yeah, five weeks. At first, we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia. Not that newsworthy. But now the kids aren't responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren't doing their job. It's like their bodies are wearing out.” A nurse came up to the group and handed the doctor a clipboard with paperwork on it.

“You ever see anything like this before?” You asked the doctor.

“Never this severe.”

“And the way it spreads... that's a new one for me.” The nurse butted in.

“What do you mean?’ You asked, looking at her.

“It works its way through families. But only the children, one sibling after another. It’s too bad, really because they go unconscious.”

“All of them?” Sam asked in surprise.

“All of them.” She sighed.

“Can we, uh, can we talk to the parents?” Dean asked.

“If you think it will help.” The doctor nodded.

“Who was your most recent admission?” The doctor gave you information on a man who has two daughters that are both sick.

Masterlist // Series Rewrite Masterlist // Buy me a Coffee?

Series Rewrite tags:

@helllonearth @amyisabellal @deanwnchstr @caseykitten6 @roxalya19 @quixoticcat @supernaturalblogging @notmoose45 @crowleysminion @mina22 @tahbehonest

Forever tags:

@that-annoying-band-potato @maddieburcham1 @ginamsmith @mogaruke @whit85-blog @inlovewithbja @spn67-sister @kdfrqqg @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @roxyspearing @supercalifragilistic26 @mishamigose @cobrakai1967

Dean tags:

@akshi8278 @mega-mrs-dean-winchester @winchesterandpie

Other tags:

@jensen-jarpad @notnaturalanahi @deathtonormalcy56 @27bmm

[attract-mode-collective]

Memories Of Mom & Dad Playing Video Games

So no game culture wrap up this week, due to aforementioned on-going health related complications. Nothing serious, though it’s been enough for me to not only miss the majority of Death By Audio Arcade’s latest shindig, Deathmatch By Audio IX (perhaps some of you might recall my mention of XIII), but I also have to sit out on DBAA’s upcoming appearance at the Smithsonian this weekend. And that sucks.

At the very least, I’m able to catch a screening of the one film that truly encapsulates the New York City experience, that being the criminally underrated Bill Murray vehicle Quick Change, with the girlfriend. I should also be able to post something this Sunday, which is somewhat of a special day for Attract Mode, but more on that later.

In the meanwhile, wanted to share something that caught my eye on Reddit, the image above obviously. Not surprisingly, what results are various folks sharing their own fond memories, of mom or dad playing video games. Here are the stand outs…

“In 1989 my parents got divorced. I was 6. My dad went to go stay with a friend who had a kid my age, and we went there on nights we visited him.

One night I was sleeping in my friends room, my dad woke me in the middle of the night and brought me downstairs.

He and his buddy had been stuck on World 2-1 in Super Mario Bros for an hour, and had eventually got so frustrated that waking the kids seemed like the appropriate course of action

I cleared the level for him and went back to bed.”

-

“I was about 6 or 7, my step-dad had rented SMB2 for me. He eventually pried me away and sent us to bed that evening. When I woke up the next day, I found my 4yr old sister playing, and she was in a level I'd never seen before. Next thing I know, she was battling Wart. I knew this thanks to Nintendo Power. I watched in complete amazement as she battled him, but then I realized her movements weren't quite syncing up with what I was seeing on screen.

That's when I realized I'd been had. My step dad had stayed up until 5am beating the game and recording it on VHS - then set my sister up for the ultimate prank. He really had me going for awhile.

Another time he found a clipart collection of popular commercial logos and started sending out letters on official looking letterhead. He sent his cousin one from Coors about getting to attend the SuperBowl, and sent me one from Nintendo saying I'd been selected to beta test their upcoming 32-bit system. It had a secret code I was supposed to use when I called the number on the paper. I ended up calling a vitamin company and repeating my passphrase to one very confused customer service rep.”

-

“I remember my mother waking me on a school night at 2am to watch her kill Chaos in FF. That was pretty cool.”

-

“Dad bought a Gameboy in the early 90s for my brother and I to keep us quiet on road trips (it didn't work cos he only bought one...) And my mom got hooked on Tetris. Most of the accessories we got were bought by mom. Battery pack..a bigger battery pack. The light. The magnifier. All of it so she could keep playing Tetris.

Little while later we got Dr Mario for NES and mom got hooked on that too. I still remember the last time my mom ever played a video game. It was 7am on a Wednesday morning. I walked into the den and there she was sitting on the floor, playing Dr Mario.

‘Mom where's breakfast’

‘What're you doing up? What time is it!? Oh my god!’

She'd played Dr Mario for the entire night. She called in sick to work so she could sleep, and traded the game in for credit at a local game store the next day. Never touched Tetris again either.”

-

“I remember one of the first games I got for N64 was Star Wars: Shadow of the Empire. Sometimes when I'd get stuck on a level I'd ask my dad to beat it for me. I don't think he really liked video games or anything - I'm sure he'd much rather have played catch or something outside - but he'd play for hours to beat those levels for me because he wanted to spend time with me and my brothers, and that's what we wanted to do. It's one of the fondest memories I have of him. Anyway, at some point I asked him to beat the sewer level for me, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't take down that tentacle boss. Then one day I managed to do it for myself. After that I knew what I had to do. I killed him and took his place as ruler of the family. Old man shouldn't have shown weakness.”

Now, this isn’t the first time that such imagery has been shared in such a forum, far from it. And still to this day, my absolute favorite example (as evidenced by the fact that I’ve written about it multiple times, for multiple places, so it’s finally Attract Mode’s turn) remains the time some dude came home to discover his mom drunk and playing Link To The Past, around 2 in the morning. Which he also had to take a picture of and share on the internet. Naturally…

And here we have my favorite responses from that, the ones that are not quite so vulgar…

“I’m just going to say it, I’d bang your mom.”

“I played A Link to the Past with my mom when I was a kid. I used to come home from school and she would tell me about all the progress she made while I was gone. >:c”

“Sweet CRT man.”

“my mom was playing Ducktales when I was conceived.”

“HEY OP THANKS FOR TAKING A SEXUAL PUIC OF YOUR MOM. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK EVERYONE WHO USES THIS SITE”

“Dude, clean your house.”

“Marry her”

“Seriously, Plasma and LCD prices are so cheap now. Buy a new tv, there is no excuse. A buddy and his wife had that exact tv until may this year. I got so sick of watching hockey on it at their place I went to best buy and dropped 800 on a new 50 inch plasma for them just so we could have a proper hockey party. Really people the 90′s are over it’s time to ditch the crt.”

“COMMENTS SUMMARY: EVERYONE WANTS TO FUCK YOUR MOM.”

Oh, so back to the original subject, that being folks sharing stories about a parent playing a Game Boy… I’ve got one of my own.

It was Christmas time, 1996. Up till that point, I was a freshman in art school, in New York City, my first significant chunk of time away from home. But instead of flying back to Washington State, to spend the holidays with my parents, I instead went down south to Louisiana. You see, there was this girl from high school that I was friends with, and we were just friends… until I began to develop feelings during our long phone conversations, which sprung from both of us being homesick in college (she was attending some major school in the midwest).

So the plan was for me to spend time with her, at her parents, who had just relocated down south (since it was a military household, they were reassigned). I came up with a bullshit cover story to my dad, about how I got a gig on a Rugrats motion picture, hence why I was staying put in NYC (it’s worth noting that my first legit job in school was being a telephone psychic and I accidentally predicted The Rugrats Movie years before it actually happened, yes sayin’). I had assumed that my holidays would be spent a close friend from back home, who wasn’t my girlfriend, but would become one.

Well, that didn’t quite happen. I would discover in the most awkward way possible that she didn’t feel that way about me, and early on into my two week stay. So to pass the time, I ended up just playing Game Boy… as in, I played with her dad’s Game Boy. And quite a bit. Tetris was the game, which her dad was obsessed with it. Him and I would pass it back and forth, to top each other’s high scores. The old man basically felt sorry for me;  he knew why I was there, i.e. to have sex with his daughter, but because I was so clearly crestfallen from being rejected, he tried his best to keep me distracted.

Though it’s a safe bet that he would have figured out other ways to keep me occupied if his daughter was indeed into me. Though in the end, I’m happy to say that my Game Boy Tetris skills are so good that it’s enough to beat a legit 4 star general in the United States Army.

Don’t forget: Attract Mode is now on Medium! There you can subscribe to keep up to date, as well as enjoy some “best of” content you might have missed the first time around, plus be spared of the technical issues that’s starting to overtake Tumblr.

[daylightsheeran]

My Taylor Swift Story

I suppose this is a different kind of post. This is how I came to love Taylor the way I do now.

So it all starts in 2009 with the release of Love Story and You Belong With Me. I Remember Love story was played on that tv and my step dad saying “she’s new, I wonder what else will she do or is this it” (something like that anyways). At this point in time I was 9 years old 10 in November. I love love story! I got my step dad to put it on my little iPod Nano and I put it on repeat. Not long after that song being out I got to sing it for singing classes at my dancing school. We performed it , made me love the song more!

When I discovered YBWM my love for Taylor grew again and once again I had another song on repeat constantly. Taylor had come to Sydney for Fearless and speak now world tour. Unfortunately I was too young to even know they had happened. Then when red came out I was about 12. I loved WANEGBT !! It was one of those songs that makes you want dance for hours. Then I had made a fan account on Instagram, it was called @taylors1fan , I posted very bad quality photos of Taylor “ily Taylor I love you” “plz notice me, plz” as the captions.

She announced the red tour and I had to go! At the time Mum had said no because she didn’t think I was a big enough fan and said no. I was so upset that I cried :/ , but my Aunty came to the rescue!!! I had told her that Mum would let me go and she said “I don’t mind Taylor swift I’ll go with you. I was so happy. So I had these dodgy nose bleed seats, I was pretty much as fat back as it got. When the lights when down and Taylor appeared in the shadows and started singing state of grace i was so happy, then when the Curtains come down, I cried!!!! There she was , Taylor Swift! (Though I was sad Ed didn’t come to red tour Australia, but how I grew to love him is a different story)

After that that was it, I was a big fan (so I thought). I had changed my account to something ted Sweeran related because I really though Ed and Taylor where going to date. My obsession just went up and up after Red tour. When 1989 came around I was a much bigger fan then I was before. I remember the live stream for the new song and album. I told my mum I wasn’t going to school until it was done, I had my foot down. Luckily it finished before school started and I was fine. I listened to shake it off all day at school (even though I wasn’t suppose to). The lead up to album was great! When OOTW came out I remember getting home from school BLASTING, it I rang mum while she was at work and blasted it in the phone 😂. When the album came out I was so excited, I hardly did any work, at this time I was 14. I went to 1989 world tour! I went with @taylorsno1fan And we both cried ( xD ). Taylor was so amazing I couldn’t believe I was in the same room as my queen. It was great because I went on the week of my birthday, Mum did by me tickets this time because she knew if she didn’t I would hate her for life hahaha.

After 1989 when Taylor went quiet. I wondered where she had gone, not on tumblr in 9 months, no Instagram post nothing. Until there legit was nothing, that every account, website was gone. I was freaking out when I woke up to see Taylor had posted. I was spammed with messages “ALANAH WAKE UP ITS TAYLOR” I was crying in bed at my Oma’s house , about Taylor posting a snakes tail 😂. When it came around for LWYMMD I was crying so hard dudes! “The old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now” I freaking died. The album realse day was great because the album was being sold at the shops before it was on iTunes, I know I shouldn’t listen to it before the release date but I could not just wait. The new Ed and Taylor Colab made me so happy. The whole album is just a masterpiece!

This Last era has been one of my favourites. Seeing everything Taylor has learnt and how she has become was amazing. This tour I even got to see her twice! I went to Perth and Sydney! When my mum got the Sydney tickets she was having trouble getting in but then “Mum sent you a photo” I screamed because the photo said “x1 snake pit 2” FREAKING SNAKE PIT. What was my Mum thinking it was so expensive, I couldn’t believe she did that for me. She told me “you know why I did that? Because if that was Michael Jackson those would be the tickets I wanted, and I know you love Taylor like I loved Michael” 😭😭😭😭😭

It’s been a long 10 years of being a Swiftie now, it’s being a long time. Still no notices, not a like or anything. But I’m so fine with that because I love Taylor and even if she never likes I’ll still always love her. Thanks for everything you’ve done Taylor! You make people feel better when they are down , make people feel like there dreams aren’t impossible you make when feel like it’s too sly possible. Your kind soul is was we all need in this world.

I love you so much

-Alanah

@taylorswift @taylornation

[thevalkirias]

Off the Cliff: Why Thelma & Louise was an out-of-the-ordinary movie

Long before I knew what story was told in Thelma & Louise, I knew it as a cultural reference mentioned in many other movies -- and tv shows, and books --, specially when it came to female characters. It was only last year, with its 25th birthday, that I finally watched it and understood why it is referenced so often. Thelma & Louise seemed to me very different, though at that moment I couldn’t say exactly why. It’s on this why that Becky Aikman’s Off the Cliff focuses. With a subtitle that reads “How the making of Thelma & Louise drove Hollywood to the edge”, the book narrates the movie’s behind-the-scenes, in an attempt to understand why Thelma and Louise represented a small revolution from the moment the movie was released until today.

Off the Cliff feels like a book-length news report telling the story behind the production of Thelma & Louise, a road movie directed by Ridley Scott and starring Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon as best friends who go on a fishing trip and end up becoming fugitives after Louise shoots a stranger who had just raped Thelma. The book follows a mostly chronological order to tell us about the making of the movie: from the moment of frustration going on in screenwriter Callie Khouri’s personal and professional life to the 1992 Oscars, when she got the award for best original screenplay. Aikman narrates the different steps in the long process of turning an idea into a movie. There is a world of people involved and not all of them will see the final product the same way, but it’s easy to see that they are all essential for the goal to be achieved. And the goal, in this case, was to make a movie that no one wanted to buy, that couldn’t find the right director, that for many A-list actresses seemed like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and that everyone wanted to change -- especially its striking and unexpected conclusion -- before it became what it is.

When Callie Khouri wrote Thelma & Louise in 1989, she was a newcomer. Callie worked behind the scenes of music videos, and the story she decided to tell, about women who become increasingly free, was in part a response to what she saw every day at work: hypersexualixed women serving as background for men, always men. Because she was a novice, perhaps she didn’t really understand just how much everything she was doing with her script went against Hollywood’s standards at the time.

More than two decades later, Becky Aikman reveals in which context Callie, with a lot of effort, managed to sell her story and see it on the big screen. At the time, action movies were topping the box office; and action, Aikman explains, meant men with guns. Women’s Pictures -- smaller movies focused on the interior lives of the characters -- were left for television. In the movies, more than the majority of speaking roles were male, and female roles were often limiting and archetypical. Women accounted for an average of 20 percent of movie crews. Of the top fifty movies of 1988, only two were written by women without male partners. The last time a woman had won an Oscar for best original screenplay by herself was 1932. The idea of Callie not only writing but also directing a movie as risky as Thelma & Louise -- as she had initially planned -- was absurd.

But why was Thelma and Louise’s story so risky, after all? Aikman chose Off the Cliff as the title of her book in a reference to the final scene of the movie, in which Thelma and Louise find themselves surrounded by police cars and decide to keep on running by literally throwing themselves off a cliff right there in the Grand Canyon. It was too much. It was too much to end in suicide a movie that already strayed so much from the expectations of the audience. An average of five movies, out of the fifty most successful per year, had female leads. Two female leads? Less than two movies per year. As a rule, men acted, women reacted (to them). Aikman reports that Geena Davis, who would be cast as Thelma, used to call many of the roles available for women the “good luck, honey!” characters -- the role left for the woman was, after all, to say goodbye when the man went on to live his adventures. Throughout the entirety of the casting process Geena’s agent would call the people in charge every week to let them know she was interested in playing either Thelma or Louise. Just like several other actresses.

But Thelma & Louise wasn’t simply a movie with female leads. Thelma and Louise were female leads living in a world where every man was nothing more than an archetype. They were women who escaped failed relationships and did things that female characters were never supposed to do: killing (once, a rapist, and feeling as conscious of their mistake as remorseful), stealing, running from the police, having sex with strangers, setting fire to a truck. They were women who became increasingly free and distanced from the standards imposed on female characters -- because of course men could kill, steal, run from the police, have sex with strangers and set fire to whatever they wanted without anyone screaming in horror that they weren’t good role models.

The obligation of being a role model is the burden the female character must carry. Recently, when Gone Girl, a thriller with an extremely cold and calculating female lead, was adapted to the big screen, a similar discussion took place. These characters’ enormous flaws are always pinpointed and their stories’ feminism -- or lack of it -- is always questioned, even if none of them have claimed to be feminist icons. Though for a good while anti-heroes were the norm when we thought about prestige TV, though even our most positive super-heroes now have dark undertones, it’s harder to sell a movie led by women who aren’t good role models. When we defend these stories, we’re not stating that these characters should represent every woman or that their actions inspire us. What we ask is for female characters to be allowed to be as good, or as bad, or as gray, as any male character -- without anyone wanting to ban them from theaters. What we want is to see as many female characters as there are women; back in 2014, though, when Amy Dunne was on the big screen, women comprised 12% of protagonists. In such a context, having a female lead is always a huge responsibility.

Aikman reports that seeing female characters in nontraditional roles was one of the things that pleased preview audiences. Over time, the movie became very meaningful to many women -- not because they closed their eyes to a murder that wasn’t executed in self-defense, but because of what the characters represented beyond their actions:

“But for the women who loved Thelma and Louise, it was not so much about what those characters did as about what they were: women living their lives in the movies for all to see. Women who looked like real women and talked like real women, women who had more on their minds than ‘Good luck, honey!’ Women who could laugh in the open about the at the too-recognizable foibles of men -- and women, too. Who understood what it meant to become that third thing when they were together, making choices -- even bad ones -- on their own.”

Thelma and Louise become so independent and start living so far out of what was socially imposed on them that Callie saw the falling-off-the-cliff ending as their only way out. She didn’t consider it tragic, or even suicide: “Women who are completely free from all the shackles that restrain them have no place in this world. The world is not big enough to support them,” she would state later. It wasn’t tragic because art is able to represent situations that are meaningful in ways that go beyond the literality of life. “They flew away, out of this world”, Callie said, “and into the mass unconscious.”

With many difficulties and some creative differences between Callie Khouri and Ridley Scott, for the most part it was her singular vision that was followed. But Thelma & Louise didn’t change cinema. Aikman quotes Geena Davis discussing the widespread assumption that the film’s success would open new roads for women and their stories. The same happened with the success of A League of their Own, another movie starring Geena which defied conventional gender roles. But they were both isolated phenomena in a deeply sexist industry. After years of being both a witness and a victim of the industry’s sexism, Geena founded her own research institute to discuss the way women are being represented in the media -- and the results are usually not very positive. Aikman explains that the many recent blockbusters with female leads are still seen, again and again, as anomalies by the studios. Men continue to be their safe bet.

For those who follow the discussion about women and the media closely, many of the facts, stories and numbers that Becky Aikman uses to contextualize the story will seem like old acquaintances rather than a novelty. But she makes very good use of them, linking the information with the story she tells, in much detail, about one of these Hollywood “anomalies” that are impossible to ignore. Her writing is accessible and captivating and reading the book, which combines the main storyline with Aikman’s own observations about the bigger issue of women and film and with what the many people involved in the production of Thelma & Louise thought or think about it, is an enjoyable and enriching experience. Above all else, I like that Aikman is not afraid of expressing her opinions and pointing out the double standards for men and women in the industry or the excuses Hollywood uses to keep on treating our stories as a niche interest.

Thelma & Louise didn’t change cinema, but,as Aikman points out, for a moment it drove Hollywood to the edge of a cliff that the industry is still afraid of facing. Beyond it rests a world of stories waiting to be told. Callie Khouri told one of them, and the result was a movie that is now part of the collective unconscious -- exactly what she had envisioned for Thelma and Louise’s final choice.

We received the book from Penguin Press in exchange for a review.

About the author

FERNANDA

Officially a translator and proofreader, Fernanda has a special love for literature and for this writing thing. A loyal follower of the uncool lifestyle, she doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures nor in the concept of liking something ironically.

Art by Carol Nazatto

This piece was originally published in Portuguese on June 27th, 2017, on Valkirias.com.br Translated by the author.

[paperrings-shinythings]

my taylor story

I haven’t been able to meet taylor...yet... but this is my story of getting to know her and how she unknowingly raised me and shaped my life. 

i grew up in the time of music (aka 2008 to 2015). my brother constantly had music videos playing in the living room. as most of us know, one of taylor’s breakthroughs into mainstream music was Love Story. I know this is a running joke between swifties, but that song literally taught me the story of Romeo and Juliet However, unlike my sister, i didn’t have a way of keeping up with taylor, or really even knowing who she was other than the music videos my brother would play on the tv. I would just say “Oh! There’s Juliet!” (i also did this to annoy my sister because she was a huge fan of taylor). 

years went by and i became less of a brat, so my older sister allowed me to listen to her RED cd. I sat in her room, on the floor, listening, soaking in, all of taylor’s lyrics. Peyton, my sister, paid no mind to me. She actually says it was one of the few times she never heard me say anything. It was her “hour of peace”. It hooked me. My brother would watch that week’s newest music videos and i was sitting there, right next to him, waiting for my juliet- er taylor. I Knew You Were Trouble was the first one i saw from RED. my age did not allow me to comprehend what the video was about or what was happening, but i didn’t care. I watched as taylor sang and hurt for the next three minutes. right then, it clicked. for months you could hear hums of WANGBT, IKYWT, and Red all throughout the house. 

1989 came out a couple years later. I’m in fifth grade and my sister is on her way to college. I suppose she got hit with a bit of Never Grow Up from speak now since she took me everywhere with her that summer. her, knowing how much i loved RED, took me to Kroger to get 1989 the day it came out. We rushed over to the stand next to self checkout, grabbed a cd, grabbed some snacks, and checked out. we drove around our city eating the snacks until the album was over, then gave our reviews. same routine followed, I kept watch of youtube and raced to watch the videos when i saw them. I remember trying to learn all the dances in Shake It Off and mimic the gracefulness found in Wildest Dreams. 

Two years later, we all know what happened. I was in the middle of moving to a different state and was not on social media (rather, didn’t know how to use it). I was clueless for those years about what happened to taylor. Until Look What You Made Me Do came out. I heard she released another song!! Peyton, unfortunately, lived miles away and was studying for some big test. So, I climbed on top of a haybale with my close friend and watched the music video. I remember feeling sad when it was over. “What did she mean by the old taylor was dead?” “Will she not be singing those songs i fell in love with anymore?” “Did the songs die with her?” Were my immediate first thoughts. I moved on and continued to look out for new music videos and learned all the lyrics to every song. I started asking my mom for a pet snake for christmas (still working on that).

Lover was next. I stopped keeping up with taylor, but she came right back with the song ME!. I started listening more to “2014 tumblr emo songs” so Lover’s audience didn’t pin me. However, with 2014 emo comes Panic! At The Disco... you know where this is going- yes, i listened to ME! for Bredon Urie and delved into the entire album, which lifted me from my eyeliner and flannels. I fell back into my same routine- this time, arguing with people who didn’t appreciate the songs (seriously guys, you just don’t like happy songs). 

And in the depths of the quarantine born were our friends, our sisters, our sorrows: folklore and evermore. I sat down and listened to every single song to folklore and texted the review to my sister. what ensued were tears and relatability (seriously taylor, how did you perfectly describe what i was feeling at that moment). evermore followed behind closely. i was actually on the phone with my friend Addsion. she wasn’t a huge taylor swift fan, but i sure did make her one that day. we would listen to a song, and then rate it- just as peyton and I did with 1989. her favorite was champagne problems, and mine was tolerate it.

April 9th is soon. 6 days away. I don’t know if I’m more excited for the album, or that I turn 16 (I know, I’m literally a year off- don’t remind me). my sister will be visiting and I am so excited to continue a tradition. our father picks on us, but the whole family knows he is secretly a taylor fan- everyone in the family is. i’m sure by now @taylorswift knows of how much her songs impact all of our lives. i take her words as advice, and scream lyrics of hurt that i have never felt before. taylor has certainly earned her status of a musical legend and i am so excited for what the future holds.

[ecotone99]

[MS] One of my strangest cases

My name is Police Chief Brian Morrison. I started as a patrol officer in 1978 and retired in February of 2020. I was the police chief of a small beach town on the East Coast of Florida. Orange Grove Island was the name of the city. It was North of Daytona Beach (between Daytona Beach and St. Augustine) but a quiet town for the most part. The town didn't allow for large condos or building above four stories high to be built. That kept the town character rather quaint.

I was married back in the 1980's and then divorced. I have two grown children and three grandchildren. I remarried back in 1990. Sadly my second wife Sally died in 2004. Totally unexpected. For the past several years I've dated a woman who lives in Penscola. We have a long distance relationship. Because of Covid-19, we talked on the computer or on the phone. Haven't seen her since March. My kids like her which is good.

Since the early 1980's, some anonymous person has sent a variety of audio tapes, VCR tapes and DVD tapes with a note saying that crimes has been committed and stuff that was being sent was connected. They were sent to several law enforcement agencies up and down the Eastern Seaboard of Florida. Most of the people on the tapes couldn't be identified.

Now that I'm retired and Covid-19 has basically confined me to my house, I decided to take a second look at these audio tapes, VCR and DVD tapes. Several agencies threw away these audio tapes, VCR tapes and DVD recordings. My uncle kept them and gave them to me shortly after he retired. He really didn't know to make of them as no actual crime was spoken of or recorded. I had heard some of the recordings when he first got them back in the day.

Most of the audio tapes are of private conversations of citizens about very mundane things. A few of the conversations I recognized the voices. One of them was rather amusing. It was the first audio tape that was sent in April of 1982. Clara Matthews was about 80 years old in 1982. She was at her home which was right on the beach talking with her best friend Florence Gray about an orchestra concert that Orange Grove College put on. Her grandson played the clarinet in the Orchestra.

For those who don't know, Orange Grove college is a private Episcopalian college. About 1, 000 students, many of whom are in the orchestra. Robert Hall is Clara Matthew's grandson. I knew him as we attended the same high school, Orange Grove High.

"I really enjoyed going with you to the concert Clara. Robert did so well."

"I know he did very well. I know that he was pretending not to look at me but I know he was."

"Well, Clara you were whispering to me rather loudly during the performance."

"I wasn't that loud, Florence, I mean really."

I had to laugh when I would think of their conversations. Their voices carried. I lived next door from Clara, so I often heard the conversations that she had with Florence. The two women passed on decades ago.

Robert Hall played the clarinet and he recently retired from the Kansas City Orchestra after many years playing there.

The family had a good reputation. I tried to figure out what crime was committed. Maybe the person didn't like classical music, didn't like how Robert played the clarinet or maybe the person was jealous of Robert. I remember my uncle saying this.

We both laughed about this one but it was wasting the time and resources of the law enforcement agencies. Because it was labeled evidence of possible crime, the agencies that got it had to investigate to see if this was the case. It was nearly 10 years before the law enforcement agencies realized that other agencies were getting the same thing.

One of the VCR tapes which was made back in 1989 was leaked to a tabloid magazine who had a field day with it. Everyone knew that Monica Snowden was probably going to make it big as an actress. She had talent and was in many local plays. Rock Star Kevin Press had gone to the little dinner theater in 1984 and had seen Monica perform in the play Snow White. She had just graduated from high school but didn't know what to do with her life.

She ended up being a dancer in several music videos and they got married two weeks after her 18th birthday. Kevin was 26 years old. The marriage lasted 5 years and produced twin daughters. The video recording was secretly done. Kevin and Monica were separating and they were at her grandmother's home talking. Both were sitting at a table across from each other. Both were quite upset with each other.

"I'm going to tell everyone in your family's church what you did Monica. Do 'want me to do that? You weren't some sweet innocent virgin when we got married. I tell them that we sleep together before we were married. I'm sure they already know this, but they pretend like they don't.

"You know Kevin, I don't care if you do. I'm sure they already know that. You told everyone on nationwide TV about it."

That I do remember. My then wife Karen liked to watch one of the late night shows and Kevin made a comment about it. Monica couldn't stop laughing but I could tell she was mortified. A couple of weeks later, they split up due to his cheating.

They argued about his cheating. Kevin blamed her for his cheating. She wasn't having any of it and they had a rather heated but surprisingly civil discussion about it (they didn't cuss each other out or call each other names). It was Monica that happened to notice people on the beach had gathered and had listened to most of their arguing. She went back into the house as did Kevin.

Someone had called concerned about a verbal argument between them. When I responded to the call, Kevin was still at the house. I've been to many domestic disturbances. I asked the usual questions and determined it was a verbal dispute and there was no violence.

Everyone had to put their two cents in after this VCR tape was released. It wasn't aired on TV but people got copies of it. The tape didn't include me going into the house but did include me talking to Kevin in front of the house.

Two days later, Kevin called me on the phone as I had left my business card. He was upset about the VCR tape. I already knew about it because it had been sent to our agency by a concerned citizen. I decided not to tell him this.

"What about the people that gathered on the beach near Monica's grandmother's home when you were arguing? One of them could have filmed you. It wouldn't be too difficult and secondly you were out in a public where you could be filmed from a public place. I know that they weren't locals. I have no idea who they were."

I found out later from Monica that they had tried to find out who had sent out this VCR tape and were never able to do so. Technically this wasn't a crime as the person who did it didn't come on the property to film them.

Monica became an actress and did many TV shows and movie. A lot of the movies were family type movies as Monica was one who would not do R rated movies. She married a guy who played the drums in a progressive Christian rock band. This was probably more her style. She had three more children.

The VCR tapes like the audio tapes were of being doing mundane things. Most of the people I had no idea who they were. Again no criminal activity. The DVD's were the same except for one. The tape didn't involve criminal activity but involved some very upset people about a change in their college status. This involved Monica's twin daughters.

2016

Both daughters Stephanie and Vicky were art teachers at an arts and drama college in Maine. The school had been struggling financially and was being bought by a religious college known to be very conservative. The art school had been secular and basically the facility and the students weren't subject to being censored or told what they could or couldn't do. The college then would decide who they would hire. None of the facility or students knew this, so it was a shock.

A week later - Party at the art school

Stephanie and Vicky were talking about losing their jobs. The twins were very different. Stephanie marched to the beat of her own drummer. She had done art for various promotions of heavy metal bands. When her father had gone on tour during the summer, she had played the guitar. She often dressed like a woman who would be or hung up with a heavily metal band. Her art work was very edgy at times.

Vicky dressed more classically. Her art work was more conventional, not anything that would be controversial but the religious group found fault with her work.

Neither one of them was surprised when they heard they had been fired. In fact the religious group had fired the entire art staff as they didn't fit into their vision of the college. None of the 350 students were accepted into the college because they refused to sign a college student code.

At the party they had talked about this. Monica was at the party as was her father Kevin.

One of the students was sobbing.

"Stephanie, Vicky, I'm going to miss you."

"It's okay, Sally, It's okay. I'm going to hate to leave."

"Well, guys, I will be on tour with my dad playing the guitar in his band. I also will be doing the art work for the T-shirts for his band. My sister Vicky will be at her art gallery."

Everyone clapped and cheered. Then people went off in their own areas.

"You know Stephanie, you were really good when that radio host attacked your personally."said Monica.

"Mom, I know that he wanted me to get upset, cuss him out (he would have loved it if I did that) but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of it. "

"Oh, why didn't you, Stephanie. You're good at cussing.." said Kevin.

"Yea, I am. I'm already been called out by two pastors for having a mouth like a sailor. I cussed even more just to rattle them. Vicky also joined in. Poor mom, I'm embarrassed her.""

"Not really, I knew it was coming but Vicky I was rather surprised."

'Stephanie's a bad influence on me, what can I say?"

The rest of the tape showed clips from Stephanie touring with her father's band. A male voice was condemning her and the rest of the group at the art school.

I heard that Stephanie just laugh at it but Vicky was quite upset about it. Monica and Kevin had no comment. This one was put on youtube and quickly went viral.

That was the last audio tape, VCR tape and DVD that I received. About ten years ago the other agencies that were getting these tapes told me that they were going to trash them as no crimes were committed.

I never caught who was doing this. Again no crimes were committed so what was the motive of this person? The tapes were never mailed from the same place. All over the country. We had a few residences who were world travelers but they were older people.

Did this person think it was funny what they were doing? Were they taunting law enforcement? On one of the tapes, the voice which was altered had said that they got no money from this and weren't the person who released the tapes to the public.

I really believe that the person who was doing this had died. It's one case I will never solve.

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