#i might make some new stuff cause by best portraits are in my sketchbook so i cant take them out

[the-kneesbees]

I'm thinking about entering this local art show?? for the town fair ?

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #22)

(cw: alcohol, drug reference) ----------

01/09/88   2:06 AM

Hey.

I think I’m gonna have to go into some stuff I’d rather not talk about. At least I’m the only one who will ever read this.

Just bear with me.

Even after being hidden away for just a week, Game Central felt eerily foreign to me when we stepped out into it. It felt like seeing it for the first time all over again, but in a bad way. Five years ago, I was awestruck by the bright, bustling energy of a golden hall filled with a rainbow of total strangers. That didn’t happen, this time around. I didn’t step out into adventure, I stepped out into a train station. It was nothing more than what it was. Just a cold, sterile, point A to point B train station. And this time, there wasn’t a single sprite who didn’t know who I was.

I made a beeline for Tapper’s and hurried along, but made sure Wreck-it was still relatively close behind me. Passersby slowed, stared, gasped and whispered to their friends. None of them seemed outwardly hostile, but I wasn’t about to dawdle and give them a chance to be. I was on high alert, higher than I’d ever been in my life.

I even had a thought, once we got off the train at Tapper’s, that this whole rendezvous might have been a trap. That Wreck-it had baited me into it, and I’d be fighting for my life again in minutes. Yeah. All kinds of ridiculous, right? Still, I planted my feet, and had to be nudged along into the bar, against my insistence that I’d changed my mind and wanted to turn back.

We sat at the counter furthest from the bathrooms, and I sat side-saddle with my back to Wreck-it. I couldn’t leave my back to open space. It just sent chills down my spine. Really, the eerily off-key atmosphere of the bar wasn’t helping. 

Like GCS, it was different. My stage had long since been disassembled, probably for good. I remembered the way the room used to look from up there, all full of red-cheeked sprites lifting their glasses and swaying to my music. Now, all I saw were sprites minding their own business, keeping their heads down, only looking up now and then to stare at me. That social, cheery, rough-and-tumble atmosphere was gone. That warm, dim light wasn’t cozy and inviting anymore. It just felt like a dark, dreary hiding hole.

It just felt like a bar. 

At least Tapper was still making an effort to be more than just some bartender.

When he saw me, his face lit up just a shade. He came up to us on the other side of the counter and spoke in a tone hushed enough to avoid drawing too much attention, a favor I was thankful for. 

“There she is, just the gal I wanted to see! Where have you been, Fireball? You had me worried, y’know.”

I didn’t appreciate his supposed concern. It just spoke to me on how blatantly obvious my rapid downward spiral was to everyone around me. They all thought I didn’t have a handle on it. I didn’t, but I didn’t want them to think that.

“Worried? About me? Pfft. Someone’s obsessed,” I weakly deflected.

Wreck-it elbowed me, nearly knocking me off my stool. I added, “And hello.”

“I mean it,” he continued. “Last I heard of anyone seein’ you, the SP was helping you limp across Game Central, and from what sprites been sayin’, you looked rough. Rough enough to make you disappear for a week, I mean, c’mon, that’s just unheard of. Seriously, Mavis, what happened? Are you… Are you really okay?”

Wreck-it cleared his throat. He thought he was helping, but he wasn’t. He just alerted Tapper that it was bad enough for me to not like being asked about it.

I sighed, and tried to pull something he would believe out of my ass. “Look, I went a little too hard on the buffs, alright? I got hooked. I admit it, I got hooked. Things got intense. I don’t remember most of it, but it was intense. The SP bled my credits dry and let me off with a heavy warning. I just… needed to take a step back for a while.”

They were quiet for a minute. I think Tapper believed me, but I’m certain Wreck-it didn’t.

Tapper nodded in a very tired, thoughtful sort of way. “Well… smart move, my friend. You may be onto somethin’. I think a whole lotta sprites could stand to step back a few paces right now.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Don’t… don’t patronize me, man.”

“Am I wrong?”

I hoped dearly for a conversation topic that wasn’t about how crappy things were going, but at the same time, I really doubted I could carry on that conversation. I was so stuck in my own head. With another deep sigh, I said, “No. You’re right. Everyone sucks. They should all try to be even half as self-aware as me. On that note, I’d love to be a little less aware right now, so, gimme a pint of the sweet stuff.”

Tapper clicked his tongue. “Yeaaah, here’s the thing. I can’t serve you.”

“Sure you can. Fill a glass with liquid and let me drink it. Easy.”

“No, Mavis,” he shook his head. “I can’t let you drink.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

“Not ‘til I know you’re back on your feet.”

“I’M--” I caught myself starting to shout, and heads were turning. Lowering my volume, I hissed, “I’m on my feet. I was never off my feet. Didn’t I just tell you I recognized my own buff problem and dealt with it? Could I do that if I was off my feet?”

He remained unswayed. “Look, girl, you know I wish you all the best. What kind of well-wisher would I be if I let you drink, knowing very well you’ve been having trouble staying sober? Knowing very well that you’re not exactly a light, casual drinker? Nah. I’m not gonna enable that.”

“Why am I even here, then?”

“‘Cause you can be. Ain’t that reason enough?”

I stared at him. That man is way too steadfast. I knew I couldn’t change his mind. “Fine, whatever. Not like I could afford it, anyway.”

“But,” he said, “I can get you some snacks if you want. On the house.”

“...Okay.”

Tapper puttered off to fetch said snacks, and got caught in a chain of sprites flagging him down for drinks. I stewed in frustration over Tapper cutting me off before I could even start, until I was rudely interrupted by Wreck-it’s massive tree-trunk of an elbow once again jutting into my back. That time, I actually did fall off.

I hissed many curses of his name and demanded to know what the hell his problem was as I got back on my stool. He glared at me and said something, but I don’t remember what. I didn’t hear him. My eyes had caught the condensation on his mug full of sweet, cold root beer dripping slowly down onto the counter. It was positively taunting me. I found it so unfair that he could have it and I couldn’t -- I wanted it more than he did. I needed to forget way more than he did. How was I supposed to just sit there while he rubbed it in my face?

His voice came back into focus. “--even listening to me?”

I lunged for his mug.

“Hey!” 

He caught me by the back of my smock and slammed me back onto my stool. “You little gremlin, did you hear a word I just said? Tapper welcomes you in here, and this is how you repay him? By being rude and trying to steal what he doesn’t want to serve you? Don’t you know he’s risking a lot letting you in here?”

“Hey, the fact that I’m out here at all is monumentally more risky for me. Don’t start with me on who’s ‘risking a lot.’”

“Wow. You really are that ungrateful, huh. Golly, kid.” He shook his head in disbelief and exercised his drinking privilege.

I groaned. “Obviously I’m grateful he let me in here.”

“How-- How is that obvious?!”

“But I don’t have to fall to my knees and kiss his shoes. Tapper knows I’m grateful. He can tell.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighed. “But, geez, would it kill you to say so?”

“No.” I pulled out a sketchbook to busy myself with. “I just don’t want to.”

“Unbelievable.”

Tapper returned with a bowl of pretzels. The next little while is a bit blurry to remember, but I think that’s because nothing interesting happened for some time. I munched on the pretzels, Tapper and Wreck-it had a long, broken conversation going between Tapper’s… tapping, and the other bar patrons still kept to themselves, apart from the standard stares and whispers. The next thing I remember, and the next thing worth noting, happened once there were barely a handful of pretzels left. I’d been drawing things around me in my sketchbook to keep distracted, and ended up drawing a portrait of Tapper himself. He noticed.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I heard him say. “Is that me?”

He looked so delighted and surprised when I looked over, it kind of caught me off-guard. I didn’t draw it as a gift or gesture or anything, it was just automatic. “...Yes?”

He laughed incredulously and asked to see it, so I turned and held it out for him. He was clearly enamored. I don’t think anyone had drawn him before. But, come to think of it, there aren’t that many artists around, I don’t think. Certainly no portrait artists. I had half a mind to just give it to him, and let that serve as a gesture of gratitude. 

But then, now that I was fully facing him, his eyes inevitably fell to my neck. I’d forgotten I was even wearing your things, and was horribly alarmed when I realized I was. If a sprite who hated my guts and thought I was a murderer in the making saw me wearing those? They’d have turned it into a statement, just like the fireworks. I could hardly have waved a bigger red flag -- or in this case, scarf -- than by wearing your clothes out in the open. 

Tapper, however, took no offense. The twinkle in his eyes just faded, and his moustache drooped a bit. Just like Wreck-it had, he looked like he’d just heard the most depressing news ever. And, in the same way as before, I felt naked and insulted and wanted to hide under the counter.

I did not do that. I pretended not to notice, and waited for him to give me my sketchbook back. But, instead, he looked at the portrait for a minute, and popped a question that just made my stomach roll.

“Let me buy it off ya.”

“The picture?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I wanna put it up somewhere.”

I thought about it.

“...No.”

“What?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. I guess he wasn’t used to me turning down credits from him. “Why not?”

I took my sketchbook back and started putting it away. I was ready to leave. I’d grown a sudden distaste for sitting there with an outrageously incriminating beacon around my neck while my trusted bartender pitied me like some helpless charity case.

“Save your pity credits, Tap, I don’t need ‘em. I get what you’re trying to do, and, yeah, you’re a real good person and all. But I’m not gonna do business with you just ‘cause you feel sorry for me.”

He rolled his huge eyes. “Mavis, for Pong’s sake. I’m not trying to jeopardize your pride, here. That drawing gave me a great idea.”

“...What?”

“I told you I want to put it up on my wall. Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinkin’ lately that the walls look pretty bare. They could stand a bit of decor. So, why don’t we fill ‘em up with some portraits?”

“...Portraits of who?”

“Eh,” he rolled his hand, “y’know, big names at first. Mario, Dig Dug, Mrs. Pac Man, and all that. But there’s lots of wall space, so I’m sure we could include a whole bunch of folks. Especially all my best customers.”

You and I used to be among his best customers. Relatively. I think my thoughts ended up clear on my face, because he gave a small sigh and lowered his tone.

“Look, Mavis. I don’t need to tell you how rough it’s been all around since the day he left us. I won’t say business has been bad, no, it’s been booming, but… for all the wrong reasons.” He gestured to the dismal, depressing atmosphere. “I don’t want my bar to just be some musty box where sprites come to drink their misery. So I’m asking you to help me out, again. It’s not going to fix anything right away, but… you know, I… can’t exactly let you play music here anymore--”

I knew that already, but hearing it out loud still stung.

“--but you could still help me make this place a bit more homey and inviting. Sprites see pictures of themselves and their friends up on the walls, they’ll feel a sense of community, I think. This is not pity. I’m genuinely askin’ if you’ll work with me on this.”

I had to admit, it was so disheartening to see Tapper’s reduced to what it was. He was right, the walls did look bare. I wasn’t sure what good my drawings would really do, but putting something up would at least make the joint look more inhabitable. I chewed my lip for a minute and stared at him.

“...How much?”

He smiled. “I’ll give you 20 for this one, and 30 a piece moving forward.”

I glanced at Wreck-it. He was looking at me expectantly, with this look in his eyes that told me just how pissed he’d be if I said no. 

Eventually, I figured there were far worse ways that someone in my situation could make a few easy credits.

“Alright, Tap. Deal.” 

I stuck my hand out, but Tapper hesitated. His voice turned serious all of a sudden, and a little sad. 

“But, listen, Mavis. Before we make a deal, you gotta promise me something.”

I paused, and rolled my eyes. Everyone loves promises. “Oh boy. What?”

“These credits are to help you look after yourself. Safely. I find you’ve been getting high with creds I gave you, the deal’s off. I need you to look me in the eye and promise me that you won’t spend these credits on buffs.”

I didn’t very much like his tone. “Tap, it’s okay, I had some time to get clean. After… the way things went, I’m steering clear of buffs for a while. It just doesn’t feel worth it anymore.”

He squinted. “I need to hear a promise.”

Of course he did. Without hesitation, I gave it to him. I looked him right in those big blue eyes swimming with misplaced trust, and lied.

“I promise.” 

He held my gaze for another few seconds, presumably looking for any trace of deceit. Apparently, he found none. He grinned and said, “Alright then! It’s a deal!”

We had a no-contact handshake, and that was that.

I decided to stick around a little while longer after all, since Tapper had stopped treating me like a sob-story. We chatted a bit more about our business plans, and he and Wreck-it talked for a while. Customers kept hailing Tapper for drinks, of course, leaving me to sit with many an awkward silence with the hulking trash gorilla. It wasn’t the most pleasant time in the world, for obvious reasons. I still felt like everyone was thinking about tying me up and taking their misplaced revenge whenever they glanced my way. But at the same time, there was a part of me just glad to be out of my game, having relatively normal conversations with Tapper. I’ll admit, I missed the guy. He doesn’t treat me like everyone else does.

But, as they so often do, the evening took a sharp turn. I’d managed to zone out for some time, the world marred by this miserable fog in my brain. I was taking a grossly inappropriate amount of time to eat a single pretzel when Tapper’s voice snapped me out of it.

“It’s gonna feel so quiet in here from now on.”

I let out a bit of a questioning noise when I jolted. Seeing him clearly, I noticed that his eyes were hovering over my neck again, sort of peering over while he quietly cleaned a glass. I also noticed that, without realizing, I had taken my glove off and started rubbing your scarf between my fingers.

So, that was mortifying.

I stopped immediately and stuffed my face with another pretzel. I just mumbled, “Yeah.”

Tapper continued, his voice just about as morose as I’d ever heard it. “It already does. Even when it’s loud, it feels quiet. All the good sounds just aren’t playing anymore. I miss the old lively spirit. I miss your music, Fireball. I miss the ruckus you two would always stir up,” he paused. “Hell, I even miss him.”

I remember suddenly feeling like I’d swallowed a rock the size of my fist. My brain was screaming to abort, to get away from the conversation before it landed somewhere I couldn’t stand to hear. But, against all logic, I stayed. I wanted to hear him out. It was the first I’d heard anyone sincerely grieve you since you left. Somehow, I felt like I’d been needing to hear it. I just hoped I could handle it.

He said, “I know that’s not exactly the most popular stance to have right now, but I do. Yeah, he was all kinds of trouble, but he was quite a character. We need big personalities like him around here. Like you, too. Makes life a little less boring. And when you two were together? Forget about it. Never a dull moment. You guys really were just… somethin’ else. Like you shared two halves of the same--”

“Tapper.”

I couldn’t handle it. I’d made a mistake. I just pushed the heel of my palm into my brow, eyes closed, trying to keep steady. Every word he said just weighed me further down.

He went quiet. I could still hear the squeak of his cloth on the mug that had been clean for the past five minutes, and I heard Wreck-it slurp his drink, emanating waves of severe discomfort. It was definitely time to go. I thought that I couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. But I had to level out so that I wouldn’t break down on the way out. Memories were trying to worm into my head, and I was trying desperately to block them out. I wanted a freakin’ drink.

But then Tapper, the sentimental bastard, just had to say something more. Very softly, he said something that would put a second rock in my gut.

“You should have heard the way he talked about you, y’know.”

It took me a second to register what he said. I opened my eyes and stared at him, suddenly hit with a conflict that I never saw coming. Part of me didn’t want to know. Part of me wanted to crack open one of the kegs and give a second attempt to the memory purge. But the most dominant, stupidest part of me wanted to know more. Needed to know more.

“What… did you say?”

Tapper looked up from his mug to meet my stare, and gave one of the saddest, fondest looks I���ve ever seen on another sprite. We held a silence for a moment, but it was quickly broken by Wreck-it.

He put his glass down and hastily got to his feet. “O-kay, you guys keep talking, I’m just gonna…” he made vague hand gestures. “Gonna go to the bathroom.”

After he hurried off, Tapper set to wiping the counter and continued, “Yeah. I mean, on the rare occasion he wasn’t talking about himself.”

I hated how much I was trembling. “What would he say?”

“Well…” he paused in his cleaning to think for a second. “It’s not really so much… what he said, as it was the way he said it, coming from a guy like him. To the untrained ear, it wouldn’t seem like anything much. But I knew him. You knew him. He wasn’t one to hand out any kind of praise. There was certainly no one else he talked about the way he talked about you.”

Rock after rock after rock in my gut. “Why… Why are you telling me this?”

He stood straight, brows furrowed in a thoughtful way, completely oblivious to the rusty axe he was about to drop on my head.

“I dunno, I feel like you just deserve to know. I’m just sorry I gotta be the one to tell you this, rather than him. He may have had an ego bigger than the arcade will ever see again, but… if there was one sprite he cared about other than himself, it was you.”

I can’t tell you how much it hurts to write that, even now.

For a second, a split-second, there was a burst of warmth in my chest. I sort of hate to admit it, but I didn’t realize how badly I’d wanted to hear something like that. You didn’t exactly leave behind much proof that we had anything real, not that I could see. I had to rely on the rest of the arcade to show me that -- they certainly saw something worth remembering. Enough to carve your name into my skin, for Devs’ sake. For a while, that was all I had. Otherwise, everything pointed to you just ditching me without a thought. To you really not giving a crit about me in the end.

Yet here was Tapper telling me that just wasn’t the case, and that man doesn’t lie.

At first, I could barely believe it. But then, I thought, of course I could believe it. How could I have thought you never cared at all, after all we’d done together?

That’s when I turned cold. That warmth was snuffed out by ice creeping down into my guts. Those memories I’d been trying to barricade out all burst into me at once. The good things, the great things, the laughs, the thrills, the slow nights, all the reasons I hung out with you at all. It was too much. It was way, way too much.

After a brief, stunned silence, I realized I had to get out of there. But there was no way I was going to make it back to my game before coming apart. I told Tapper I’d be right back, went straight to the bathrooms, locked myself in a stall in the blessedly empty ladies’ room, and just… well...

Broke.

[scullysexual]

What was originally just going to be a simple epilogue turned into a full blow sequel. Halfway through this a multi-chapter format began and I can’t see this being posted just one big final chapter so now it’s just a sequel which might or might not be a good thing but I guess we’ll see.

@today-in-fic @purrykat @baronessblixen @suitablyaggrieved @sarie-fairy Tagging you guys cause I know you’d want to be tagged haha. Anyone else wants tagging let me know. @kittydurs

I hope you enjoy this as much as you did Jewel.

Sunlight streams through the gap in the blinds. A small bedsit positioned perfectly that the first rays of light are bright enough to wake him up.

Mulder should be grateful for it, really. The first to wake means he’s the first to find a good spot on the pier, leaving the night owls to fight for the remaining places.

It’s been almost three months and this humble life has already proved to be much of a trial. He had underestimated it his whole life. Sympathy for those who lived this kind life he’d always had but the empathy had been lacking. Only now can he truly understand just how hard they had to work.

Beside him, Scully stirs, muttering something that sounds a lot like What’s the time? eyes struggling to open.

Mulder smiles, a hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face as she twists and turns to face him.

“It’s early,” he mumbles into the quiet room. “Go back to sleep.”

He watches as she settles, eyes falling shut once more.

The months passed since the disaster hadn’t been easy on either of them. When they had finally arrived at New York, the world had held its breath- maybe not directly for them but Mulder and Scully had felt it all the same, parting the ship, the miraculous survivors of a ship that couldn’t sink.

His dreams were still plagued with that night; icy water and chilling screams. When he slept, he had no escape- he was back there, clinging onto that rail, watching people drop to their deaths all around him. Sometimes he even saw Scully fall and those dreams had frightened him the most.

He never fell, though. Even when he was in the water, he could never die. Only those around him could die.

Scully fared no better. Sometimes she would just stop, get lost somewhere in the memory of that night. They never spoke about it, it was an unspoken agreement they had made stepping onto the docks. Nobody was aware they had been on the ship at all. After all, Fox Mulder had died and Dana Scully had never stepped onto the ship. It was easier that way, or so they told themselves.

With time wasting away he climbs out of bed. Their mattress in the corner has him scrambling over Scully to actually get out. His efforts to not wake her fail and, as he’s fumbling with his clothes, her eyes open for the second time.

“The pier doesn’t open until later,” she croaks. “Why do you need to leave so early?”

“Got to get the best spot on the pier, Scully,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. His attire had changed in the months that had passed. Gone were the handmade tailored suits he’d wear to dinners, now it’s just a simple shirt and some trousers. Even his shoes had taken a turn for the worse.

“You need new shoes.”

There’s a hint of worry in her voice, they barely have enough to pay their rent and eat.

He ignores the way the leather rips away from the sole.

“They’ll be fine,” he says, reaching over to grab his sketchbook- the only expensive investment he’d made after he lost his original in the sinking. He tries not to focus on that. There’s only a few drawings in this book, mostly personal stuff for when business is low and his hand aches to draw something real aside from the cartoon portraits of people willing to waste their cents.

Now ready, he walks the short distance back to the bed.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

Scully nods and Mulder presses a kiss to her forehead and then her lips before he grabs the keys and heads out.

The hallway is littered as always, even this early in the morning, people sit on the stairs trying as best they can to sleep. They don’t live here but the landlord does nothing to prevent them from entering, he’ll just go round with a cup and a silent request for money.

“Good morning, Leif.”

It still takes him some time for realise that he is Leif, not many people call him by that name and he’s Mulder to Scully regardless. No, only one person calls him Leif.

Mulder turns to see Susi standing in the doorway of her studio, scantily clad as always.

He smiles, intending on continuing with his journey before Susi’s speaking again.

“You know if you ever get bored, my door’s always open,” she tells him, with her cracked-teeth smile.

Mulder awkwardly nods and smiles, saying nothing. He tries to keep his conversations with Susi brief after their first night here and she had gotten a little too friendly with him in the communal area, much to Scully’s dismay. He had only tried to make friends.

He leaves Susi where she is, unlocking the front door and making his journey to the pier.

 Scully spends her days counting coppers. Better with numbers than Mulder, they agreed that she would handle their funds and that’s how it had been for the past four months.

Yet her heart drops when she’s finished adding and subtracting the money away to find that there isn’t enough to pay the rent and feed them.

In the early days, when they’d discussed what they would do about jobs, the price of Mulder’s drawings had been brought up a lot. He’d argued that the drawings were worthless and if he was selling them at a ridiculously high price nobody could come to him. She, in turn, had argued that maybe the price should be decided on the work put in and the work produced.

It doesn’t work like that, Scully, Mulder had told her afterwards. People pay for what they get, they don’t care about how much effort has been put into it.

Scully could only scoff. How would you know? she’d asked. Everything you wanted has been handed on a gold plate. All Little Fox would have to do is throw a temper tantrum and Mammy and Daddy would cough up.

Perhaps it had been a low-blow but his words had only made her angry. He knew nothing of this, of trying to find a good-enough job to pay the bills. Once upon a time, he’d have inherited some big company, his wealth sealed in that outcome and until then he’d been all nice and cushy.

After a while, after what Scully had said had fallen to the floor, Mulder said, Perhaps it’s best we get away from each other for a while. We’ve been cooped up too long in this room. With that he’d left, leaving Scully to figure it out.

Just like she has to do now.

She stares at the numbers, maybe hoping they would magically change to the right number but no, they don’t, they stay as they are.

She can owe, she thinks. She’ll have to.

He hands the stupid drawing to the woman as the man drops the money into the pot.

The third person. The third person in five hours.

Despite it being August, despite it being lunchtime, the sun high in the sky and pier packed, nobody was interested.

Mulder cracks his back, already sore and aching. Still six hours to go, still a chance to bring home some real money.

“Business not going well?”

Mulder internally groans at the sound of a familiar voice.

“What do you want, Fuller?”

He tiredly looks over to the weasel-faced man casually poking around his stall, his face lacking stress, his hands in his pockets, and a cocky demeanour reminding him all too well of Alex Krycek.

“Just looking around,” Fuller says. “Seeing how the competition is doing.” He picks up Mulder’s money jar and pulls a face. “Ooh, not well I see.”

“You not got your own stall to man, Fuller?”

Fuller laughs. “I’m on a break. See, unlike you, I can afford these little luxuries.”

Mulder had met Fuller very early on. They both fought for the same spot on the pier- the spot Fuller now occupies- and since then it had been a race to see who could get there first. Fuller always beat him, regardless.

“Why don’t you have your little break somewhere else then?”

He goes to push Fuller out of his stall but the little weasel man is quick, hopping out of the way just before Mulder can grab him.

“Careful, Brevik,” he says. “Otherwise you won’t be around much longer to pay that rent.” He gives a sideward glance to the jar again. “Not that you’ll be paying it this month anyway.”

Fuller saunters off then, back to his own stall.

Mulder sits back down on his stall, wipes the sweat off his forehead and looks wearily at the jar himself. He thinks it’s rent day today and just hopes there’s enough at home to cover it.

“It’s Mulder, isn’t it?”

Mulder pauses. His real name being uttered by somebody else…He chances a glance up at the person, not really sure what to think.

“Christ, they said you were dead.”

Mulder frowns at the man who stands before him. He looks familiar but Mulder can’t for the life of him replace him.

The man chuckles. “You don’t recognise me, do you?” he says and holds his hand out. “John Byers, we met on the Titanic.”

Realisation sinks in as Mulder remembers him. He smiles, jumping up from stool and shakes hands with Byers.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says. “A lot’s happened recently.”

“Yeah,” Byers agrees. He looks at the sign next to the stall. “First class suits on the Titanic to selling cartoons on Coney Island. What happened?”

“A lot,” Mulder says. “A lot happened.”

 They’re meeting lands them in a bar just off the pier. It’s still early, Mulder guesses it’ll start to pack up later.

“Didn’t think you’d survived,” Mulder says.

Byers laughs. “Yeah, Suzanne wouldn’t get on a lifeboat without me. The officer just looked at me and shrugged. What about you? They say you’re dead but you’re here in front of me.”

Mulder chuckles slightly, picking the label off his beer bottle. “I didn’t marry Phoebe Green,” he says.

Byers nods. “Yeah, your father put that in the papers. Said his son had died a dignified death, sacrificing himself to save women and children.”

“Of course he did,” says Mulder, begrudgingly. He hadn’t touched the paper. The headlines were everywhere, the story plastered on every newspaper being sold. He had lived the tale, he didn’t need to read some exaggerated version of it.

“So, you didn’t marry Phoebe because you died, what was the other reason?”

He looks up to the ceiling, trying to figure out the way best to explain it.

“I met someone,” he says. “Someone from the third class.” He hears Byers breathe out heavily but ignores it. “And after a day I knew I didn’t want to marry Phoebe. I didn’t want to marry her at all, I didn’t want to get on the ship but there was nothing I could do about it.” He shrugs, smiling. “Then I met Scully and I didn’t want to be anywhere else after that. I decided I was getting off the ship with her and the only way to do that was to change my name and pretend I died.” Mulder sits back in his seat and looks towards Byers, holding out his hand again. “Leif Brevik, by the way.”

Byers laughs, shaking Mulder’s hand again. “That’s quite the conspiracy,” he says and Mulder shrugs again.

“Listen,” Byers tells him. “I have some friends who have been looking into the sinking.” Mulder’s ears piqued up at that. “We think it might have been an insurance scam.”

Mulder frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s just some evidence that seem to point towards it being a possibility. We have a base not too far away from here, if you want to see.”

Mulder looks from his pitiful jar of money, to the window where he can see Fuller’s long line of people queuing for their portrait. With one final decision, he nods.

 The dreaded knock on the door finally comes. Scully jumps slightly, taking her head out of the medical journals Mulder sometimes brought back with him.

Her stomach squeezing with nerves, she grabs the bag of money and with a deep exhale, opens the door.

Mr Roth stands on the other side, his arms already full with other tenants’ rent.

“You’re rent, Mrs Brevik.”

Cautiously, Scully hands the bag to the landlord. He snatches it- ever one without manners. As he begins counting, Scully’s fingers begin to nervously fiddle with her necklace.

Mr Roth shakes his head, muttering. “Where’s the other $9?” he asks.

“That’s all we have,” says Scully.

Roth looks at her for a moment and Scully waits.

“I want $35 next month,” he says and with that limps off down the corridor.

Scully lets out a breath.

“Better be careful.”

Scully looks up to see her neighbour hanging out of her front door.

“Last tenant who couldn’t pay the second time was out on the streets.”

Scully smiles, saying nothing and retreats back into her house. Maybe it was a time she got a job also.

[codyfernmorelikedaddyfern]

Medicine - Jim x fem!reader // Part One

I’m doing this guys.

Multi part fanfiction on Jim losely inspired by multiple songs on my playlist. The whole thing is following Medicine by The 1975 but each chapters will have a different theme within it besides this one because it’s mainly exposition.

Description: In a desperate attempt to “make things work” in a marriage already shattered a decade ago, (Y/N)’s parents move in Palos Verde where she meets Medina, a newfound hermit like her.

Warnings: mention of dysfunctional/toxic relationships, alcohol and drug abuse.

Word counts: 1.6k+

She hated being the new kid in town. She hated the attention it brought to her as she wandered the confusing halls of her new school. She hated the eyes glued to her as she sat alone at her table at lunch. She hated having to introduce herself over and over again to her classmates. She hated the spotlight and the stares.

Her gentle footsteps carried her to the lockers, looking down at the 93 scribbled on her palm, scanning the metal doors and looking for the number she had been assigned to in the ocean of students pacing up and down the hall.

 “Hey, you’re (Y/N), the new girl, right, a gentle voice spoke behind your as you snapped out of your search.

- Oh, yeah, hi! She turned to the girl, probably around her age, standing next to her. We have classes together, don’t we?

- I think so, yes, I’m Medina.”

 With a friendly handshake and her best smile, the blonde girl helped (Y/N) locate her locker and settle. The next couple of classes where spent in hushed whispers and sassy comments about diverse people walking past them or throwing glances in their direction.

 The outcast had found another hermit with who she could moan about others with and it made their afternoon slightly more tolerable.

As the bell rang the end of the day, the two young women took their own paths home, Medina jumping on her bicycle and riding down the road aside a tall brunette. She had never mentioned a boyfriend but she didn’t know the blonde to take any sense of betrayal in her blood.

 Kicking up a stone or two on her way to the house she had barely got the chance to settle in, she was lost in her thoughts, trying to remember the information that had been unfurled in front of her throughout the day. The voice of her father welcomed her in the house. All she could see was the blinking colours spewing out of the TV and the back of the elderly man’s head on the couch as she climbed up the flight of stairs carrying her to her bedroom.

The door gently swayed closed as she sat at the brand new corner desk begging to be used. Unpacking her bag’s content on the desk, (Y/N) quickly worked on her tasks for the night after putting her favourite playlist on for motivation.

 Her gentle features bobbed to the beat of the music while she could hear the ocean’s harsh waves crashing on the rocks a hundred feet away from her window.

Her mother must have opened it during the day during her daily compulsive cleaning sessions. What a strange woman she was, the young one thought. After her father had caught his spouse in bed with another man, she had spun their world around and condemned herself to a life of a full time housewife, losing her mind in cleaning products and a pair of rubber cloves, the chemicals becoming some twisted medicine to her unfaithfulness.

 What a strange man her father was, accepting the multitude of apologies her mother webbed over the years. She had given up her work to tie herself to his will. As a child, her parents were the only idea of love she could base herself on which is mostly the reason of her own relationships failing. Her shifted idea of what a man and woman should act as when together was shattered when the time for her to have her first boyfriend came.

 And before she could remember the night said boyfriend broke her poor little heart, the creaking of her door pulled her out of her daydreaming, her mother standing in the frame. Her voice, raspy from decades of smoking, invited her to join them for dinner.

That’s one thing she hated too. The questioning. Yes, her day had been fine. Yes, she was making friend. Yes, her homework were finished. No, she hadn’t developed a crush on the neighbour yet. Her eyes rolled so far she fear it might disappear at the back of her skull.

 “We have been invited to a little gathering after dinner, would you care to join, the voice of her father pushed the clouded thoughts of her day out of the way.

- Sure, where is it?

- Down a few blocks, there will be a bonfire and you could bring your doodling stuff, the mother carried on.

- Yeah okay, I guess I could walk home if the adult talk become too boring, the teenager concluded as she pushed her last broccoli in her mouth, chewing on it for longer that she should.

- Great, we’ll be heading there when you are ready, sweetie”.

 The urge to roll her eyes once more was intense but she held back. The family dynamic had been broken all those years ago when the cat had gone out of the bag about her poor mother. Or poor father? (Y/N) didn’t know which one to pity the most. Their empty drive to “make it work” had smothered their daughter.

She found a way out in art. She would try her hands at any mediums. Sculpting was her favourite and she lavished herself in bringing bodies and forms to life from her nimble fingers, calloused and blistered by the hot clay. But what she was the best at was with a pencil.

 Many a sketchbook had been filled with grotesque cartoons and semi realistic portraits and stills. The comfort that sketching a frame of her vision on the blank pages somewhat made up for the lack of a mother or father figure, the two of them too busy trying to work on each other.

After shoving the dirty cutlery and plates in the dish washer, she jumped up the stairs and gathered her supplies before kicking her shoes on and following her parents to the car. There was no need for conversation as the vehicle sped down the empty streets and there was also no need for a car ride altogether.

 The smell of burning wood hit (Y/N)’s nose, offering a pleasant change from the brine and seaweed. Stepping out of the car, an unknown voice welcomed you to join the group of mingling adults at the back. A series of new introduction took place as her father shook hands with multiple strangers.

“You must be (Y/N), ‘the new girl’ Medina talked about. I’m Phil” his large hand reached forward for hers, which she shook while noticing that glint in his eyes.

The same sad glint she had seen in her father’s eyes. With the same palm, he quickly pointed to the large bonfire 200 ft forward on the beach. “She’s over there if you look for her” he mentioned causing her to whisper a quick thank you and darting towards the large dancing flames surrounded by a handful of teenagers.

 Once the sand pooled too much in her shoes and she cursed herself for wearing them, she quickly pulled them out, gingerly walking towards the only figure she recognised. Medina’s 6th sense must have been tingling because she turned around to the hesitant silhouette approaching, inviting her to sit by her side.

 “I didn’t think my dad meant it when he said you were invited tonight” the blonde suddenly blushed as the spot next to her got filled with her new acquaintance. Enquiring about the content of her Y/N, sparked a lengthy conversation about art and drawings, learning that the other outcast’s outlet was to surf with her sibling.

As if mentioning her twin was a magical incantation, his hazy body walked into view. The boy she had mistakenly assumed was the boyfriend your new friend was only his brother. He slumped next to her, his words slurred and somewhat jumbled while carrying the lingering smell of weed and booze.

 “Y-You’re not going to introduce me, he nearly choked, his head slumping forward in a playful wave.

- That’s (Y/N), she’s new here, she looked at her brother then turned to her friend, that’s my brother Jim, he’s… not new here.

- Very nice to meet you, his hand reached forward, sawing wildly.”

 Hesitantly shaking his hand, (Y/N) shared a somewhat worried look with Medina. His broad shoulders fell backwards in the sand while he gazed at the stars but her eyes were set on the display of the waves.

The blonde excused herself for a second, muttering she needed the bathroom, before her figure disappeared up the sandy slope to the house. The awkward tension thickened as the young woman felt Jim’s gaze read her features.

 She was not the conventional type of pretty. But damn did she look gorgeous as the amber lights of the flames licked her skin somehow highlighting her flaw in an array of beauty. It was probably the alcohol clouding his mind or most likely the drugs fogging his eyes. Fishing out her notepad, she started to stain the pages of her notebook with the beauty of the ocean she was witnessing as the moon was coasting on top of the waves.

The gentle footfalls of Medina brushed against her ear while (Y/N) consumed the night, her nose stuffed in her pencils and charcoals, the conversation between the twins losing itself in the blur of her focused gaze darting between the water and the her paper.

 How could he focus on the words leaving his lips when this otherworldly apparition was so deeply enthralled in her mind? Her fingers greyed and stained by the lead she was smearing on the pages. And he noticed it. That broken glimmer in her eyes. Because she was broken too, maybe more than he was himself but in her own beautiful way. And maybe he could fix her. For a split second where her eyes fell deep within his, the haze of his inebriated mind, he sobered up.

_________________________________________________

Taglist anyone?

[twistednuns]

February 2020

I managed to use my iPad as a second monitor for my computer. So tech savvy. Yay me!

Joking about developing a sex-based cardio programme with Manu. Powerfucking! Might help against aggression as well.

A late night phone call with Tom. Not saying much.

Making a huge pot of my grandmother’s signature veggie stew.

More Bon Appétit test kitchen videos. Chris recreating tacos. Claire making Ben&Jerry’s. Priya making her mum’s Indian curries.

Writing a letter to Lena. Drawing upside down bats (which makes them look like they’re having a wicked dance-off). Just the act of writing. I thoroughly enjoy looking at my handwriting.

Using the Salted Coconut handscrub by Lush. Especially now that I wash my hands so often when we’re working with clay at school. I feel like the peeling triggers some pressure points on my palms.

That Saturday productivity high. Cooking and preparing heaps of stuff, cleaning the windows, doing laundry.

Painting my nails like an expressionist artist.

Some portrait studies. Accidentally drawing Sirius Black.

Being really motivated to improve my Spanish. Working with Lorena, the Duolingo app and even starting my own grammar/vocabulary book.

This ultra quirky ASMR video. Also: watching videos with Erin an her boyfriend Chris. It’s amazing how well they work together. How you can almost feel their connection, how similar they are.

Carrot cake oats.

Seeing the The Darkness live again, this time with Margit. Justin’s outfit and personality, singing along, especially to Time of my Life, the band’s traditional first song after the show.

Meeting Chris. Having a Bramblette cocktail at Pusser’s. I like that place. Feels very old-timey with a rowing boat right under the ceiling. We made out in front of a tiger slide in a toy store window on our way to the next bar.

Peeling fresh carrots.

Pickling onions and making kimchi. My fermentation game is strong these days!

Looking through Dominik’s sketchbook. I loved the tree whose bark resembled a mole burrow with its underground tunnel system.

The flu. Yes, really. Fewer pupils at school. Quiet times. I’m actually surprisingly healthy. I’d guess my probiotics must play a role here… Who knows.

More sourdough experiments. Writing about it (DELICACY - a haiku. Oven-warm sourdough / salted butter, alpine cheese / and a strawberry).

Finding a really interesting list of SanFran hippie era book recommendations at the end of Robin Sloan’s Ajax Penumbra: 1969. In the mood to read Maya Angelou, Tom Wolfe, Jack Kerouac, Richard Brautigan.

Even more beautiful books: I really enjoyed Die weiße Stadt by Karolina Ramqvist, a feminist author from Sweden, and the graphic novel version of To Kill a Mockingbird. But two books that literally (well, figuratively obviously) blew my mind were Circe by Madeline Miller (mythology, loneliness, animals and plants, magic and monsters, some desperate kind of feminism, independence and strength) and Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo (magical realms, university setting, psychological depth, unexpected twists and turns). I haven’t read anything comparable in a very long time and I desperately hope that there’s more to come from these authors.

A beach collecting all the world’s single socks in The Magicians. Oh and of course seeing them break the moon. What a sight. The show is super confusing, obnoxious and absolutely fabulous at the same time. Best example: the Freaky Friday szene in which Margo and Eliot switch bodies. I love how the actors took on each other’s speech patterns and behaviour.

A new addition to my colour vocabular: celadon (a greyish green; there is a type of ceramics you’ll only see in this colour which is not surprising since the shade provides such an interesting contrast to the the earthy, rusty orange of burnt clay.)

Manu telling me that he had rarely seen people with more joy in their eyes than me (“Ich habe schon Freude in deinen Augen gesehen! So ein Leuchten kann man nicht simulieren.”) after complaining about being bored and lifeless. / Making curry with or, well, for him the other night. Drinking Liqueur 43 with cinnamon and milk. Playing the Jackbox party games for which you can use your phone as a controller.

Finding myself in a well-known sitation from the past. Lying in Frank’s bed in the early morning hours, not that tired yet, when he starts talking about his life and his depression. In English, obviously, because that’s our emotional filter. Relating, since I feel quite similar. Coming up with a suggestion for a reciprocal support system. Let’s see what we can do for each other.

Looking at travel photographs. The sea, the cenotes. Longing to go back to Mexico or Australia. Diving. Taking it all in.

Dreaming of my grandmother talking about her biggest regrets in life. Weirdly she was in a little bundle under a coffee table, much like Voldemort in the last Harry Potter movie.

My weird, weird brain. How both pleasure and pain enhance my sense of smell and increase my brain activity, almost causing hallucinations and fixations on ideas. Like geometric shapes in gloomy off-colours and a beige silicon-like surface the other night. All I could think of was a benchscraper.

Blue eyeliner.

Brainstorming three-letter-words with Frank since I’m thinking of getting personalised Nike Blazers. Sad cat. Yes but. Dat ass. Why tho.

Flying squirrels. Watching them wobble through the air. How they look like cute exhibitionist when they’re extending their limbs and thus stretching their, well, let’s just call it wings.

The fact that red cabbage has an intricate pattern like brain convolutions when you cut it open.

Talking to Sonja for the first time in over two years. What a strange person. Interesting, too. At least in homeopathic doses.

Ripe strawberries and nectarines. Oh my god. I love fruit.

Meeting Eve at Pub Quiz. She identifies as female, loves swing dance, used to be an animator and I love her style. Also, I realised that really like Betty. And Dennis wasn’t mean to me for once. I love my nerd friends <3 And I learned that Starbucks was named after the first mate in Moby Dick! Also, coincidentally they asked a question about the city where To Kill a Mockingbird takes place (Maycombe, Alabama) after I had read it the week before.

Inviting Lorena to the Botanical Gardens. I always feel very happy and very much myself when I’m there. I sometimes wish I was a gardener. Lorena was late so I walked along the Spring Path outside and it might have been the first time I’ve seen a brussels sprouts plant. Inside I learned lots of Spanish words and marveled at the incredible butterflies. The huge yellow one right behind the entrance was my favourite. Its delicate feelers were fascinating.

Washing my hands at the Keg’s bathroom. Looking into the mirror. Suddenly thinking of the perfect karaoke song… Rescue Me by Bell Book and Candle! I kept singing it for days on repeat. My neighbour must hate me (nothing new here) especially since my voice is too low for the chorus.

It isn’t hard to see how such attachment patterns can undermine mental health. Both anxious and avoidant coping have been linked to a heightened risk of anxiety, depression, loneliness, eating and conduct disorders, alcohol dependence, substance abuse and hostility. The way to treat these problems, say attachment theorists, is in and through a new relationship. On this view, the good therapist becomes a temporary attachment figure, assuming the functions of a nurturing mother, repairing lost trust, restoring security, and instilling two of the key skills engendered by a normal childhood: the regulation of emotions and a healthy intimacy. // An interesting article on attachment styles and why theraphy works; it makes me want to learn more about attachment theory. This School of Life video is a nice addition as well.

That dream. About a book shop modeled after my picture of Penumbra’s 24-hour bookstore. There was an old man in a very narrow but high-ceilinged room full of books. There was no light source except for moonlight or some street lights. There were loads of stairs, very steep, leading to the back of the house. Upstairs the man would set out cat food and on the rooftop there was an old sailing boat. One day the man decided to open the door to the roof and let visitors see the ship, much like a museum; perhaps to attract customers. However, in the next night a cat-shaped ghost appeared who reminded me quite a lot of Kot Behemoth character in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. The ghost was not amused about the old man’s decision and took away his key, a big golden one adorned with a red ribbon.

Toasted sesame makes pretty much every dish so much better.

Watching High Fidelity with gorgeous Zoe Kravitz (I adore her effortless style and her outfits), getting in the mood for making a playlist and listening to more music in general. There are all these great songs out there I forgot about.

Remembering the xkcd storm chaser comics.

Making a wicked good batch of Pho for Tom.

Spending a nice evening with Alex at Shamrock. Singing along to American Boy by Estelle. Confirming the hypothesis that the nerdy, quiet ones usually have a freak streak. That moment in the morning. Eye contact and kegel exercises.

Karaoke with Margit and Betty. Meeting Manu’s doppelganger. Same type, looks, voice. Eerie.

Making a BA Gourmet Makes meme for Steffen after he had passed his law examps. Strangely Gaby kinda looked like him after I was done with it.

Saturday morning in bed. Reading comics and graphic novels. Fresh bedclothes, surrounded by books. Since it was February 29 I thought about leap years and asked a few friends what their inner seven-year-old would have done that day (based on the thought experiment that your birthday was on February 29 and you’d age in 4-year-steps which would divide your age by 4 obviously).      

I came up with: visiting grandma / eating Cini-Minis / falling asleep with my face buried in a cat / beating my neighbour Anna at Memory / drawing while listening to a Bibi Blocksberg cassette.

Alex said he’d have been outside all day, building a snow igloo. Not noticing his mum telling him to come to dinner. If the weather had been bad he would have played with his dinosaur collection. His inner 7-year-old was a hopeless dreamer who got agitated whenever his parents had a fight. Who came home late from school every day because he forgot about time when he was talking to his friend next to a hedge with thorns that looked like tiny airplanes.

Lena said she would have been outside all day long, playing in the mud with the neighbours’ kids. Of course.

[dailythranduilproject]

Username(s) we can find you under: 

TheMirkyKing - @themirkyking

> What Media do you create?  

Writing, Drawings-pencil and occasional colored pencils/pens, and some edits.

> Where can we find your work?  

A03 and tumblr .  I have a DeviantArt account(under different name) but that is just to look at all the wonderful art out there.

> What would you say you are best known for in the fandom?  

Umm…not really sure as I don’t think many know me…I would have to say for my writing??  LOL

> Do you have a favorite pairing?  

Too many! But my true love is Barduil, then Thrandolas.  Thranduil and Elrond, Sigrid and Legolas (Looking right at @Moonofmorrigan for sucking me into that one!)  And Elrohir and Ela (OC of @damnitbarduil)

> What other fandoms are you part of?  

Yuri on Ice, Avatar the Last Airbender, Game of Thrones, more as a spectator.

> Any advice/words for others in the fandom?  

Don’t shame/troll/hate anon others for what they enjoy, write and create.  There is enough ugliness out there, don’t add to it.  I know it sounds Pollyanna, if you don’t have anything good to say then say nothing- there is REAL person on the other end.  Creative criticism is fine, as is disagreeing with someone, but do it in a constructive way. And if you are thinking that your writing, art or anything sucks, so what?  If you enjoy doing it then do it.  We all have different skill levels and talents- explore them and grow.  Have someone you chat with read or look at them and get their feedback- most people are their worse critic’s, so get that other opinion! Respect others works-no stealing- everyone deserves their work credited! HAVE FUN!  There are so many wonderful people out there, ready to share their joy of this fandom.  :D

PERSONAL > Favorite color?  

Not fair, I like almost all colors but I would have to say greens and blues draw me.

> Favorite Book? 

Really unfair!  So many books have a special place in my heart.  Two Towers- J.R.R. Tolkien; American Gods-Neil Gaiman; All Creatures Great and Small- James Herriott;  Dragonsinger- Anne McCaffrey; Dune- Frank Herbert.  Just a few ;)

> Favorite movie?  

Again- So hard to single out one so here are some of my faves- Singing in the Rain; Spanglish; Howl’s Moving Castle; The Secret World of Arrietty; To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar; Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World.

> Do you have a pet peeve? 

Aside from the usual; rudeness, ignorance, intolerance; it’s people who chew their mouths open-shudder!  (Only children are forgiven…barely.)

> What country are you from?  

United States

> Who do you think you might have been in a past life? 

Depends on what time period, but some sort of household staff member- like maid or kitchen help.  Or a squirrel…yeah, probably a squirrel.

>What do you like to do in your spare time other than create the media you work on?  

I enjoy cross stitching, gardening and reading.

>When did you join the fandom?

I have been a Tolkien fan since I was 10 but didn’t really join in the fandom stuff till 2015.

Followers Questions

@mewardy:

1- How long have you been writing?  

I have always enjoyed writing, my mom still has stuff I wrote in elementary school (so embarrassing), but didn’t really start writing and posting after I discovered A03 and Tumblr.  It was great knowing that there was a place to share my stuff.

2 -Why fantasy - especially Thranduil?  

I have always been drawn to fantasy/sci-fi.  I find it more freeing- the options are limitless.  While I usually write modern AU’s there is still an element of fantasy.  Thranduil just drew me in. I liked Legolas in LOTR, but nothing like Thranduil.  While I didn’t really like PJ’s vision for Thranduil, I did love Lee Pace’s portrayal of the Elven King.  For me, Thranduil sparked my imagination- he comes off as cold and arrogant.  He is, but there was more to him, just hiding it.  That is what I enjoy.  Exploring his private life.  He allows for so many different versions and I love writing him and reading how others see him.

3 -Where are you from?  

United States- Seattle.

@sweetfairy1:

1 - How did you develop your super cute drawing style?  

First off- thank you!  I like Chibi styles so I kind of base my stuff off that style.  A mix of Chibi/Shojo??  I think of my stuff as cartoonish.

2 - When you drew Thranduil and/or Bard the first time, did they look similar than they do now?  

My first drawing was Thranduil, and I think they look similar, just a few changes.  And it really depends on what I am trying to draw.  Some I do just as portrait drawings, then the cartoon type and every so often, I try for the more realistic style, as in Manga style-lol

@eldritchmage:

1 - I enjoy your artwork very much, so would like to know how long you have been drawing?  

You are so sweet!  I have been doodling and drawing since I was a kid, nothing serious, I only took a calligraphy class in school and then one art class in college.  I keep thinking of going for more formal learning cause I would like to have a stronger skill set then I have now.

2 - What prompted you to start?  Drawing Bard and Thranduil??  

I saw a chibi Thranduil and I loved it.  Thought, hmmm…lets see how mine would look.  That was it, now I have notebooks, scraps of paper, sketchbooks filled with them.

3 - Do you have other favorite subjects as well as Thranduil and Bard?  

I usually just draw random figures.  I tend to do portrait, and I struggle with full figure- my other half is always at me about drawing whole figures, especially the feet!  And not to draw on lined paper!  LOL

4 - Also, how did you come to develop your distinctive style?  

I really like Manga so that is a big influence.  Then the usual culprits of seeing other artist styles, animated films and such, then wanting to incorporate and explore it in my own fashion.

@bellevox:

1 - Can you tell us about your family and your country?  

I have two older siblings, a sister and brother, but I was the surprise baby so I pretty was ignored by them, unless they needed a punching bag-lol.  My parents are still feisty and active at 80 plus.  I have been cohabitating with my wonderful mate for 23 years, one day he will make an honest woman out of me ;) I was born in the United States, currently live here, but lived in Australia for 2 years- enjoyed it very much.   I like to travel when I can, work permitting.  Over all, I live a pretty quite life, enjoying time with family, going to good breweries and playing games, nothing too exciting. :D

@moonofmorrigan:

1 - What do you consider to be the most challenging thing to write? (Like angst, fluff, etc.)  

ANGST!  I love reading some good angst but I find that the hardest to write.  There is a fine line with it and I just don’t know if I have the skills!

2 -We've worked on a couple of writing projects together. What is your favorite part so far of our current story?  

What I enjoy most with writing with you is the unexpected turns that the story takes.  How I will have a whole course of action planned for Bard and then- WHAM- Thranduil goes in a direction that surprises Bard and now a new course needs to be followed.  I just love that!   Case in point- when Thranduil fell ill and almost died…. I loved the mystical elements that took place.  Of course I would be lying if I said I didn’t like the more nsfw moments, cause those are a lot of fun!

3 - What kind of stories would you like to see more of in the fandom?  

I would love to see more Sci-Fi Au’s.  I am a sucker for elves in space!

@floranocturna:

1 - what is your dream destination to travel?  

Lord, everywhere!  I would really love to be able to travel the world, spend months at a time in a country, getting to know the area and people.  Nothing fancy, just kicking around and seeing more then just the “famous cities”.

2 - If you could change one thing about Thranduil's outfit, what would it be?  

My least favorite of his was that robe he wore in his private chambers!  It was so shapeless, like some frumpy housecoat!  I would have loved to see him dressed in the greens and browns, like how I imagine him before he became King.

3 - Are you an organised writer or do you just write and sit down when the inspiration strikes?  

Soooooo disorganized!  Inspiration with hints of structure.  My notebooks are a mess with hastily written stuff!  Arrows and bullet points everywhere, change this, add that, oh here- he says this!  And my crazy short hand- even I sometimes puzzle over it!

Thank you Mirky, for this great interview.

[acaseforpencils]

Karen Green, Curator for Comics and Cartoons at Columbia University.

Who are you and what do you do? My name is Karen Green, and I was hired as Columbia University's Librarian for Ancient & Medieval History back in 2002 (I had done my graduate work in medieval history here at Columbia).  A love of comics, and a recognition of their absence in our collections, caused me to propose that we begin to buy graphic novels in 2005; what was then 3 titles (Maus, Persepolis, and Palestine, for those keeping score at home) has grown to 14-15,000 titles in over two-dozen languages.  In 2010, my role expanded when Chris Claremont offered us his papers, and I began collecting other creator archives, with a focus on the NYC area and the history of publishing.  This became a prominent enough part of my brief, that in November 2016, the libraries created the job of Curator for Comics and Cartoons, and moved me up into our Rare Book & Manuscript Library with the other curators.

Portrait of Karen by Drew Friedman

What is your goal as a curator for comics and cartoons? There are more archives of comics history than you might think, with the largest and most prominent probably being the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library and Museum at Ohio State University in Columbus OH.  I'm not trying to compete with Billy Ireland--I couldn't really, even if I tried, as they have a 35-year lead on me!--but what I try to do is create an array of materials that fits well with other strengths in Columbia's Rare Book & Manuscript Library: specifically, the history of publishing, NYC history, the Pulitzer Prize archives (including 95 years of editorial cartoon winners), and illustration.  I want to build out those areas, make the material accessible, assist scholars in their research--and to further solidify comics studies as a proper academic discipline.  And I want to try to preserve a snapshot of the 21st-century NYC comics scene.

Learning about the history of cartoons can be a bit daunting. Where would you recommend a novice start? Gosh, there's no one starting place, I think.  I found THE SMITHSONIAN COLLECTION OF NEWSPAPER COMICS when it first came out, back in 1978, and that grounded me in newspaper strip history.  Other useful resources are Brian Walker's two books about comics, before 1945 and after 1945, and Jerry Robinson's history of the comics.  Comic-book history is a bit more challenging, but Gerard Jones' MEN OF TOMORROW lays out a lot of the players and the process, and the two big Taschen 75 YEARS OF... books, DC Comics by Paul Levitz and Marvel Comics by Roy Thomas, provide narratives for the two dominant mainstream publishers.  Mark Estren's history of the undergrounds is still probably the best there is, and Tom Spurgeon's history of Fantagraphics, WE TOLD YOU SO: COMICS AS ART, offers an oral history of one of the larger alternative publishers.  But there's no unified field theory for the medium's history, and just going to panels and listening to creators talk can be the most interesting and entertaining way to dig in.

A piece of original art from STUCK RUBBER BABY, showing marginal notations; the Howard Cruse papers, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

What do you wish artists knew about curation? I wish they realized that we're not just looking for their original art.  Don't get me wrong--we love original art!--but it's not the whole story, and we know that it can often be a crucial revenue source for cartoonists.  We're interested in process materials (sketchbooks, first drafts, tracings), too, because they demonstrate the creator's thinking.  But we love correspondence (between creators and publishers, creators and editors, creators and family, creators and other creators), we love business records and contracts, we love ephemera.  Often a creator won't even understand the research value of little things--I went to visit a major comix artist once, who was getting an external appraisal, and in one drawer was a pile of address books going back decades.  My excitement was met with surprise, but those things are snapshots of creative networks over time: invaluable!  On a different note, for artists who work digitally, I just pray they're preserving all their versions and their layers, so that researchers of the future can analyze their process.

Oliver Cesare, cartoon about the impeachment of NY governor William Sulzer, impeached after tangling with Tammany Hall; Dennis Ryan editorial cartoon art collection, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

Tools of choice:  The Grand Comics Database for comics runs and covers; Poopsheet Foundation for minicomics; and Wikipedia--you probably won't be surprised to learn that comics fans create meticulous and thorough entries, including publication histories.  And WorldCat, to see how others have cataloged some of the rarer items.

George Herriman, hand-colored drawing from archy & mehitabel, given to his Doubleday editor; Daniel Longwell papers, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

Tools I wish existed: Oh, this tool exists: a processing archivist.  We just don't have enough of them for the number of archives we bring in!  Oh, and a bigger budget, especially for programming.

Tricks: Still looking for those! But while it isn't a trick, I'm happy I work in city that has such a long and storied comics history, and which still has a relatively vibrant comics community, despite the ravages of NYC rents.

Charles Saxon, NEW YORKER cover proposal; Charles Saxon papers, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

George and Sarah Booth, accompanied by Bob Eckstein and David Borchart, visiting the archives to look at Charles Saxon's paper. [Editors note: all of these wonderful people have appeared on Case!]

Misc.: Sometimes I think that Columbia isn't well-known enough as a comics archive for creators to think of us when they're figuring out what to do with their files.  It's true we've only been collecting archives for about seven years now.  I go to cons, both mainstream and indie, and I've been an Eisner judge, a Pulitzer Prize judge, and moderated panels around the world.  But I'll still meet creators who'll be surprised to learn that Columbia even has an interest in comics.  I'd like creators to think about the context in which their work could be studied here, too--we have a tremendous historical children's literature collection, with movable books and Big Little Books and all sorts of comics-related stuff, and we have a terrific illustration collection, with the largest collection of original Arthur Rackham drawings and watercolors in the US, and original Caldecotts and Rowlandsons and Cruikshanks as well as Rockwell Kent and Boris Artzybasheff and more.  I think this allows us to provide a context that a comics-only archive might lack.

Website, etc. A guide to our collections, and to research

My old ComiXology columns (2009-2012) 

Books for which I've written prefaces or introductions:

THE LEANING GIRL

WEIRD LOVE vol. 3

MORE HEROES OF THE COMICS

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