#it hit me. it feels like a slightly artsy picture book. wanting desperately to go back to your mom reading to you

[femmeterypolka]

SAVE ME TAKESHI AND ELIJAH BY THE MUSIC TAPES

[country-club]

Games #3

#1 / #2

*gif not mine* Warnings: mentions of puke and embarassment Wordcount: 1.959

> Remember Rafe owing you a tour?

Yesterday you hung out with Sarah and her friends. It was fun, though you were left with a headache. Thanks to JJ. The day went by rather quickly and around 8pm you called your friends to play a game of skribbl, an online drawing game. They updated you on what’s going on at home and your ‘ex’. Were you technically dating? You can’t say for sure. But it felt like you did. He quit talking to you a week before you left. In return, you told your friends about your newly made friends and Rafe. Do you like him? It’s too early to say. Is he cute? Yes. Picture? Haven’t got one. How old is he? He looks 18/19. Does he have any cute friends? Well, there’s Topper.

“Oooh, I can be his bottom!” One of your friends cheered.

“I’ll let him know, hon.” You replied.

“Yall I’m beating your asses. Do you want to play or talk about y/n’s boyhunt?” One of the guys asks. You finished the game and continued talking. One of your friends sent you a link over chat.

“Is this him, y/n?” She asks. You clicked it and found Rafe’s Instagram page. It only had a few pictures, the latest being one of him, Topper and another boy, tagged as Kelce.

“Yep, that’s him.” You scrolled through his pictures. Sarah had commented on one of his pictures. You tapped her name and looked through her feed as well. Not much here either. What about the other Pogues? Kiara was the only one you could find. The boys probably didn’t care much about social media. Kiara had some photos of baby turtles on the beach, a few of her looking stunning in every outfit she wore and 2 pictures with the boys. You sent the pictures to your friends.

“Ok, so Kiara is the girl, the boy on her left is John B, the one behind her is Pope and the blonde one is JJ.”

“Y/n, you have been blessed, you know that?”

“Are all the boys in Outer Banks this attractive?” Your friends asked. You nodded.

“Most of them are.”

“So, will you leave any for us?”

“I think John B and Sarah are dating, and Pope looked like he has a thing for Kiara. But I’ll introduce you for sure.”

“What’s JJ short for?”

“Yeah, and why is it John B? How many John’s can there be on an island?” You weren’t sure. You discussed possible names and theories. It was about 11pm when you said goodbye and hung up.

You walked downstairs to stretch your legs, debating whether or not you should go for a walk. Hmm, yes. You grabbed a hoodie, put on some sneakers and out you went. Putting on some music and shuffling through your playlist. The sky was clear, and you could see the moon and stars above you. Your guilty pleasure started playing and you almost bumped into a lamppost, trying not to make dance moves whilst walking. You walked past Sarah’s house and got caught in the headlights of a car on their driveway. You almost had a heart attack. Taking out the earpiece your shyly waved at whoever was inside. They turned the lights off. You saw a tall figure getting out of the car. Rafe.

“Hey, y/n. What are you doing out?”

“Hey, Rafe. What are you doing alone inside your car, on the driveway, at 11:30 at night?”

“I asked you first.” He said playfully.

“Just taking a walk.”

“I was about to head over to Kelce.” Kelce was the guy from his Instagram picture.

“Was?” Rafe laughed. You walked closer to him, so you could actually see his face and stop talking loudly outside.

“Didn’t think I would run into you.” What did he mean by that? Is he not going to go to Kelce because of you or does he-. Your thoughts were interrupted by Rafe’s voice. He must have noticed your confusion. “I believe I promised you a tour.” It took you a second to realize what he was talking about. You had asked him to show you around Outer Banks yesterday.

“Right, you owed me one.” Rafe nodded to his car and opened the door for you. You got in and pulled the door close. Rafe got in behind the wheel. He looked extremely good tonight. His hair wasn’t as slicked back as usual. It made him look softer. It wasn’t hot at all outside, yet he was still wearing shorts. What is it with boys and shorts even though it’s cold?

The two of you drove around Figure 8 for a while and continued on The Cut. Rafe didn’t talk much, so it was up to you. “Do you want to play 20 questions?” Rafe looked over to you.

“Only if we can take turns.” He said. Alright now you just had to think of a question. You still wanted to know what happened two nights ago. Who he had fought and why. It’s too forward.

“What was your favorite dinosaur as a child?” Rafe didn’t have to think about it.

“Triceratops.” He said.

“Still is, am I right?” You didn’t really ask. They are simply the best. Rafe took his time to come up with a question.

“Alright, if you could find out how you were going to die, would you want to know?” Well goodbye dinosaur talk.

“I don’t think I would. No matter how much I hate surprises, I’d rather not be scared of cars or bathrooms for the rest of my life, you know?”

“Why would you be scared of bathrooms?”

“I don’t know I once read that a ton of people have died in bathrooms. It’s where a lot of accidents happen you know.” He looked at you, a bit confused, amused and impressed.

“If you could go back in time to change something, what would it be?” Rafe sighed.

“Not using my dad’s money to buy a bike.” You wanted to ask more questions, but he wouldn’t let you. “I don’t want to talk about that.” Rafe added. He stopped the car. “Can I show the around the boneyard?” This is starting to sound like The Lion King. Elephant graveyard? You opened the car door and got outside, as did Rafe. Rafe locked the car and led you to the beach. There were tree trucks and branches around the beach. It does kind of look like a boneyard.

“What do you think is the ugliest animal in the world?” Rafe asked. Right 20 questions. Truth or dare, without the dare part. You had to think for a minute. What is the ugliest animal?

“Those birds from the Jungle Book. They scream so loud.”

“Vultures?” Yep those, you nodded. You were walking on the boneyard and couldn’t see much. You tried to be careful enough to not trip and make yourself look like a fool. The stars were still very pretty. You could see the Little Bear, it kind of looks like a saucepan. And there you go. Your foot got stuck on a tree branch. However, before you could hit the ground you could feel two arms holding you up. You stood up straight again.

“You alright?” He asked. To which you nodded.

“Yeah, just got distracted for a second. Can we sit down for a minute?” You asked. Rafe dusted away some sand off a trunk and sat down. You sat down next to him. “What is something you wish you were better at?”

Rafe looked up at the night sky. “Making my dad proud.” Why wouldn’t Ward be proud of him? “I just feel like sometimes I can’t do anything right, you know?” You nodded. Was this his soft spot, his dad? You didn’t ask any further questions, seeing as you barely knew him and the subject sounds personal. You looked up again as well. Seeing his face turning your way in the corner of your eye. You could feel his eyes on you. The moonlight was bright enough for him to see your features.

“Is there any memory you would like to erase from your mind?” You couldn’t help but laugh nervously and feel embarrassed already. “What’s so funny?” You looked at him and your eyes met. His blonde hair was getting slightly pushed around by the wind.

“What I’m about to tell you. Promise to keep it between us?” He promised. “Okay, so before moving to Outer Banks I had a boyfriend situation going on. And we were at my place after a party, where he had maybe a drink or two too many.” You sighed, feeling the redness on your face appear. “And we were about to..you know. But he couldn’t, because of the alcohol and then he threw up in my bed.” Rafe tried his best not to burst out in laughter, instead he put an arm around you. “He left after that. So, there I was, cleaning my barf-covered bed and desperately spraying deodorant through my room. We haven’t talked since and I’m not counting on it anymore either.” Rafe started rubbing your back.

“That really sucks man, I’m sorry that happened.” Did he just call you ‘man’? “It wasn’t supposed to be your first time, right?” You must look like a tomato right now.

“I believe it is my turn.” You switched the conversation. “What was your first crush like?” When the word left your mouth you felt like a 12 year old again. Rafe blew out some air.

“I think it was the babysitter we had as kids. She was really sweet and artsy, and stuff. Also really pretty, like you.” You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I invited her into my pillow fort to eat Cheez-its with me.”

“And?”

“She friendly declined my offer.” You burst out in laughing. “Hey, I didn’t laugh at your story.” He angrily joked, punching your arm.

“Mine was worse.”

“True.”

You softly punched him back. “Hey!” Rafe fake moaned, pretending you had hurt him.

“Aw, I’m sorry. Kiss to make it better?” Rafe pouted and nodded to you. As you were debating whether or not to kiss his arm, your phone started vibrating. It was your stepdad. “Shit.” It was already 12:30. He must’ve realized you weren’t home and you didn’t leave a note.

“What’s up?”

“It’s my stepdad, I really have to go home like right now.” You mumbled as you got up and started heading to the car.

“You gonna get into trouble?” He sounded the tiniest bit worried. Maybe you would. You had been staying out late the past three days and didn’t pick up the phone when your stepdad called. As Rafe pulled up a couple of houses before yours, you thanked him and got out. “I should walk with you, so your dad knows you weren’t out alone.” That somehow makes sense. He got out of the car as well and you speed walked to the front door. You unlocked it and walked inside. As if shot for a horror movie, your stepdad put on the living room lights.

“Y/n? Where have you been and why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“Steve, I’m sorry if I made you worry. I was taking a walk and bumped into Rafe, Ward Cameron’s son-“

“I remember who Rafe is. So, he just left you to walk home on your own? Do you know what time-”

This time it was Rafe who cut your stepfather short. He had waited outside and stepped in. “I would never let y/n walk alone, sir.” Your stepdad nodded.

“Bedtime, y/n. Goodnight Rafe.”

“Goodnight.” You gave Rafe a hug, to which he wrapped his arms around your middle.

“Goodnight, y/n.”

You walked up the stairs and called it a day.

#4

~Taglist~

@emmalvei-blog​

[multiverseofimagines]

Back in Time *Stranger Things fic*

Part one

Description: Its 2018 and Y/N Byers never felt like she belonged anywhere.  Not at school, not with her so called friends and definitely not with her family. But when her Mom (Nancy Wheeler) and Dad (Jonathan Byers) decide to pack up and move back to Hawkins Indiana, due to her Grandmother, Joyce’s death, Y/N uncovers more than what she bargained for.

Warnings: Cussing and heavily inspired by Back to the future

Your parents were your best friends, your only friends really. This was no surprise, considering how shut out your parents were from the world. They didn’t trust anyone, with anything, not even you. They refused to let you dive deep into their troubled past, you never really questioned it though because they blamed it on the fact that your two uncles were locked up. That seemed reasonable enough. So you let it go for awhile.

That is until Joyce died. Joyce being your Grandmother on your Dad’s side. She was your favourite person on the planet besides your parents, and you were hers too. She saw so much Will in you, and its probably the pin point of why she was so utterly in love with you. But she definitely wasn’t talking about your hellish good looks.

You see, you looked nothing like your family. Whatsoever. Your face shape, your hair and even parts of your personality. Everything just seemed, out of place. The only resemblance you could see was that of your Mothers kind smile. Which wasn’t much to go off of. But despite that, your personality was much like the both of your parents. Artsy, Nerdy and not afraid of anything.

Joyce dying didn’t do this feeling any justice. It made it worse. You constantly thought about your parents, their past and your Uncles. It was really killing you, and to make matters worse, you were moving.

Hawkins wasn’t that bad of a place, it really wasn’t bad at all. But your parents had drilled it into your head that it was horrible, boring and “nothing good ever came out of it.” So when you were told you were moving to Hawkins, the last thing you wanted to do was be happy about it.

“It’ll be fun! and You’ll get to go to the high school me and your father went to!” Your Mother said excitedly, minutes after just dropping the Hawkins Indiana bomb. ‘Does she think I’m fucking stupid?’ you thought as you gave a fake smile to her and your Father.

The only thing that brought you joy about this was being able to indulge yourself into your parents past just a little bit more.

You had been in Hawkins for a week, and you soon came to realise that nothing really did ever happened here. Absolutely nothing. 

And you were so fucking ready to go back home. But you knew that was out of reach, as much as you hated to think about it.

Other than it being boring, you didn’t mind the High School, and you couldn’t see why your parents didn’t enjoy it there. From the old school pictures plastered on the wall, it looked like a lot of fun. But every photograph had its secrets, and you would learn that early on. 

Your favourite thing about the new High school was your science class, and not just because of your love for the subject, but the teacher; Mr.Kert.

He was awesome; much different than other teachers you had met. He made everything seem so enthusiastic and fun, and on the first day when introducing you to the class, he made it clear that there would be no tests for marks. Which was the cherry on top.

The rest of your classes were boring, and stupid. You had History, English and Work experience.  English being the only one that could even barley compete with your science class.

Today in English, the teacher, Mrs. Blackburn had given you your first project. The assignment? To find someone in the yearbooks and write a story about their life. That seemed easy enough for you and fun, so, you decided you’d try and find your Mom and Dad in the yearbooks. That was a struggle.

Your class piled into the small area of the archives. It was a small room filled with old cheerleader outfits, sports uniforms, prom king and queen crowns and even an old pack of Marlboro cigarettes. You were already so fascinated with this small room that you had almost entirely forgotten to grab a yearbook. You went back over to the shelf to find that the majority kept out on display were gone, that’s when you overheard a student talking to what you could only assume as the archive teacher

“Why do some of these books have pages ripped out of them?”

“Their just old, most of them are like that. Sometimes the police station keeps them for investigation so I’m not sure.” The lady shrugged. This comment left you curious. What was there to hide in a town where nothing ever happens?

You continued to look around the small area after not having any luck finding  a yearbook that wasn’t totally trashed. The room was filled with many more old trinkets, pictures and clothes, but that’s when you noticed a small box in a secluded corner filled with random shit. You looked behind you, back and fourth to make sure no one was looking and that everyone was occupied. You squat down to the box moving things around, looking at the contents of the box. Most of it was random sheets of paper and old gym clothes. That's when something caught your eye, it was the color red. 

You dug deeper into the box, carefully taking some things out to reach what you had been looking for. 

It was a red journal with some decals on the side, and various wounds. It was definitely broken into. As you admired the red journal upon your hands, the bell rang, jolting you out of admiration and back to reality. You quickly stuffed the box back up with its random shit and hid the journal within your cardigan.

A couple days had gone by and you had done nothing but read the ratty journal. Needless to say, you were hooked. You had discovered it was a boy writing, because his name was scrawled upon the first page. Billy Hargrove.

You swore that name gave you the shivers, and you had only read two entries, and to be fair they were written messily so it was hard to get even through one entry.

The first entry was titled as November 3rd 1984

“Well, I guess I have to start using this journal for English. Our first entry should explain who we are and stuff, but I’m not one to talk about myself to a stupid journal. That's kind of fucked isn't it? The kid who tries to seem on top of the world isn't as cocky as you’d thought he was?  Well news flash, not everything is what it seems.”

You could relate to every word he had written down. You acted like you could handle yourself, like you were okay. But deep inside, you weren’t. You hadn’t felt a sense of belonging for a very long time, and yet in this ratty old journal from 1984 you had felt that belonging you yearned for.

For once you felt less alone.

It had been a week of reading Billy’s writings, and as fucked up as it sounds, you felt as if he was your best friend. You connected so much to him even though he hadn’t been fully open in his journal about his life, from what you had read he seemed pretty similar to you.

Closed off from the world, too scared to become attached, and insecure.

But as you read further, the sadder and sadder the writings had become.

January 10th 1985

“Hello journal. I can talk more freely now because first term is over and no one is going to read this, not that they were anyway. Teacher don’t give a shit.  Fun stuff right?

I feel like such a psycho for talking to a damn journal. 

But for some reason I feel like I have to still. Like somehow if I do I don’t have to put my shit onto other people’s plates.”

He needed a constant reliable source for his happiness, and this journal had given him that, somewhat. You believed that the writings only got sadder because now that no one was looking, he could be authentic. That couldn't have been more relatable.

The week had come and gone, and you couldn’t get enough of the mysterious boy you’d been reading about. So much so that you had forgotten to write a story about someone from a yearbook. You already knew you’d write about Billy, that was easy enough. 

But now you had to attach a face to the boy you had been reading about, so you moseyed on down to the archives after school.

The door was unlocked, but the lights were off and no one was in sight. You didn't think anything of it, so you turned on the light and began to look for what you had came for.

A little piece of you knew that it was wrong to be in the room without supervision, let alone sneak into the file room attached; but you were so intrigued and desperate for a picture of what once was a young boy.

You had been so caught up in Billy Hargrove that when you had come across a file in the back room of the archives with the name “BYERS” written across it, you almost skipped over it.

But you read it again, remembering it from somewhere. Until it had hit you.

That was your last name,

on some top secret school file.

This could be all the answers you had been looking for regarding your family. You could finally get a glimpse of what your uncles looked like, or what your Mom had gotten in trouble for.  

Moments before you were about to open the file, the door of the file room creaked slightly, and a booming voice had stopped you in your tacks.

“Hey kid, watcha doing down here? “You jumped a little and turned to see a man dressed in cop attire. And it was definitely not Halloween, so you were fucked.

The cop had brought you down to the station. You had discovered that he was the police chief and school constable. Chief Harrington to be exact. He had the highest and thickest hair known to mankind and  he kept a fucking nail bat next to his desk. Was that even remotely legal?

“What a fucking psycho.” You thought.

“So, your new around here? “He asked, kicking his feet up on his cluttered desk. You nodded your head.

“You got a name?” You were cautious at first, but he was a cop and you probably had tell him so he could write you up.

“Y/N, Y/N Byers.” You said quietly, looking down at your feet. And with that being said, his eyes flew open like saucers. It was as if he’d seen a ghost. But he was quick to change his reaction.

“What brings your family to Hawkins?” You definitely were not going to explain to this fat ass Indiana cop about your Grandmothers passing, so you stayed silent until he shot you another question.

He sighed deeply, “Okay so why were you stealing these.” He lifted up the Byers file.

“Just a school project.” you said bluntly, shrugging.

“So your telling me, you went through private school files over an assignment? With your own last name?  Doesn’t really add up.” He knew there had to be something else going on, but there really wasn't. 

“Well maybe if you didn't rip fucking pages out of the yearbooks-” you grumbled quietly, crossing your arms against your chest.

He scoffed, “God, your just like your mother.” He grumbled.

Authors Note: I wrote this a very long time ago but I figured I would post it, and see if anyone likes it? Comment if any of you want a part two!

[stowawayproductions-blog]

A Ghost Story

Human connection is a tricky thing. So many of us as artists think about humanity every day, desperate to glean as much meaning as we can out of small actions and silent expression, but many of us tend to withdraw from those subjects that we're so determined to understand. It's a strange mix of loving humanity and hating the humans. I think a lot of our introverted tendencies stem from fear. At least in my case, I'm terrified of losing that love of humanity that fuels my work. If I wake up one day and truly have no more wonder about the world around me, what do I have to film? As unlikely as that scenario is, every time a get a shitty customer, or my neighbor plays his music too loud and wakes me up, or even anytime I just don't understand someone, I can feel a piece of that wonder decaying. And with my boiling anger at my neighbor's indifference to my sleep schedule, I evaporate away that wonder about his sleep schedule, his life, his desires, his joys; all that is buried under a powerful wish to throw his stereo off the balcony.

A Ghost Story, very much like American Honey, forced me to sit through an uncomfortable exploration of my own defensive nature when it comes to contemplating pieces of humanity that I don't understand.

I couldn't wait for this film. My boyfriend warned me that it probably wouldn't be my thing (too artsy, too visual, not enough narrative), which I found slightly condescending and therefore was determined to enjoy and understand every minute. A friend of mine at the local indie theater described it as a life changing experience, leading to her staying up all night having existential conversations. Though that much hype is always worrisome, I brushed it aside, going with my old standby of "a great movie can withstand any amount of hype".

A large piece of our lives is rooted in sentimentality. People like me place their emotions everywhere all the time. I don't have a special spot, or a special notebook, or a special song. If I'm feeling sentimental, that spot that I'm in becomes sentimental, that song that's playing becomes the most important in the world just for that moment. It's powerful, it's creatively useful, but it's exhausting, transient and forgettable. I can't remember the last spot I sat in that felt very important, or the last object I held that made me feel at home. My sentimental feelings are like the rungs of monkey bars; I swing from one to the next just trying to stay up in the air, but once I'm finished having fun, they're just metal bars.

Anyone who connected with A Ghost Story, I suspect, is the opposite of me. It's a story stuck in the sentimentality of specific things, in this case a house. A house seemingly so meaningful that this man can literally never move on; and the word "never" is used in the extreme.

Coming down off my teetering tower of mixed metaphors for a moment: the first third of this film was perfect. I really really want to re-cut this down to 30 minutes and turn it into the greatest short film in the world. Rooney Mara is stunning. Her portrayal of grief is beautifully heartbreaking and real, exuding the complexities of missing a dark and sad relationship. David Lowery’s cinematic choices in this first act are subtle, thoughtful, mature, and graceful. Not to mention incredibly brave. A tear jerking still shot of Mara eating a pie for three minutes straight is perhaps one of the greatest moments in film history. Also, if Casey Affleck could always play a silent character hidden under a sheet, that would be great with me.

In the second act the film takes a turn for the uncomfortable. Jumping awkwardly from era to era, it's hard to grasp hold of what the writers are trying to say. Every time I would come up with a metaphor that made sense, the next scene would discredit it. New characters jump in and out as quickly as themes. I ached for that beautiful first act, a comfortable and simple story of loss and love. The film just can't quite find where it's supposed to be. It was painful, it was alienating - the film itself was everything that Casey Affleck's ghost was feeling. We were brought into his heart by being made to feel as uncomfortable as he was with how fast this world was changing. He misses his partner; we don't only sympathize with his pain, WE also miss his partner and her perfect world and story that she's wrapped in. He's desperately trying to attach meaning to everything that's happening, but that meaning doesn't make sense, it can't take hold, because not everything is meaningful, not everything is sentimental in the way that he thinks it should be, and focusing so intensely on making everything matter blinds him to the joy he had every day of his normal, often meaningless life.

Now, I'm not one for giving credit where I'm not sure that it's due, but IF the film was intending this kind of meta emotional experience, it's ingenious. If it wasn't it's a messy, directionless story that's too big for its britches. Whichever way I ultimately decide to look at this film, no piece of art has made me feel more alone.

My boyfriend was profoundly moved by A Ghost Story. The critical reviews that I had read at the time hailed it as an emotional masterpiece. I wasn't feeling moved, or existential, or even that emotional, and that led to panic. If I don't understand a song or a book, whatever, I can write it off as "not being for me" and move on to something else. But I am an indie drama film maker...I can't just not understand an indie drama and have it be okay. This passion defines everything about who I am. It's the only interest I have. Every book on my shelf is about film. Every picture on my wall is about film. Every plan for my life is centered around my intense love of film. Why couldn't I grasp this? Clearly I'm not superior to everyone around me; I don't know more than my favorite critics or my similarly-film-loving boyfriend, so why did this supposedly perfect film hit me so wrong? Am I a child still, only able to appreciate plots and themes that are spoon fed to me through a three-act hero arc? And if so what the hell am I doing trying to write complex, nuanced, emotional films? Failing, probably. It was a bizarre and unpleasant mixture of my inner middle schooler and my inner old lady fighting it out between feeling like no one understands me and like I don't understand anyone else (and accepting that perhaps that's just life). Is that life as an artist? The slow and painful discovery that no one will ever understand your work, and you'll never understand theirs?

It's interesting trying to break into the film industry from a small town in Oregon. There's this constant feeling of both literal and emotional distance. No matter how much I learn about film it's all theoretical. Even when I physically have a camera in my hand there's still a feeling of disconnect, I don't really feel in it yet, because I'm in it alone. My last crew consisted of a biology student, a grocery store clerk, and waiter. I wouldn't have it any other way, I love the people in my life, but there is a certain feeling of playing dress up that leads to my own disrespect of my work. I keep thinking that getting to a big city, or going to school, or just meeting more film people will bridge that gap between theory and reality, but now I'm starting to think that loneliness is just part of the job; and maybe that's okay. Maybe it's okay that A Ghost Story exists in this moment in my life, troubles me and makes me question everything I know, then slowly fades away. Maybe it's okay that Lowery will never really be understood even by those of us who spend every waking moment thinking about film. This isn't world politics, people understanding an agreeing with our work isn't life or death.

Our films are like small conversations on a park bench. Who knows what that conversation will mean to anyone else, and who cares? It's a transient, sentimental moment, seething with life at the second when it's happening, then quickly fades and is forgotten to make room for new moments, new films, new  thoughts, and new misunderstandings.

Huh, look at that...A Ghost Story made me feel existential after all. Go figure.