#it's not even drawn with digital ink it's drawn with real tears

[sparrowmoth]

➳ Some self-indulgent visual storytelling ft. 13 y/o Wylan and 14 y/o Jesper in a vague daydream modern AU where Wylan ends up under Colm's guardianship after escaping his abusive father. Jesper is none too impressed with this sheltered city kid who keeps trying to sneak potentially dangerous wildlife into the house. He is ESPECIALLY not impressed that Wylan is trying to convince him that is a "stray cat."

[writingquestionsanswered]

Tattoo Shop AU - a quick, practical guide for writers

Guest Post by lebanon-hangover

lebanon-hangover said: this is based on my personal experience with the industry only, so depending on the era and country you are portraying, it may not be 100% accurate for your setting.

Hygiene

It may not be obvious at first glance, but most tattooists are clean freaks. We work with human blood every day, and we get clients from all ages, ethnic and social economic backgrounds, with all sorts of medical conditions.

We usually mop frequently, bleach the sinks, wipe down everything, and use cling film or bags to wrap everything. I mean fucking everything. We also scrub in, and sanitise the area on the person we work on.

Needles are collected in a sharps bin, and handled very carefully. Medical waste goes in yellow bags, and both are collected by a professional service.

Used ink caps may look full, but the ink gets diluted by blood. Like you dip the inky needle into the person, but you also dip the person’s blood into your ink. These are medical waste too.

Cleaning up must be done promptly after the session. Bin everything disposable, put things through the ultrasonic and the autoclave, and sanitise the area. We may take machines apart, but more for maintenance than cleaning, sometimes we swap parts in them too.

We have two sinks, one for hand washing, one for cleaning.

All inks and needles have use by dates.

The internal dynamics of a studio

Depending on the country, some tattoo shops tend to have ties to biker gangs, and some of those internal dynamics and unwritten rules are often present.

There’s a pecking order and it’s dead serious. Basically the longer you’ve been in a shop, the higher ‘rank’ you are, you get the better positioned stations, first pick of walk-ins, etc (Unless the client is asking for someone by name). Regardless of your actual experience in the industry, like if you move into your old apprentice’s shop, they are still senior to you. If the owner or their partner is an artist, obviously they are on top of the chain by default.

We are self employed, but we have a boss. You are only making money if you are working, but you still have set work hours.

We get paid by the clients, and we pay the studio a cut. In return, there are some items provided by them, and some we buy for ourselves. Usually the chairs, tattoo beds, gloves, cleaning products, clip cord covers, masks, aprons, ink caps, vaseline, green soap, and some basic ink is provided by the shop. We buy our own machines, arm rests, stations, pedals, power supplies, clipcords, tips and grips, needles, special colours, stencil fluid…these are a personal preference, and often depend on the artists’ style.

We totally ask to try out each other’s equipment sometimes, or ask for a certain type of needle if we ran out.

The receptionist is usually just one of us, maybe a piercer, but it also can be a hired person in top studios.

The apprentice in the traditional system is often mistreated, and they have to pay for their education, have to be there multiple days a week and don’t make any money. It’s kind of like a tear them down, build them back up again thing to see if they are really serious about the job. Times are slowly changing, but 99% of them will always need a second job. Most of them are working as bar staff.

When you open a new studio, you must visit all the existing local ones and introduce yourself, otherwise you may get a brick through the window. Otherwise there’s not much beef among individual artists, they are often friends, go to conventions together and party after, etc.

The Artists

Tattooing is a fairly physical job, stretching skin is very important. We have to also keep our clients safely still, so we often use positions to pin them down a bit. Sometimes you hit a reflex point on the foot or under a knee, and you don’t want to get kicked. Sometimes you have to pull away super fast, cos they are sneezing, yawning or giggling.

Most tattooists drink a lot of coffee, tea or energy drinks.

Some people are all rounders, some have specific styles, but we recognise each other’s art styles. Sometimes we delegate work to each other, if we think our coworkers style fits the concept better. For example if there’s a person who does script well, we give them those projects.

We don’t like when people come in with designs from other artists. Art theft is frowned upon, and we work best with our own drawings.

Most apprentices practice on their own legs, and sometimes we tattoo each other when it’s quiet. Most people have cover ups, or bad pieces from their early days. The artists’ own tattoos sometimes are in a different style than what they do, but we like to collect ink from friends or colleagues we admire.

In the first 1-2 years one is an apprentice, then junior artist. At 5-8 years of tattooing, you have earned your stripes and are considered an experienced artist.

Conventions are really fun, but can be stressful. You can make good money working at one, and sometimes get awarded for it too. We can also spend a lot at a convention.

Sometimes we poke our fingers by accident, and it’s a scary thing. Good case scenario is just some random dots on your fingers. Let’s not go into the bad case scenario.

We do guest spots sometimes, just to meet new clients, and change it up a bit.

We spend a lot of time drawing up things, and designs are meant to fall on specific muscles, stretch with the skin a certain way, so they are tailored to the body proportions of the client. A good tattoo is also an optical illusion, complimenting the body shape.

Social media presence is like a second job, you need good photos, and you need to market yourself.

Tattoo ink does not wash out, so some stains are inevitable when pouring it out. Those ink bottles get stuck so easily, and we wrestle them a lot. We try to avoid it, but wearing all dark colours is a thing for a reason.

The Clients

Tattooists need to have a good ‘bedside manners’ too. We get nervous or self conscious people, and we are told personal things during long sessions. For example scar coverups and memorial pieces can be very emotional.

We have pretty good poker faces and first aid trainings. People can faint, get shaky, throw up, some have seizures, have b.o., get sweaty, etc the same way as at a blood donation event? It’s no big deal really. We sit them down, give them some water and some sugar, and re-book them if necessary. Most artists keep some wet wipes, mouth wash, deodorant, sweets, maybe even some clean clothes at work, just in case.

If someone comes in with a wild idea for a jobstopper, we would sit down and have a long talk. If they haven’t got many tattoos, we usually try to stir them towards more safe choices, offering them creative ideas. It’s like those jedi mind tricks sometimes.

If someone is undecided, we show them our own hand drawn flash sheets. Once its gone, its gone tho, we don’t use the designs twice.

Pinterest is full of photoshopped fake tattoos, some that won’t even work as real ink. Many people also touch up their work digitally on photos, so some clients have really unrealistic expectations.

We can totally tell if someone is intoxicated or hangover. It thins the blood, and they bleed out the ink, and it’s super annoying. if it’s bad, they will be sent home and rebooked.

Some folks are self conscious about body hair, their size, stretch marks and scars. Chances are, we have seen similar, and we aren’t bothered by it, because it’s work. Surgery scars, scars from accidents, self harm scars, burns, we see it all the time. We shave some really hairy dudes all the time girl, your legs are fine. Seriously. If something makes tattooing you dangerous we will tell you.

Fit, muscular people are harder to tattoo because they are really firm. Its a workout for us.

Everyone gets midnight messages about the aftercare from nervous clients, and drunken booty calls about getting inked right at this second. We have copy paste replies…

We get creeps sometimes. Stalking, weird conversations, tmi info dumps etc.

Other things to include (for fun, or for plot reasons)

We sometimes have those “oh fuck” moments. We all do, but mistakes can be fixed, and we play it cool.

Tattooing takes time. Usually 30 minutes to multiple sessions though years and years.

Healing tattoos takes about 2-4ish weeks, and your characters shouldn’t go roll around in dirt, sunbathe, swim, pick at the scabs. Nasty infections, and messed up tattoos would be the results.

If you have a strong immune system, and you get a lot of work done in one sitting, you may get a brief bit of a temperature. It’s normal, and will go away.

Its a lot easier to get seriously drunk after getting a tattoo. Be careful.

We sometimes draw on each other for practice with our marker pens.

Tattoos are inside the skin, not on top of it. Imagine a low opacity, skin toned layer over the ink, adding to the healed tattoos’ colour. Please stop making your characters skin fully transparent.

Heavy blackwork and palms are done in multiple sessions.

You can’t cover up moles, because if they develop skin cancer, the dermatologist can’t see the signs.

There’s a stereotype about piercers having blacked out sleeves.

Stencil fluid looks just like cum.

You get that annoying itch on your face when you scrubbed in, put on gloves and finally ready to go.

Some artists have a strong preference for coil or rotary machines, and they bicker about it a lot. Coils are louder, more punchy, and more traditional, perfect for lineart. They can be customised, and they last forever. They are also called glorified doorbells by people who prefer rotaries. Rotary machines are smoother, lighter, and often use needles that are pulled back into the cartridges for safety. They are better for shading and delicate line work. Older tattooists often say they are dildo or butt plug shaped, overly delicate and are for “soft millennials” only.

Every artist owns like 5 to 20 machines, and they have specific machine builders they are loyal to.

The “which cable is broken and cutting out” guessing game. Clip cords and pedal cables get worn out easily, and that results in your machine running really jerky.

Walk-in always show up 10 minutes before closing.

We often look quite silly at work. Sleeves rolled up, folks use all sorts of plastic ppe, headlamps, and we tie up our hair. Add couple of purple smears from carbon paper, and we aren’t scary at all.

[volleychumps]

I frfr forgot if I requested earlier but Getting matching tattoos with Kenma maybe reader getting a controller and Kenma getting a mic. Cuz both are famous ig like he’s a famous YouTuber and she’s a singer but there relationship is private but they are seen in public as friends so like ppl peep both tattoos and start speculating. And they accidentally get exposed when she comes on his stream not knowing he’s live

I love this concept?? So much?? And it’s my first Kenma single work???

The Secret (Kenma Kozume x Reader)

The one in which you’re a famous singer dating the pro-gamer on the down low and accidentally expose it to the public

Warning(s): like a TINGE of nsfw themes like super light 

----------------------------------

“All done?” 

“It’s rare to see that you are.” 

You smile at the sight of your boyfriend leaning against the doorway of your in-home studio, humming contentedly as you slip your headphones off. As you turn off the recorder and fiddle with the buttons, Kenma approaches you tiredly, running a hand through his hair let loose out of it’s small bun. The red hoodie he was wearing was loose around his frame, the bags under his eyes signalling that the stream he had just finished up had been a long one as he unscrews the lid to a water bottle. 

“I heard you from the other room. Real pretty voice.” 

“Sure you weren’t scared your viewers would hear?” You tease, accepting the water as Kenma scoffs, rolling his eyes before you feel him approach you from the back. 

“Can we not just bask in this rare moment of freedom we both have? Please?” 

“You love gaming.” You protest, feeling Kenma push your hair to one side of your head to expose your neck.

“And you love singing, but it doesn’t make it any less tiring after hours on end.” 

You turn off your ring light as Kenma’s arms droop lazily around your waist, the gamer digging his face into your neck tiredly while breathing against your skin. Your fingers find one of his hands resting around your middle, stroking the ink on the skin of the side of his thumb with butterflies in your stomach at the sight of the simplistic microphone inked on his skin. 

“I still can’t believe we went through with it.” You whisper, feeling his lips curl a little against your skin. 

“How’s yours healing up?” Kenma murmurs into your neck, lifting his head slightly to catch your own hand and examine the tattoo of the controller on yours. You wince a little bit when he rubs his thumb over it distractedly, the skin still risen a little bit from how fresh it is. 

“Stinging. Yours?” 

“The pain is worth it.” 

“Shut up.” You laugh, turning to face him as Kenma clicks his tongue, murmuring something about how that wasn’t what he meant before you place a kiss on his temple sweetly. 

“Dinner? We can order in.” 

“Right. Like we can actually go out.” Kenma rolls his eyes as you nudge him slightly, feeling a twinge in your chest. The idea to keep it a secret had been your initial thought, but Kenma still agreed that the two of you needed to play your cards right for the sake of your careers. 

“You know it would be a hassle if our viewers knew. And since when do you ever want to go out?” 

“Have you not been on your phone? They’re already kind of on to us after someone digitally enhanced our recent photos to see our tattoos.” Kenma ignores your little jab at his indoor tendencies as he arches a brow. 

“What?” You blink, a surge of panic rushing through your chest as you go to grab your phone. “Already-?” 

“Hey.” Kenma tightens his hold on you, and you still as the setter places a quick kiss on the top of your head while attempting to ease your worries. “Let’s not freak out. Not now, at least. Just...hang with me?” 

You relax, Kenma’s rare words of affection making the panic replace with warmth as you turn in his hold, arms wrapping around his middle tightly as his clasp at the small of your back. The scent of him fills your nose as you mumble into his chest, a wave of tired washing over you as Kenma hides a small, relaxed smile into your hair. 

“Alright, love. Sushi okay?” 

“Order me ramen.”

“Right! My viewers sent me in some apple pie, I almost forgot- Kenma, wait for me!” 

“You should have said so sooner.” 

-----------------------------------------

The TV was still blaring on some random episode of a netflix series when you wake up, Kenma’s hoodie hanging around your groggy figure as you wake up warm yet alone, tiredly sitting up to switch off the TV. You blink once, and then twice again before smiling to yourself.��

Kenma had applied petroleum jelly to your tattoo for you, an open bottle of water already unscrewed and waiting on the clean living room table. 

The plates from dinner had already been taken and now laid on the drying rack along with the apple pie neatly put away in it’s box next to it. You had to hand it to him, Kenma made it hard for you to be annoyed about waking up alone. Wiping your eyes with the loose sleeve of your boyfriend’s hoodie, you check the time only for your eyes to widen a little bit. 

It was now nine in the morning, meaning that you had slept through the night without even realizing it. You sigh, going through your phone while still waking up before frowning at the influx of notifications and messages blowing up your device, the dms in particular being the most annoying. 

Are you dating Kenma Kozume?!

Back off, hoe. He belongs to his fans. 

Omg omg is my ship sailing??????

From: Asshole 

Are you two lovebirds trying to get found out?

You narrow your eyes, shooting a text back. 

-Kuroo, it’s too early for your bull. 

Listen lovely, it’s never too early. And matching tattoos? He wouldn’t get any with me:((

-Wonder why.

I’VE BEEN SHOT-

You snort before stretching tiredly, putting your phone down and wandering into your spacious bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth, a giddy feeling in your stomach at the fact that Kenma was supposed to finish up his live in less than twenty minutes. However, you stall, gaping at the mirror in disbelief. 

A groan slips your lips as you raise a hand to your neck, eyeing the dark bruises littered up to your jaw as you hang your head and sigh. You couldn’t believe you had forgotten that Kenma had gotten a little carried away last night, your heated makeout session on the couch turning into a little something more, hence the hoodie you now adorned. 

You blush as you begin to remember, shaking your head of such thoughts before tying your hair up. Oh well, nothing some concealer and color corrector wouldn’t fix- maybe a scarf or two. You begin to make breakfast after clambering into the kitchen, a nutritious breakfast of soup and fish with rice being carefully plated onto a tray almost half an hour later. 

Hey, is Kenma done with his stream? 

You sip some soup, tasting it as you type away on your phone. 

-Should be, Kuroo- why? 

Oh, his fans were blowing up his comments asking about you and I’ve never seen the poor boy so flustered. Hug him, will you? 

-Bringing him breakfast now. 

I’m so glad he met you:’) 

-Buzz off:’)

You ignore the snarky response from Kuroo before lifting the tray, not even bothering to knock or say you were coming in as you push the door open to Kenma’s gaming room after ascending the stairs, figuring that the stream was supposed to end ten minutes ago- 

And oh boy did you wish you had knocked. 

You almost drop the tray, stilling at the sight of Kenma’s stream still ongoing, the cat-like boy pushing back from his monitor in shock as he whips his head to look at you from his gaming chair- 

You, his hoodie draped hanging off your figure with no pants underneath, simply exposing your bare legs and your hair tied back messily, a tray of breakfast in your hand that signalled you had spent the night together-

and not to mention the hickies ever so evident on your neck. 

“Y/N-” 

You squeak, stepping out of the door and slamming it shut behind you just as Kenma’s comments explode across the monitor. You were in for it now. 

The tray gets slowly lowered in front of the door before you make a mad dash to your shared bedroom, ignoring the now increased influx of notifications on your phone from Kenma’s hoodie pocket before throwing it across the room and face-planting onto your bed. 

How could you have been so careless?

Heat tinges your eyes as you muffle a scream into the sheets. 

What’s gonna happen now?

You flinch at the sound of someone else entering the room, refusing to look up from your spot as a familiar figure sits next to your teary one carefully. A feeling of guilt and wishing you could turn back time weighs on your chest as Kenma strokes a hand through your hair. 

“Don’t panic.” 

“Don’t panic?!” You sit up, Kenma eyeing you evenly as he watches frustrated tears brim your eyes. “I just walked into your live!” 

“I know, I was there.” 

“Kenma!” You whine, and surprise etches onto your features when Kenma stifles a laugh into his palm, looking off to the side before taking your hand in one of his carefully. The other one wipes moisture from your eyes as Kenma stops teasing you, looking at you seriously through golden irises. 

“We’d have to let them know eventually, you do know that- right? Or did you want to keep us a secret forever?”

“I know, but...” You sniff, Kenma using his finger to tilt your chin up slightly to tilt his head. 

“But?” 

“I don’t want to...ruin your career.” You finish quietly, and you gasp when you suddenly find yourself on your back, Kenma now looking at you with a hard edge to his eyes as he stares down at you from his position on top. 

“Well, isn’t this familiar-” your cracked voice tries to joke. 

“Shut up.” Kenma rolls his eyes before leaning down so his nose is almost touching yours. 

“Would I have gotten this ink permanently drawn onto my damn skin if I thought you’d ever ruin anything for me?” 

At your loss of words, Kenma sighs before taking one of your relaxed hands- the one with the controller on it- and bringing the side of your thumb to his lips so he can mumble against it. 

“And this? This tattoo of yours means that you’re mine. Didn’t we get these tattoos because we knew we’d reveal it anyway?” 

“Kenma, you’re speaking too much calm down-” 

“Y/N.” 

You stop with your antics as Kenma’s voice softens, eyeing you seriously. “Don’t you...want to be together?” 

“God, what kind of question is that?” You frown, lifting your hands to cup his face as you look up at his pretty features. “You know I do.” 

“Then I’m happy you walked into my stream.” Kenma turns his head into your touch to kiss your palm. “Because now all those damn pretty boys in your dms know you’re taken.”

“Kenma, they saw hickies.” 

“So?” 

“I can’t with you.” You roll your eyes before releasing a breathy laugh, glancing at the phone screen from the floor across the room as it turns off and on, lighting your screen up with notifciations. “I’m taking it the press is eating this up?” 

“Like a damn buffet.” Kenma sighs, lazily beginning to trace patters into your exposed thighs. “You know what I can eat up though?” 

“The breakfast you stepped over on your way to pursue me?” You blink innocently, laughing when Kenma shoots you a tired stare. 

“Sure. Let’s eat breakfast.” 

“Kenma-” You begin to whine, only for your boyfriend to kiss your lips in a chaste manner, lips lifting ever so slightly when you blink doe-eyed up at him in response. The phones become ignored as Kenma throws his behind him, the press now forgotten as two phones now blow up beside one another.

His thumb strokes yours as the ink on both of your skin traces over one another, the slight sting of the tattoos unnoticeable as Kenma’s hands slide further up his hoodie. 

“Use that pretty voice of yours and tell me what you want then, princess.” 

“I’m starting to think you did this on purpose.” You murmur against his lips as Kenma scoffs in the midst of trailing kisses down your neck. 

“There’s a reason my stream didn’t end when I told you it would, love.” 

-------------------------------

General Work taglist: @takemetovalhalla @savemesteeb @dreebbles @kasandrafaye @yams046

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Hell's Studio fic idea: A pipe bursts and Sammy becomes a toon Imp like Snowflake and Bendy, and Joey doesn't know how to reverse it ASAP, so Sammy is stuck as a toon Imp and Sammy decides to hangout with Snowflake until Joey can reverse the ink's magic (Bonus points if: Sammy gets a uncontrollable stutter as a toon Imp, Susie cooing her small boyfriend, and Sammy drawing with snowflake)

I am So sorry that this took so freaking long, but here you go!

Wally slapped his forehead in exasperation as he heard the pipe bursting from the music department's break room. Then proceeded to go in there, with Snowflake following close behind just in case he needed someone small to check in any holes in the wall that the pipe made in the process.

The sight was familiar, but unwelcome to the pair; a pile of thick ink sliding down onto the floor through the broken pipe peeking through the ceiling. Snowflake was only thankful that it had spilled to the floor instead of the pool table.

“I’m startin' ta think dat eitheah we should completely tear down da music department to put in a betteah pipe system, or just stop fixin' the dang things so dat they at least stop surprisin' us."

The Janitor grumbled as he started mopping up the mess.

"A-at least nobody got caught in it this time."

As soon as Snowflake said that, something under the pile began to move.

“Mmmmh?"

"Yikes, spoke too soon, kiddo."

Wally stated calmly as he started to scrape the excess ink off of what looked exactly like Bendy, except the imp's tie lacked the fun patterns Bendy often wore, and more importantly, he was missing his mouth. So the obvious conclusion the pair made was: The ink ruined his tie by dying it black and also stole his mouth.

"M-mr. Bendy?! are you okay?!"

The formerly buried imp looked at the other one with a perplexed expression before mouthing something, realized that he wasn't saying anything, patting his face where his mouth should've been, and looking like he was about to panic.

"MMMMmmPPHH?! MMMH!! MMPHH!!!"

"Looks like the ink erased your pie hole, boss."

The imp rolled his eyes at stared at Wally in a very sarcastic manner before leaving the room, most likely to visit Joey about this issue.

"...Do you think he's not going to want to do that drawing lesson later?"

"What, Bendy? not want ta draw with ya overah somethin' like this? Nah. It's nothin' fun to wake up to, but I don't think it'll eat at him like it will if it happened ta Sammy."

----------------------

"MmMMmMMM?!?! MMPHH!! MMMPPHHH!?"

Sammy hopped up and down while wildly gesturing to the blank white space on his face where his mouth was supposed to be while Joey flipped through heavily ink-stained spell books. Meanwhile, the real Bendy was still gawking at his doppelganger, still not quite sure whether he should feel flattered or offended that the ink pulled this on Sammy. But also not saying anything because he couldn't find any jokes to lighten the mood with.

It would be one thing if the ink also gave Sammy Bendy's trademark smile (that could make other expressions too). If it did that, Bendy would be making so many mirror and twin related jokes. But it didn't.

"It's going to be fine." Joey repeated almost more to himself than to the hopping mad imp. "Just because an ink flood took out some of my reversal spells, doesn't mean that you're going to be stuck like this forever. Best case scenario, it'll take a few hours for me to find the right one, worst case scenario I'm going to need to order a new book, and that might take a while."

"MMm MmhP?"

"I don't know how long! Some of these are the rarest on the market! Goodness knows how long it'll take to replace if it's ruined and has the correct cure in it..."

The music director let out a heavily muffled, frustrated sigh.

"Yes, I'm annoyed too." Joey sighed as well. "But at least it's not going to be forever."

'Easy for you to say.' Sammy thought to himself as trying and failing to talk was starting to hurt his jaw. 'You're not the one dealing with this! how am I supposed to do my job when I can't speak to anyone?!'

He must've been gesturing as he thought this as Joey snapped his fingers in realization and handed Sammy a notebook and a pencil.

"I know it won't help with the more vocal aspects of your job, but it's better than not having any way to communicate. And much easier than trying to learn sign language in less than a day and with only four digits on each hand."

He tried to write down 'Thanks Joey' but his hands refused to obey him. Confusingly, he instead drew a thumbs up.

"Why thank you! Glad to see that you're taking this better than expected Sammy. I'd better get to work on looking for that spell..."

As Joey left the room, Sammy frowned at the notebook, trying to figure out why he did that. Bendy also peeked at the drawing and felt something click.

"So..." the copied imp awkwardly tugged at his tie as he avoided making eye contact with Sammy. "Just outta curiosity sake, does Snowflake know about this? At least, the fact that it's well, you instead of me?"

Sammy gave Bendy a funny look but nodded anyway.

"Okay, follow up question: ...Is now a bad time to tell you that before you burst in here trying to tell us to fix this that Joey and I were arguing over whether I should go to this meeting with GENT or to give drawing lessons to Snowflake like I promised to, and literally right before you came in I said: 'Well dang it Joey if I could be in two places at once, I would!'?"

Sammy frowned as he saw the guilty yet pleading look in Bendy's eyes, calmly took the newspaper off of Joey's desk, rolled it up and smacked Bendy right upside the head.

"Hey! What gives?!" He sputtered as he rubbed the back of his head.

The Mute music director drew a series of pictures: Bendy putting something in the ink, the ink rising up and flashing him the 'ok' hand sign, Bendy giving it a thumbs up in return and leaving on his merry way, a shift in perspective revealing Sammy as a human having seen the interaction but shrugging it off, Sammy (still human) playing pool with Jack, Grant, and Johnny, the four of them having a good time, the ceiling above them creaking and rumbling ominously, making the four opt to leave, Sammy coming back into the pool room slightly later and keeping an eye on the ceiling, Sammy taking what he came back into the room for, the ceiling above him suddenly bursting and covering him with ink, and the last picture; a bunch of puzzle pieces being fit together, with the picture on the pieces being a lit light bulb.

After showing Bendy his work, he crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the ground.

"What?! You can't seriously blame me for- Okay, yes. I did kinda make a request... but I figured I'D be the one getting drenched! Not you!"

Sammy raised a single eyebrow as Bendy let out a frustrated sigh.

"Look, if I knew that this was what would happen, I wouldn't have done it! But now that it's happened ...would ya help me out with this?"

Sammy's next drawing was his current form with an intentionally bad scribble of Bendy's mouth on the space where he was supposed to have a mouth to indicate it was (poorly) drawn on, and he was trying and failing to do Bendy's job for him as he couldn't speak.

"Of course I'm not going to shirk my responsibilities to make you pretending to be me look like an idiot in front of those big wigs at GENT. I mean, goodness, if this thing flops, who knows what'll happen."

The Musician then showed Bendy a drawing that was so horrible and cold that he wouldn't even dare grace it with a description.

"WHAT KINDA DEMON DO YOU THINK I AM, LAWRENCE?!" Bendy quieted down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I get it, Damned if I do the thing, damned if I don't do the other thing. I can't let down Snowflake, but if I'm not at that meeting, the studio's relationship with GENT could get bruised! This is why I tried this stunt in the first place!"

He sighed as Sammy just continued to tap his foot in annoyance. "Tell you what, help me and I'll give you anything you ask for! A raise, me not pranking you for a month, more paid vacation days, magic-repelling acetone, name it and it's yours!*"

*Within reason. I'm a demon not a miracle worker!

Sammy showed Bendy an intentionally shaky 'Ok' sign, the closest thing he could think of to a picture version of a hesitant and unwilling 'fine, I'll do it...'

"Oh Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Bendy practically crushed his doppelganger in a spine-breaking hug. "I really owe you this one Sammy!"

'I hope you realize how goddamned lucky you are that I like that kid.' Sammy thought to himself as he patted his double on the back. 'Otherwise I'd hang you out to dry for doing this...'

------------------------

The music director had no interest in deceiving Snowflake; even if he wanted to follow Bendy's plan to the spirit of his deal, he knew too well that the studio and it's ink would always drag any secret up to the surface. So it would just be easier to come clean at the start before lies had the chance to spiral into something that could completely break the poor kid.

"Hi Mr. Bendy! Are you ready for our lesson?"

Sammy nodded, but gestured for his pupil to wait a second before he flipped through the pages of his sketchbook and showed him a series of pictures: some showing the origin of his new condition, and the others showing his deal with Bendy.

"Oh." The child imp seemed sad, and slightly disappointed, but also not surprised. "So Bendy couldn't make it today either..."

The older imp sympathetically patted Snowflake on the back and tried his best to draw out an explanation, but it's kind of hard to put 'He really did want to make it, in fact, he wanted to so much that he was willing to split himself in half for it! But as you can see, it kinda backfired...' into picture format, luckily he got the message across fairly well.

"I-it's okay, I understand. Thanks for filling in for him Mr. Lawrence!"

Snowflake pulled out his own notebook and pencils.

"Do you think you can show me how to do hands that well?"

Sammy eagerly nodded and flipped his book to a blank page.

[another-dr-another]

insert those coins babey! no point in holding onto them if they aren't used !

You Now Own:

001 - Mineral Water (x2)

Drawn from the ocean depths and rigorously purified. Ideal for a modern on-the-go public unsatisfied with tap water.

002 - Sea Salt

A basic seasoning produced from the evaporation of seawater. It also sees use as a preservative.

003 - Ration

A set of canned and vacuum-sealed foodstuffs. The taste isn't bad, and a certain snake that wants to play hide-and-go-seek is just crazy abou- wait, what?

005 - Ramune

A sweet, lemon-flavored carbonated drink. A marble plugs the opening of the uniquely designed bottle. The bottle can also be reused if you bring it to the ramune store.

010 - Ship In a Bottle

A intricate creation, a model ship within a bottle. Made with time, love and care.

012 - Envy-Enducing Envy CD

A CD of songs by Japanese band Envy. Full of unreleased tracks/first recordings.

014 - Children's Book

A children's book about family and forgiveness! The plot is about a sister who can't get along with her younger brother, but they find common ground and bond over causing trouble for their parents.

016 - Sour Soda (x2)

No flavor is listed on the bottle other than sour, which may just be a flavor in and of itself. It's a near black shade of blue... I think.

017 - Gentleman's Guide

A book that's meant to help shape you into the perfect gentleman. However, it's rather demeaning towards the reader, which doesn't feel very gentleman-ly.

018 - Masculine Cologne

Very masculine, can only be used by masculine people. No weaklings allowed, or people with the common sense to smell it before purchasing, and realize it smells really bad.

019 - Fancy Sword

True to it’s name, it looks very fancy, and very intimidating. However, it's only for show, and rather blunt- perhaps inexpensive?

022 - ??? Alcohol

It's something alcoholic. This is a school, it should be confiscated, and you won't be receiving any more information.

024 - Hair Cutting Scissors

Snip snip snip, meant for hair-cutting at home, as these aren’t professional grade. Still though, try and make it even, okay?

025 - Purple Hair Dye

Pretty purple hair dye guaranteed to not come out of hair for weeks! More of a pinkish-purple than the box advertised, but still pretty.

028 - Constellation Skirt

With patterns matching actual real constellations. Despite matching the night sky, it almost seems sun-rise themed, with its pink background and pale gold stars.

030 - Bottled Tea

When heated up, it's meant to help soothe upset stomachs, and muscle aches. Popular among student athletes.

031 - Alarm Clock

It's a digital alarm clock. One of the few normal and functional things here, and it's the thing that screams at you to wake up every morning.

032 - Broken Stopwatch (x2)

It won't stop running, no pausing or restarting. You can however make it record different laps.

034 - Baseball Cap

Perfect for keeping the sun out of your face! This one is all black though, so it'll retain a lot of heat.

038 - Card Game (x3)

One easy to play, and popular among kids. The front side of the package shows a family of four playing.

039 - Reminder Booklet

A small pamphlet that gives reminders for daily things, such as eating, drinking, taking meds, etc. Also has room for you to add in unique personalized reminders.

041 - Tiovita

A Japanese energy drink sold at most convenience stores. Pretty inexpensive, and with a nice fruity flavor- but hey, only one per day!

044 - Lie Detector (x2)

Fun for the whole family! Though not incredibly accurate... wait, how do you know that?

045 - Evidence Encylopedia

A book focusing on evidence found in crime scenes. From most overlooked to most common, this book talks about it all.

049 - Track Award

A award from a middle school track and field award. The recipient of the trophy seems to have come in second in two events, and first in one.

050 - Plane Tickets (x2)

Anywhere, anytime, round trip tickets. Probably given as some sort of thank you for volunteering to get off of a accidentally over-booked flight.

051 - Therapy Advertisement (x2)

Some therapist endorsing themselves. Upon looking at the services they offer, I don't feel very inspired to go there.

056 - Soulmate Sweatshirt

A sweatshirt that supposedly brings the most comfort not when you wear it, but when holding someone wearing it. Currently smells strongly of... lavender?

057 - Scrap Metal x3

Seems to be broken bits and pieces of some sort of engine. Could be repurposed, or simply a cool trinket.

059 - Old Journal

It seems to be from the late 80s, and kept being written in up to the early 90s. There's a entry on the last page, synopsizing the birth of the owners son, and how proud the owner is of his now five year old.

060 - Paper Boat

A piece of paper that's been folded into a boat. Apparently you can fold and tear it as you tell a story to provide a visual aid for the story, but no one here knows how.

061 - Calendar

It's got pictures of internationally famous towns on it! This particular one has been written on with a note on almost every day.

064 - Face-paint Kit.

A professional face-painting kit. However, it’s missing it’s red, yellow, blue and white paint- those colors have been all used up.

065 - Life Quote Sign (x3)

A sign with some stereotypical life quote written on it in flowery lettering. Most likely to be seen hanging in a kitchen.

066 - Throwing Rings (x2)

Meant for fair games. If you have good enough aim, maybe you'll win a prize!

067 - Pleasant Savior

Seemingly a CD filled with various performances by the same person. I haven't played the CD, so I don't know what kind of performances he does though, and the name is off-putting.

069 - “Fresh” Bouquet (x3)

Somehow still smells sweet with flowers that look flawless. It's comprised of roses that have been dyed rainbow, all of them.

070 - Hair Ribbons (x3)

They come in a variety of colors, but the Monomono Machine only dispenses yellow. Guaranteed to make the wearer feel a certain sense of self-satisfaction.

071 - Girls Profile

A student profile from a all-girls academy. The paper is water-stained and some of the ink has run, so it's hard to make out what's on the paper.

073 - Baby Doll

It seems to be from around the 90s and... not quite well-loved, but well-played-with. Doesn't come with the original clothes... or hair.

075 - Dream Catcher

Made by a past SHSL. It's actually been pretty effective, and is part of the reason they got scouted.

080 - Retro Game

It's handheld, old, and extremely broken. The screen has been shattered so it displays wrong, all cracked and distorted.

081 - Blackout Curtains (x2)

Completely block out any and all light. Strong enough to plunge a room into darkness.

084 - Noise-cancelling Headphones

They completely block out all sound! Also come with the ability to adjust the size of the band, and will stay on your ears even if you pull the band down to your neck.

086 - Wall Decals

Stickers you can put on your wall. They do a decent job of covering up holes in said walls.

087 - Antique Stuffed Animal (x2)

It seems to be bunny themed, and dressed in clothes you'd see on babies in the 1930s. It's in pretty good shape, other than a few tears where the lace trim at the end has had it’s stitches removed.

088 - Embroidery Kit

Or rather, a needle and thread to be used for embroidery. There's only one needle, and one spool of thread, but hey, it’s something.

090 - Scented Markers (x2)

A full rainbow set, all with their own unique smell! Be careful though - it's hard to get these out of clothes.

092 - Fake Christmas Tree (x2)

Too plastic to be a real tree. It's also incredibly small, but real trees can be small too, so that doesn’t really mess with the realism.

093 - Hair Gel

Top of the line hair gel, and completely unopened! Helps you style your hair and keep it in place, but doesn’t give it the nicest texture.

095 - Instant Noodles

Just add water to get something hot, salty, and/or spicy! A nice meal if you're looking for something that's quick and easy, you can dress it up some too.

097 - Drink Mix

A powder used for ??? warm drink, made with milk, tastes like... something? You try it and tell me, but it smells good at the least.

099 - The DSM-I

Self-explanatory, it's the original version of the DSM, from 1952. Index cards have been slipped in-between most of the pages, talking about what happened with the information listed there.

100 - Collection Of Old Ads

Dating back to the 1920s. A magazine full of ads from a different time, it’s somewhat of a miracle the paper held up while the ideas in it didn’t.

101 - Wooden Ruler

It's a wooden ruler. Used for measuring things, nothing else- why do you ask?

102 - Building Blocks (x3)

Stacking and stacking, and sending it all crumbling down. And then you rinse and repeat.

104 - Cutesy Hair Clips

Snap clips in pastel colors and covered in designs. Oddly enough, there isn't any non-pastels, unless you count the few white clips.

106 - Newspaper Collage

Seems to be a collection of snippets from newspaper articles. There must be hundreds in here... it's a big collage.

107 - Cropped Sweatshirt

Cropped specifically due to a parent saying not to. The sweatshirt seems to be related to some organization, with the big fancy emblem on it.

109 - Pins And Patches

A mix-and-match bag full of enamel pins, buttons, and iron-on patches. Good luck finding something to do with them all.

110 - Origami Paper (x2)

Simple origami paper, in a variety of colors and patterns! Comes easy to tear out of a book, which includes instructions on basic origami types.

112 - Colorful Band-Aids.

They come in many colors, designs, even different sizes. Some seem to be made to cover up paper cuts, others meant to help skinned knees and scraped elbows.

Thank you for visiting the Monomono Machine!

~*~

Maeda, narrating - And I thought the coins were kinda heavy...

Maeda - What now?

[Free Time Event - Uehara]

{Head to Your Room}

[mattalesarts102-01-blog]

Project 1: Snippets

Hooray, my first Studio Arts project! I had a great time working on this- I can't remember the last time I was so excited to work on homework.

For this project, our task was to think about weird things we've heard people say, favorite quotes, song lyrics, et cetera and create images based on those "snippets." Like the Emo trash that I am, all three of my "snippets" were song lyrics. My first one, "Is anyone there? Oh... hi," is a line from Sad Machine, my favorite song from Porter Robinson. The second, "His hair, his smoke, his dreams," is a line from Colors, my sister's favorite song from Halsey. The third, "I'm drowning in a lifeboat," is a phrase used often by death's dynamic shroud.wmv, my mom's favorite Vaporwave artist (you read that right!) I chose those lines for the second and third because I intend to give the final prints as gifts to my sister and my mom, respectively.

Here, I'll briefly break down my process for each of them:

"I'm drowning in a lifeboat"

I started by creating a physical image. I sketched out the letters in pencil after very carefully drawing margin lines with a ruler. Then, I painted the letters vertically using heavy body acrylic thinned with water to make it appear like watercolor. While the paint was still wet, I photographed the page (using my hair clip to keep it from flopping over.) In Photoshop the following day, I resized and cropped the image, straightened it, added a Gaussian blur to smooth over the pixelation, then applied automatic color fixing operations.

The idea behind this image plays into my interpretation of the quote. I spent a long time painstakingly drawing out the letters and their spacing, but intentionally put very little effort into applying the paint neatly and even used the wrong kind of brush on purpose. Upon seeing this image out of context, one might think that the creator had a fair amount of skill with drawing, but next to no skill in painting. The point of all of this is to illustrate frustration. I interpret "I'm drowning in a lifeboat" to mean "I have the good foundation I need to be successful, so why am I still failing?" This image shows a good foundation in the drawn lines, but ultimately, it fails to be as neat and tidy as it set out to be.

"Colors"

I happened upon a stack of very old magazines someone left outside of McMaster and decided to use them to create a collage. I cropped the images and pieces of paper by folding and tearing, I arranged them in several different ways to see which configuration looked the best, then I pasted them in place. Despite the final image being in black and white, I used blue ink to write the text as an even deeper reference to the song. Then, I photographed the page in better lighting. In Photoshop, I resized and cropped the image, added a Gaussian blur, then applied a black-and-white filter. It didn't occur to me until days afterward that I needed to cite my images, and I'd put the magazines back in the pile where I found them! Would they still be there after several days of classes and rain? I'll cut to the chase: yes, they mostly were, but I had to do a bit of reverse image searching to find all the information needed. (This was about four days ago, and I'd written much more here, including the citations, but for some reason my post edits never saved so I've had to do all of this AGAIN.)

(Image sources: [top] Unknown historic photograph. [center] Moya, Rodrigo. "Che Melancólico." 1964. [bottom] Hopper, Dennis. "Double Standard." 1961.)

"Sad Machine"

For this one, I typed the quote into a Windows command terminal with the intent of the final image having a Vaporwave aesthetic. I tried photographing my computer screen for a more "lo-fi" look, but it looked unironically terrible and I decided to just use a screenshot. I used my computer's Snipping Tool to capture just the part that I needed, and I imported the capture into an 8"x8" blank artboard. To make the text clear and bright, I applied a very heavy-handed sharpening operation and turned down the saturation to get rid of color noise. Opening a new blank layer underneath the screencap, I created a two-color gradient and added color noise. I specifically chose to use blue with RGB values of 0, 255, 255 and magenta with RGB values of 255, 0, 255 (those colors probably have technical names that I don't know) because they're very popular in Vaporwave aesthetics and because I used those colors ad nauseam in my early days of making digital art in MS Paint and GIMP. I know that those colors don't quite print properly, though, but that's still in line with my intentions. Vaporwave aesthetics are characterized by mocking the technological ignorance of decades past and by imagery that can only truly exist on a computer. Imagine, if you will, someone amazed by the capabilities of their first home computer creating artwork to their heart's content using crazy full-saturation colors that simply cannot exist in the real world. They get their artwork printed and are disappointed in how their beautiful cyan and magenta turned out to be some sad pale blue and some dull reddish pink. And so the stark difference between the printed version and the uploaded web version of this snippet plays directly into its meaning.

[demixrivers-blog]

➤ ➤ CONTINUED FROM HERE. In memory of @abbyslxve.

through her closet, her black destressed shirt in mind to go with her white jeans, the brunette ruffled through hangers – the metallic blade of hangers gliding across the weighted rail that held everything up. “UGH – that fucking psycho.” Pressing digits through her roots and pausing momentarily, weighing up all of the places that Abigail could have been, Demetria pursed her lips and allowed her hands to fall down to her waist – taking in the scene around her. The bed was a state, as per usual and her draws were all pulled out as though they had been rummaged through. No doubt, Abby had been desperately searching for her cocaine which thank god, she kept hidden on her side of the room. She knew how Demi felt about that shit… It was fucking GROSS. There was only one place that she could have been; her favourite stall in the psychiatric ward. It was almost a fucking shrine to John Parris – vandalism and carvings scribbled across the cubicle walls. Nobody DARED go in there, on the off chance that Abigail came bursting in through the bathroom in an attempt to hide from whichever staff member was on her case – everybody knew that. As well as her creamed canvas, Abigail splashed SECRETS all over the walls – fingerprints of blood which even freaked the cleaners out… That one cubicle was practically a fucking BLOODBATH half the time – but maybe, that was Demetria’s mind being overly dramatic as per usual... There were bloodstains and speeches of hatred, all in the jagged handwriting of her friend.

With the roll of her eyes, the BEAUTY sauntered through hallways until that E E R I E creak of the door hinges screeched – that should have been the WARNING BELL, really; turn away Demi… But instead, she took it for it’s rusty orchestral note that it always had been, pushing it aside and ignoring it. OBVIOUSLY... As soon as her heels hit the tiled floor, the tapping of her toes sounding G H O S T L I E R than they had on the linoleum floor, Demetria let out a sigh as her hazels were immediately drawn to the red barrel, signifying that the door was locked before she gave a light knuckled knock on the stall door. “Abby. I need my fucking shirt. Open up.” But there was nothing… Unbelievable. Scoffing, out of rage at the girl who was probably so fucking HIGH off her face, she couldn’t hear, Demi gave the door a shove this time. “Seriously, you fucking GOTH. Give me back my shirt, Ab. You know I’m cool with you taking shit as long as you ask first…” But still – NOTHING. Not even the droning sound of her sniffling in an attempt to clear her nostrils. It wouldn’t be the first time that Demetria had recovered a fucked up Abigail, who was slumped over the toilet seat – unaware of her own surroundings. As both palms CRASHED against the wooden door, Demetria’s brows furrowed in FURY as she couldn’t get over how fucking entitled her SELFISH roommate acted at times… And Demi was supposed to be the high maintenance one who only cared about herself. Rushing into the next cubicle, smoke practically already blowing out of her ears as a fire brewed up inside of her – the brunette pulled herself onto the ceramic toilet seat – that was dangerously white… The dirt on her shoes TAINTING what was left of that pure white before Demetria had made the decision to look over and yell at her roommate to bring her back around – and then, intently quiz her on why the FUCK she felt the need to steal her shit. “You are un-fucking-believable, Abigail Winston and I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking come over there and KILL you.“

As hazel eyes lifted above the wall, Demetria almost threw herself back down into the cubicle that she was currently standing in – back SLAMMING against the wood, fingertips covering her lips to CONCEAL the bloodcurdling shriek that had lodged itself in her throat... Or was that her heart? The sight that she had subjected herself to was like something out of a horror film – it was DARK, it was twisted but it was something that NOBODY should ever have to look at. But Demi couldn’t just LEAVE it... It literally was a blood bath; Abigail’s skin had been separated and severed so DEEPLY that you could have seen just how many inches the blade had sunken in to her flesh from metres away. Plucking up the courage to take another look over, just to be SURE that what she was seeing was real, the brunette felt the CRASH of a thunderstorm hit her mind; a seaside tsunami swelling up the hazel orbs that GAWKED at the side that her best friend had left her with. Abigail had died ALONE and she had died in vain; there was nobody there supporting her - nobody there to hold her hand and tell her that it would be okay and that the pain would be over soon... There was nobody to COMFORT her and tell her that she would be moving onto a better place. Sure, Abigail was a ROYAL CUNT but nobody deserved that... Nobody deserved for their last moments to be empty and meaningless. Instead, she laid there – cold and A B A N D O N E D. 

Clambering over the stall, legs throwing their way over the wall and falling down onto the toilet seat as streams started flowing from her viridescents – Demetria finally let out the SCREAM that had been tugging on her vocal chords, BEGGING to be freed. Grabbing at her lifeless shoulders, sliding into the PUDDLES of blood that her roommate had left behind, Demetria sobbed as she pulled her friend closer to her body... There were NO WORDS that could be used to describe just how mortified she was feeling – just how U S E L E S S she was feeling... Abigail Winston had been one of her FIRST friends; they had been roommates for two fucking years and that had all been ended with a couple of strikes of a blade. Demi no longer cared about her appearance; she didn’t give a FUCK about the pale lines her tears were streaking in her foundation and nor did she care about the panda eyes that her eyeliner was creating – if anything, it was paying homage to her friend... Blood SEEPED through the pure white that she was wearing; stains and constant reminders of Abigail’s life there as a reminder that Demetria couldn’t do a GOD DAMN THING to change her mind or help. The blood that Abigail’s body was still rejecting was leaving it’s mark on her hands; covering Demetria in what seemed to be a BATTLEFIELD of red ink. That’s what friends were for, right? They were there to help each other and to SAVE each other when things got a little tough... At least, that’s what Abby had done for her. Abby had kept her grounded and deflated her fucking ego – she had put Demetria in her place when it was needed, which was a trait that NOBODY else seemed to have. All of that had been thrown away. 

Demi hadn’t even prepared herself for what it would be like to stumble into her bedroom – excited to share the latest gossip with Abigail, who would give a remark along the lines of ‘do I look like I give a shit? you know ALL I care about is John and ripping the smile right from Elana’s cheeks’... What was it going to be like waking up alone? With no one there to PISS you off or make you laugh when you felt like crying? Who was going to tell Demetria ‘I told you so’ when a guy had turned out to be a dick? Who was going to go around with her, stirring SHIT up when things got boring? When Abigail Winston took those blades, cutting across the blue sharpie embedded underneath all of those thick layers of skin that she had built – protected under her rebel with a cause shell, she left a void... An empty fucking void. The hole in Demi’s heart was so fucking BIG that she was surprised it was still beating. Her lungs and vocal chords were still very much working and that was what added to the sheer HELL of it. Demetria could hear the crowds around her, SCREAMING in terror at the site as more and more bodies filled the bathroom but when she finally opened her eyes through crystal tinted liquid, ready to AWAKE from her nightmare, she realised that there were no crowds – and that the screaming was coming from her. 

[notbemoved-blog]

Books, Books, Books

Lists are all the rage at the end of any year and this plague year is no exception. Since I’ve read a fair number of books by friends this past year or so, I thought I’d send out my “Goodreads” reviews of all three books that I’ve enjoyed with the hope of giving each a bit more recognition (and perhaps a bump in sales) in the New Year. The reviews are presented in the order that I reviewed them. All three books are available on Amazon or through your local independent bookstore. Also try IndieBound, the online independent bookseller. 

[End of Year Note: My apologies for not being more active on social media lately. I’m working on my own follow up to “We Shall Not Be Moved” and have tried to stay away from all forms of distraction, including social media. With any luck, my next project, the story of the Tougaloo Nine Library Sit-In, will be on its way to the publisher at the end of 2021.]

And now, for our 2020 BOOKS, BOOKS, BOOKS!

Wave On: A Surfing Story by Michael E.C. Gery

(Amazon Digital Services, 2018, 432 pages, Autobiographical Fiction)

[Reviewed August 2019]

"A wonderfully adept stoner’s diary for the boomer generation."

I was thoroughly enchanted with “Wave On” from beginning to end. Even when I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going, the ride was exhilarating. Perhaps it was because I knew many of the places where the action takes place: Williamsburg, the Outer Banks, Annapolis, Ocean City, College Park, and even The Who concert back in 1971 [or was it ’70?] at Merriweather Post Pavilion, which I also happened to attend!! I read very little fiction but a fair amount of biography and memoir, and I must say that I rarely find a work of fiction that is as engaging and heart-driven as “Wave On.”

Part One is a pure, lovely, romantic love story that is contemporaneous with our early adulthood and, thus, easy for me to put myself in the shoes of Cro as he tries to navigate the strictures of young adulthood in a laissez-faire new world of the mid-1960s. The fact that he has been schooled at an Episcopalian Boys school and loves all of those old hymns and prayers makes it all the more real for me, having attended a 4-year Catholic high school seminary. Cro’s goofiness, uncertainty, and (initial) shyness around women also resonated.

What I loved about Part One is that Gery establishes a voice for Cro, the Narrator, that is immediate, engaging, alive, and consistent throughout the entire novelization of what I believe is Gery’s young adult life. (A new term I just picked up--“autofiction” i.e., autobiographical fiction--seems to apply here.) Cro is so normal in his struggles to understand how the world works, so honest in his mistakes, so in love with his environment—the ocean, the waves, the shore—that he makes us love them, too, perhaps a bit more than we already do. But it is that voice that intrigued me throughout. No matter what kind of scrape Cro and his interesting band of friends and lovers gets into, there is a confidence that they are up to the challenge. [I must admit that Cro’s drift during Part Two with regard to his professional aspirations and even his family life was a bit baffling, but I came to think that the weed had a lot to do with his lack of ambition and direction.]

Part Two, of course, gets a bit more complicated as real life intervenes and our little Love Couple begins to encounter troubles from within and without. I hated to see that and was certain that Cro was going to lose his wonderful Ella and Adam and couldn’t see my way through to how it all might resolve, particularly when Maryanne enters the picture and the Neil Young Concert kiss betrays a problematic (if not fatal) flaw in our hero. But I suffered through all of that, wanting to see how it all came out in the end. Although there was no deus ex machina, the surprising turn of events that helps resolve these dramatic arcs is shocking yet consistent. It all made narrative sense and helped explain why we were taken on so many to such a happy ending.

“Wave On” is a wonderfully adept stoner’s diary for our boomer generation. I can’t wait for Gery’s next work of autofiction to continue the journey with him. 

 Hard Road South by Scott Gates

(Blue Ink Press, 2020, 254 pages, Fiction)

[Reviewed, May 2020] 

“A little jewel box of a novel.”

 “Hard Road South” is a little jewel box of a novel set during the early days of Reconstruction Virginia. This beautifully rendered tale imagines a naïve Connecticut Yankee—a former Union soldier—who travels South to visit and potentially settle in some of the lush foothills of the Shenandoah Valley where he once engaged the Confederate “enemy”. Hoping to find peace while helping to reform a culture that wishes to be left alone, our hero, one Solomon Dykes, finds fast friends but also fast enemies amidst the verdant pastures of his would-be Old Virginny Home.

An early scene sets the tone: A down on her luck woman is stopped in the town of Middleburg—the place that would become the enclave of the likes of millionaires John and Jackie Kennedy and Jack Kemp Cooke a century later—by some Union soldiers still on the scene occupying this “foreign” land to ensure compliance with Union directives. Her transgression? Wearing the Confederate uniform jacket of her dead husband. The three Confederate buttons on the jacket must be removed or she will be arrested and charged with treason. Such is the over-reach of conquering heroes.

Our damsel in distress is aided by the swift thinking of one Jeb Mosby, a local farmer, who pulls out his knife and gently removes the buttons so as to spare his life-long neighbor the embarrassment of arrest. “Such was life now,” Mosby observes. “Filled with reminders—small as they may seem—that life would not soon be returning to how he’d left it before the war.” It is small observations such as this that gives this book its charm and its weight. Representations of what life must have been like for the conquered South are constant reminders that the likes of Solomon Dykes were not at all welcome and most likely would be rebuffed should the opportunity arise. Scott Gates is new to novel writing, but you wouldn’t know it from his sharp eye for detail and his pacing. Gates gives his story and his characters plenty of room to breathe and develop while providing the reader with glimpses of the specifics of their war-torn lives. A Southerner by birth, Gates offers a sensibility of one trying to bridge the great divide while not shying away from the difficulties building that bridge might require. This is a tale for our time, as well, as our nation is once again fraught with deep divisions perhaps not seen since the ending of that great Civil War more than 150 years ago. We are stuck and unable to move forward until some fundamental rift gets settled. “Hard Road South” is a highly readable, thoroughly enjoyable yet cautionary tale for our time. Perhaps we can learn from the past and this time get things right. Perhaps … 

 Small Business Big Heart: How One Family Redefined the Bottom Line by Paul Wesslund

(Highway 61 Communications, 2020, 242 pages, Nonfiction)

[Reviewed, August 2020]

“Big-hearted Book Teaches That Care for Others = Good Business”

In the midst of a global health crisis—the worst we’ve seen in generations—and while we struggle as a country, as a people, to find our footing morally and culturally during a reductio ad absurdum political creep show, Small Business BIG HEART lands as a corrective, a balm to soothe frayed nerves and intemperate minds. That is not to say that this big-hearted book is pablum. No, the stories it brings are all too real—people who often have lost their way through drugs, alcohol, and bad choices; refugees who have fled horrific circumstances and are looking only to start a new life but can’t due to the stigma of being different; and one family in particular that is faced with its own dissolution as well as the loss of its dream of a thriving family business. The high-stakes rollercoaster ride that journalist Paul Wesslund takes us on is dizzying not only for its incredible highs and sometimes tragic lows, but also because it introduces a concept too often forgotten … no, disregarded … in modern business life—what corporate governance experts would call “the duty of CARE.”

Sal and Cindy Rubino are two hard-working business owners who, through the course of their trials and tribulations, manage to hold on to the dream of a creating their own business from scratch while also enduring the inevitable personal strains that such a dream exacts. The two met and fell in love while working toward Hospitality Management business degrees in Miami, but the real story starts when they try and apply the lessons of their training in the difficult day-to-day drudgery of actually running their own restaurant—simply named “The Café”—in an offbeat, run-down section of Louisville, Cindy’s hometown. It is here that their skills and wills are tested to the limits and each will have to adjust their visions to fit the realities not explored in textbooks. And it is here that their hearts will be broken, and then opened to the truths that adaptability and innovation can be applied not only to recipes and business models, but to the very people you employ and the methods you use to build a team for success.

Along the way, we meet all manner of broken individuals. The restaurant business is notorious for laying waste to lives due to its thankless dawn-to-dusk hours and the constant requirement to please the customer at all costs. Wesslund has an expert’s eye for the telling detail and the wrenching story line. [I found myself tearing up at any number of stories throughout this engaging, nonfiction tale.] His twenty years as editor-in-chief of Kentucky Living, the largest circulation monthly magazine within the state, shows in the well-drawn portraits of individuals from as far away as Bhutan and as near as Pricilla’s Place, a half-way house just a few blocks from the Café, where Cindy and Sal would find some of their best employees. Perhaps Wesslund’s (not to mention the Rubinos’) refusal to judge people by the standards of upwardly mobile middle-class values but instead, with extraordinary discernment, to look deeper into their souls to spot their special sparks and unique talents is the hallmark of this extraordinary book.

It is rare outside of evangelical circles to find a book that so openly espouses Christian principles, but Sal and Cindy make no bones about the fact that their faith community helped to save their marriage as well as their business, and Wesslund recounts the strength of those relationships and the power of religious inspiration with rare delicacy. Yet the book is not all seriousness and drama. We get, of all things, recipes (!) at the start of nearly every chapter—a creative way of introducing a new topic or the next development of this constantly churning story. And we are introduced to Cindy’s creative cooking style, to Sal’s winning smile and to their gracious, open approach to hospitality.

Small Business BIG HEART runs the gamut of the small business life cycle. It is a soup-to-nuts (literally) primer on the ups and downs of small business management. As such, it is tough medicine for anyone daring to think of creating their own start-up. Given that, however, it provides a deeply affecting microcosm of how we as a society—as a culture—might live if we, indeed, saw everyone we encountered as a member of our own family. It does not skimp on the tough decisions that must be made to keep a business afloat—the “tension between compassion and the bottom line”—but it provides a template on how to “run a business with heart”—where everyone can be a winner.

Wishing you a New Year full of new books, new ideas, new opportunities, new promise. 

[oil-and-firebrand]

Routine Check-Up

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Deep breath in.

Cough out the rest.

Mucous sizzles and squeals with the ferocity of a cornered cat just out of sight with little more than a thin wooden board keeping the woman’s eyes and mind away from the horrors of Darkspear surgery

. Something about the fluid in her goblet peels the pith of fear and pain away from her aching mind, leaving only the bittersweet chance to think beyond her face and actions.

How was she doing right now? Starting with her neck, everything seems fine. Narrow fingers glide along her jawline, tracing the veins she can feel right out and searching for those she can’t. No hair comes to haunt her on her journey of self-discovery, occasionally running over the odd scar or freckle without a single thought of it. Sometimes bumps come in the road. Everything is okay.

Soothing rattling beckons her attention to her hidden attendant. Small things are nice. The sound of careful work with tiny tools has always been relaxing. Whittling was one thing, but surgery was surely a whole other level. Fewer sounds brought the tips of her ears drooping down to her shoulders quite so easily. Meticulous work with the tapping and scratching of something being created in earnest brought a whole-body melt that bonded the woman closer to water than her fellow mortal

The rattling follows a small cup, and her eyes try to keep up despite her attendant’s noxious gruel bending her mind. Simple motions were fine. How often did she get to think about the little things? When was the last time she tried? A little giggle slithers out from the prison of her anxious throat. Can’t hurt to take a look at the doctor’s goods, right?

A pile of scorched digits tears her out of the haze, a terribly sober reminder of the mangled mess of inky scum and gore attached at her elbow just behind the board. As the salt works its magic and the troll scrapes away at the grime, snapping bone and splitting tendons announce the coming of another tear. A wedge drives deeper into her forearm. Something about the unseen assault only shakes her up more.

After the moment of pained thrashing, forced restraint, and a screech silenced before It shatters the windows, Leah settles back into her seat with a thousand years of goosebumps greeting her return to reality.

“ ‘Dey happenin’ less often now. Das’ sometin’ ta’ be greateful for, ya’ know.” All too eager to make small talk, she was never good with comforting the wounded. “Ya’ must be doin’ sometin’ right. We both gain somethin’ from ya’ neva’ comin’ back. Finally ya’ puttin’ in de effort, ah?”

When all of her mess is bound in a single piece again, the woman lets out a grunt that carries all of her stress along just to replace that air with more three-finger miracle juice to ease her nerves. “Hardly. I’ve never wanted to throw myself off a bridge so badly.”

“Every time, ya’ gwan look for attention.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Sure ya’ do. An’ now I’m ta’ believe ya’ comin’ out’a ya’ cave an’ sippin’ tea wit’ da’ fancy ones, right? Readin’ poems by da fountain, talkin’ feelin’s…”

“You’re not far off.” Squarely focused, incomparably serious, the mind-numbing brew can’t stop the worry in her eyes from spilling forth over the table as her attendant silences herself. “I… It’s been so long. I don’t remember how this shit works. I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

“Dat’s gas, girly.” The troll snickers until her prod’s reception remains positive only from her side of the makeshift doctor’s screen. Leah’s mind focuses on the stained letter spike as her arm is tended to in thorny silence. She brought it from home. Were it not for the gauze around the puncture wound at her thigh, she might have forgotten why.

In short time, she winds up focusing entirely on her thighs. Sure, she wasn’t particularly slim, but they were fine. Fine for her. For anyone else? She’s not sure. Maybe they’re too thick. A whole-body turn brings a not-so-discrete gaze over the troll woman’s form, examining everything from the peak of her frazzled updo to the scraggly nail at her heel. She wasn’t enough to worry over. So it’s not everyone, at least.

“Eyes, girly.” Thick blue fingers push her back into place and away from the scene at once-hand. Leah sends her peepers out for a walk around the room as she focuses inward to think. Something that wasn’t so easy in recent days. Too much simple work was piling up and her own interests were far over the horizon. The last time her focus was irrevocably drawn to a subject, it simply passed in just a short time. Why not now?

“I’m stranded.” She mumbles, her tongue a little too slow on the draw to follow along in time.

“What ya’ seein’ now?” The elf tries her hardest to keep up, nodding along to a silent ditty all while she slips and stumbles over slurred nonsense.

“There’s a pearl, you know.” Deep breath mixed with sickening ozone and slime stench barely phases her in the daze. “It’s so painful to touch. It likes being touched. Nobody else is afraid; some of them aren’t burned at all. Why can’t I?”

“Dis’ ain’t me expertise in da’ cult, girly. Keep goin’.”

“I want it. I want it real bad. I don’t know why. I know I’m not supposed to. Is it even valuable? I couldn’t sell it.” Inch by inch, Leah comes closer to re-uniting the cool boards of the operating table with her fizzling forehead. Steam billows from one ear, ink drips from the other. “It’s been so long. I don’t know why I want it. It’s unique, it’s so special, it’s better than I am and I haven’t wanted something this way since I was a girl.”

“No drool on da’ table, girly.”

“Just tell me to leave you alone, pearl. I’ll go away. I get my brain back, you get to sit in softer hands. Win-win, right?”

“What did I jus’ say-“

“Just tell me what this is, make me hate you, something.”

The sharp slap that followed rings out for hours. By the time her head stops buzzing, a proper right hand rises to touch her stinging cheek. A quick inspection confirms it- two hands, right where they belong, elbows and down right as rain. Excellent.

The com at her collar clicks and squeals in its desperate battle to stay alive. It won’t have to be long.

“The less time we spend in Orgrimmar, the better. I can’t let this happen again so soon.”

[childrenofhypnos]

Chapter 12: Too Real

It took Emery four more windows to realize that moving through them was the only way to move through the Dream. If they avoided the windows, saving themselves the confusion of going in and out and in again, they didn’t advance. The landscape around them always stopped at some point, like a very convincingly-painted room. They would try to walk in one direction only to find the sparse scenery repeating itself and the same dream windows passing them by. When they went through the windows, they always came out in a new place, slightly different from the place before. More plants. Different plants. Moist earth. A stream. A tree. Rocks.

“Maybe even this isn’t moving forward,” Wes said after they tumbled out of the tenth window. “Maybe the Dream just wants us to think we’re moving forward. It’s changing the scenery around us but we’re always in the same spot.”

Emery didn’t want to think about it. She had no idea how long they’d been there, but her stomach ached, her head throbbed, and the relief of finding Wes had worn off three windows ago. It helped to think of the Dream as an annoying detour, a place not to escape but to endure until they eventually found their way out, because the alternative was thinking of it as it actually was: a vicelike acid trip of a nightmare, endless and complex in its pursuit of their memories. The Dream wanted them to forget like a dog wanted the stuffing out of a chew toy.

Window nineteen was another chase, this time with a large worm-type creature that whipped and railed at them until Wes pinned its tail with his hammer and Emery shot it seven times in different spots. They jumped from that window, exhausted, and fell straight into the next.

It was a living room, crowded with furniture and lit by a small table lamp. Wes landed on hands and knees; Emery managed to stay on her feet for a second, then collapsed next to him.

“What kind of nightmare is this?” Emery sat up and leaned against a stack of old newspapers. The carpet was sticky, burned in spots, and stamped down. It reeked of chain-smoked cigarettes. The blinds were drawn. Ashes spilled from a dead fireplace, around which were crowded a moth-eaten couch, armchairs, and a graveyard of broken children’s toys and lawn ornaments. Against one wall was a bookshelf full of homemade VHS tapes, each neatly labeled with a six-digit date. One door led, presumably, to the outside of the house. The small window at the top was taped over with more newspaper. On the other side of the table lamp was a closet door made of wooden slats, and the wall adjacent to the fireplace opened onto a dark hallway.

Wes’s knees popped as he pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t know, but I hope it’s easy to leave.”

Emery tried the door with the newspaper over the window. Locked. Behind the newspaper was a lone streetlamp guarding against the night. The street was silent. Wes tried the slatted door--also locked--then moved for the dark hallway.

A man rushed through it and ran straight into him. The man, small and pale and weedy, stared with openmouthed shock at Wes, then Emery, until a door slammed somewhere in the darkness.

“You have to hide!” he whispered. He grabbed Wes and shoved him toward the second locked door. It was a closet, and the man opened it without a problem. He pushed Wes inside, then grabbed Emery and shoved her in afterwards. She didn’t have the strength to fight him, not because she was tired, but because his fingers threatened to crush her bicep. He moved Emery and Wes around like rag dolls, stuffed them in the closet together, and shut the door.

Light slanted into the closet. Emery tried to push her way out. The door wouldn’t open.

“Break it down,” she said to Wes.

He shook his head. “Wait.”

Through the slats, Emery watched the thin man back up against a ratty armchair and the wall of VHS tapes. Two other men came around the corner from the dark hallway. One wore a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off; the other, a flannel shirt. They were both big, bigger than the thin man, and both pale. Emery could just barely see the sweat on the back of their necks.

Her hairs rose. She broke out in goosebumps. They didn’t look back at the closet, but she felt as if they might at any moment and find her there, catch her spying.

“Did you take it?” said the one in flannel.

The thin man shook his head. “No, no, I’d never--”

“Trev, then,” said the one in the t-shirt.

“No! I don’t let Trev in here, of course I wouldn’t--”

Flannel shoved the thin man, sending him into the wall of tapes. A few rattled and fell off the wall.

“Do you know what happens if anyone finds these?” T-shirt asked. “We’re dead. You and me and Avery and Ma and Granddad. And Trev, too. We’re all dead.”

Thin Man whimpered. “I told you not to leave them out like this—I told you that anyone could walk in and find one—at least keep them in the basement with the other equipment!”

He was looking to the right, at T-shirt, when the first swing came from Flannel. Thin Man gasped and reeled back. The other two closed in, blocking him from view. The tapes rattled and shook off their shelves as the two men beat the first.

“WHAT DID WE TELL YOU—”

“—NO ONE CAN KNOW—”

Wes grabbed Emery’s hand. Emery jumped. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“We have to stop them,” she whispered. “It’s his window, that’s why he’s so strong. They’re the nightmare.”

“If he’s so strong why doesn’t he stop them?”

“Wes, break down the door.”

“What if it’s not his dream? What if it’s one of their dreams? And it’s—it’s just a dream! They can’t really hurt him.”

“Well not immediately, but what if he has this dream all the time? You can feel it right now—” Emery swallowed past the knot of fear in her throat “—this isn’t the first time these people have been here. Nightmares like this cause damage, and it’s our job to keep that from happening. You’re a dreamhunter, Wes, start acting like it and break down the door.”

There was no room for him to swing his hammer. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slammed his hand against the door slats. They pushed outward, stretching as if they were made of putty instead of wood. Wes dug his fingers in. The slats crumbled under his hand and settled as black ash in the carpet. He dragged his hand down the length of the door, stopping near the bottom and bracing his shoulders in the opening.

“Go through,” he grunted. “I think it’s going to try to close again.”

Emery used his back as a springboard and jumped over him, into the room. Wes came after her. The slats snapped back into place. Flannel and T-shirt turned at the sound.

Their faces were smeared, like someone rubbing a thumb over wet ink. There were hints of noses, mouths, cheekbones. The only sharp features were their eyes, glittering in the shadows of their brows. Behind them, the Thin Man’s legs were visible.

“Who are you?” T-shirt said. The smear of his mouth didn’t move.

Flannel was already moving toward them, fists clenched and bloody.

Emery shot him in the head. He pitched backward and crashed to the floor like he’d been made of concrete, without stumbling or surprise. Black blood leaked onto the floor.

T-shirt gaped--as much as anyone could with a smeared face--and when he started forward, it was Wes who caught him mid-swing with the hammer. There was a deep thud of snapped bone and ruptured organ, and the man fell beside his companion. He gurgled. His chest was entirely caved in where the hammer had struck him. Wes pulled back for another swing, but stopped, face pale, and the hammer fell.

T-shirt went still. Past him, the Thin Man lay unmoving, eyes open, beneath a pile of VHS tapes.

“Dreamers can’t die in the Dream,” Emery said, breathless, grabbing for Wes’s wrist. “They’re not--dreamers can’t die in the Dream.”

“It’s not ending,” Wes said. “They’re all dead. Why isn’t it ending?”

The dream held strong around them. All Emery could hear was the thrashing of her heart in her chest, and below that, she imagined the sound the black blood made as it pooled in the carpet.

Someone sniffled.

Emery and Wes spun. The closet door, reformed, had swung open again, and from it tottered a little boy in an overlarge flannel shirt and pajama bottoms, holding a strange cat doll in one hand and in the other clutching yet another VHS in a clear plastic case. His face ran with snot and drool and tears. His eyes fixed on the bodies on the floor, and his expression tightened and twisted. He began to cry.

He was five years too young, but he had untidy black hair and a face as pale and gaunt as Edgar’s. Emery put away her Peacemakers and went to him, realizing the truth of the space around them and what had happened.

It was his nightmare. The Thin Man had been strong because he would seem strong to a child. The dream had not ended because this little boy was still in it.

Emery sank to the floor and pulled the little boy into her lap. He dropped the VHS and clung to her. The long springs that made the lanky arms and legs of his cat doll tapped against her back. He felt too small under his pajamas, all bones.

“It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

She tried to think of something to comfort him, but there were three dead bodies on the floor behind her and the pool of blood had just reached her leg. Emery buried her nose in his hair. He smelled like cigarettes.

His cries petered into hiccupping whimpers and finally silence. His arms went limp against hers. The strange cat doll fell to the floor. He’d fallen asleep.

The nightmare disappeared around them. The boy vanished.

Emery kneeled in a field of bright red poppies that swayed gently in a breeze. Purple thunderheads rolled overhead, flashing. The field sloped gently down into a valley in the shadow of a towering, snowcapped mountain. A few leafy trees bordered a crystal lake at the very bottom of the valley, beside which sat a small cottage, nearly invisible from where they were.

Dream-windows hovered in the distance, all weak and trembling, as if the intensity of that last nightmare had worn the Dream out.

Wes’s fingers brushed Emery’s shoulder. She looked up at him. There was a dull ringing in her ears that matched the shell-shocked look on his face. She didn’t move as he slid his hand down her arm, took her elbow, and pulled her to her feet.

“We just—”

“It was a dream.”

“But who was he? He was just a little boy…”

“We won’t know. He could be an adult now. That could have been a memory from childhood. Or a warped memory, or something he saw in a movie once.” Wes’s voice became steadier and stronger the more he talked. “We have no way of knowing where that came from, or who he is, or if he actually needs help. We can’t worry about that right now. We need to focus on us.”

She knew he was right. They both swayed on their feet as the fear and adrenaline of the nightmare drained out of them. Hunger gnawed at Emery’s stomach and made her head ache. They needed to rest, to sleep, even, despite that they had woken from the sleeping sand so recently. And now seemed as good a time as any, while the Dream’s windows kept away from them.

“Do you think we could drink the lake water?” Emery asked.

“We might as well try,” Wes said.

~

Like the rest of their time in the Dream, Emery had no idea how long it took them to get to the bottom of the hill. She knew it took a very long time because they were both tired but neither of them could let go of their dignity long enough to drop and roll all the way down. She knew it also took a long time to get to the lake’s edge, but that she couldn’t explain, because it couldn’t have been more than thirty feet from the bottom of the hill. When they did finally arrive, they sank to their knees in the water and drank. It was cool and sweet and nothing came out of the depths to terrorize them.

Once her stomach hurt with all the water in it, Emery sat back against a boulder on the lakeshore and stared across the water at the little cottage. Cracked white paint covered the walls and a vine grew wild up the trellis on one wall.

Wes cupped water in his hands and dumped it over his head. He ruffled his hair, then smoothed it back, then moved over to sit next to her against the boulder. His hammer lay motionless in his upturned hands, glinting silver and gold in the dim light. He stared down at it.

Emery hadn’t taken her revolvers from their holsters again, and her hands were balled into fists against her thighs.

Wes said, “It seemed so real.”

Emery nodded and said nothing. Her understanding of the Dream and her weapons and what she was supposed to be doing seemed so inadequate now. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d shot the dreamer or his nightmares; she had aimed for the head as she always did.

“We should sleep,” she said. “One of us should. The other can keep watch.”

“For how long? We can’t tell time.”

“I don’t know. For as long as we can stay awake.”

“I can…I can go first. For watch.”

Emery’s eyes were already closing.

“Do you remember if Professor Lenton said anything about this?” Wes asked. “About falling asleep inside the Dream? Should we not—”

She didn’t hear the rest of his words.

(Next time on The Children of Hypnos --> 234dfgADFFS##%^^^!!!!!!DKFNADSFJ9508753)

[enigmatist17]

Beastly Adventure (2) (Beauty and the beast AU)

Just a thought about what would happen to Ford if he lost pages in the AU. I think Gideon would keep ripping them out until he told him where Stan was, and with each page he loses more and more of himself.

Also his writing changes on his emotions.

@a-million-chromatic-dreams

“KILL THEM ALL! WE’LL HAVE THIS CASTLE AS MY PLACE TO RULE, WITH MABEL BY MY SIDE!” Gideon’s excited screams echoed as the townsfolk busted the gate leading to the infamous castle open with a loud bang, the crowd swarming into the castle grounds lead by Gideon himself. He knew Mabel was inside along with the no-good brother of hers, and he was going to slay the beast and take her as his own, even if the enchanted people trying to run from the crowd would most likely die in the process. “And you’re gonna help me.” He whispered to the red journal in his hands, a wicked grin on his face as he flipped it open. ”Leave them alone I beg of you!” The writing was shaky chicken-scratch, scribbles soon appearing when Gideon chuckled and ripped out one of the back pages, the paper turning to ink as it bled onto the floor between Gideon’s fingers. “I’m gonna take this place over, and yer brother is gonna die.” He laughed, pocketing the book as he and his cronies advanced into the castle, the enchanted citizens being captured one by one as they searched for the beast. The closer they got the more frantic Ford’s writing became every time Gideon opened the journal, ripping out pages until Ford told him where Stan most likely was hiding, unaware of anything else as he ascended deeper into the castle. By the time he came upon Stan hulking in his study, the journal only had a few pages left, the beast snarling when he watched a page turn to ink in Gideon’s hands. “You ready to die?” The white-haired boy asked, dropping the book to the floor as he revealed the weapon hidden under his cloak. Stan only stood still as Gideon attacked, the two quickly disappearing onto the balcony as they fought. Dipper and Mabel didn’t see Ford on the ground as they burst into the room minutes later, running towards the balcony with terrified cries as they heard Stan roar in agony. Then there was silence. Ford had no perception of this, only aware that he was lying open on the ground with the last few pages fluttering in the wind from the storm outside. He couldn’t recall where he was, or who he was exactly, only knowing that he seemed to be in some sort of room. He could faintly hear some sort of sound coming from outside, his muddled mind realizing someone was crying over something outside, yet for the life of him couldn’t fathom what the crying could be for. One page was tugged from the weathered bindings in the wind coming from the balcony, and Ford found himself now unable to recall what he had been thinking of before, the enchanted male barely recognizing the joyous shout from outside as the world suddenly went silent. “…ay? He isn’t…” “…ink everywhere, maybe…” “…uman again! But why isn’t…” “…ever wake? It’s been wee…” “…please wake up.” The first thing Ford was aware of, was the soft surface below him. Now this sensation rather stumped the male, as the only sensation he could recall was pressure and nothing else from the days of his being human. The fact that he felt this soft surface under him was rather confusing, Ford taking a breath as he tried to mull the thought over, train of thought crashing to a halt when he realized he had drawn breath. Books didn’t need to breathe, yet here he was taking another slow breath as if for the first time, lungs expanding and contracting to cycle air through his body. He…he was human. He was human again…he was human again! The more he concentrated, the more Ford could feel, like the cool breeze curling around his exposed face and arms, the satin sheets lying on top of the soft clothes he was sure belonged to Stan- Stanley…the name sounded familiar, but why? It brought feelings of joy, sadness and fear, but again Ford could not understand why he thought these things of his brother… Brother! Memories burst forward into his mind, the male watching behind closed eyelids as his childhood and subsequent 30 years trapped in the form of a journal play like they had just happened yesterday. They paused when he heard a door opening from in front of where he lay, someone walking over with a tray carrying something that most likely contained food from what Ford could smell. While Ford celebrated internally about being able to smell something for the first time in years he felt a small and smooth hand gently curl around one of his long fingers as if in comfort. “Hi Grunkle Ford…it’s Dipper again. I brought you some soup again, I know you probably are sick of it by now but it’s all we can do right now…” The voice was male, Ford thinking of whom it could belong to as he felt the surface he lie on dip down with the boy’s wait. He must be on a bed, the man thinking hard as he felt his head being cradled in the boys’ arm, a spoon being held to his lips. The warmth spread from the liquid as Ford felt his jaw be opened, the delicious liquid hitting his tongue almost overpowering Ford’s senses as he felt the food travel down his throat when he subconsciously swallowed. His head spun as the boy fed him another spoonful, senses this time almost ready as the taste was a bit dulled but none the less delicious. He was fed until the bowl was most likely empty, Dipper careful as he placed Ford’s head back onto the soft surface which he realized was a pillow. Wait, Dipper? Memories of the two excitable children that had come into his life began to come forth once again as the child took ahold of his finger once again. “I’ll be back later Grunkle Ford, I found a really cool book in the library yesterday, and I think you’d really like it…” Dipper trailed off, sighing quietly as he squeezed the digit tenderly. “I hope you wake up…we all miss you so much.” The desperation in Dipper’s voice cut through Ford like a knife into his recently-regained human heart, the man cursing his inability to speak as Dipper soon retreated from the room with the tray, leaving Ford alone again, though not for long. Some entered the room sometime later, Ford feeling joy when a hand just as big as his curled around the six-fingered hand almost tenderly. “Hey Sixer…” The gruff voice sent joy coursing through Ford’s mind, his brother sighing as he sat on the bed just like Dipper had done. “Just…checkin’ in I guess. The repairs to the castle are all done, and the people of Gravity Falls are learnin’ to accept us now…Your books are real popular, though Dipper is the only one I’ve seen who reads them over and over. Mabel, cute little…” Stan went silent when he felt something twitch in his hand, blue eyes going wide when he watched his brother’s hand curl around his slowly, as if moving his hand was something he was doing for the first time. “F-Ford?” He watched as his brother’s hand moved once again, just as slowly but the grip on his finger was just a little bit tighter. “Y-You’re finally awake! I…I thought you were never gonna…oh god.” Ford was confused as to why he felt wet spots on his hand, but realized Stanley was crying when he heard his brother’s breathing hitch. “I’m so sorry Ford…I should have listened to you, I shouldn’t have stolen from that witch…I almost lost you, almost killed everyone else because of me…I’m so sorry…” Stan couldn’t help the frustration spilling out, but he just wanted to tell Ford everything he had bottled up until the kids had begun to tear down the walls he had put up to hide his pain. He loved his brother, and his greed had almost resulted in his death, something that had been tearing Stanley up inside over the last several months Ford had been unconscious. He paused when he felt Ford grasp his hand once again, a broken smile crossing his lips as he felt a laugh of relief burst from between his lips, Ford almost jarred when Stan scooped him up into a gentle hug. “I’m just so happy you’re okay…” ”I am to Stanley.” Ford thought happily, unaware a tear trailing down his cheek until he felt Stanley wipe it away. “We’re gonna help you through this Sixer…all of us.” Ford thought about who he could be talking to, feeling a bit sad as Stan got to his feet and walked away, Ford wishing he could call out to make him stop until he heard Stan bellow for Dipper and Mabel, quickly returning to Ford’s side. Stan felt guilty about leaving Ford as he watched his brother weakly squeeze his hand with his achingly familiar six-fingered hand, but smiled when Dipper and Mabel burst into the room. “What’s wrong Grunkle Stan?” Her voice was filled with concern, but that soon lifted when she saw her grunkle ford moving his hand being held by Stanley. “Is Grunkle Ford awake?!” “I think so kid.” He laughed, Mabel launching herself onto the bed as Dipper bounced nervously with a grin on his face. “Grunkle Ford! It’s been a long time since you went to sleep!” Mabel gushed, taking Ford’s free hand into hers as if holding glass. “Can you hear us?” Her grin grew even more when the large fingers curled around hers, her squeal of joy almost shattering his poor eardrums as she was right next to him. “Mabel! Remembered what dad said?” Dipper said quietly, Mabel shaking her head as she hugged Ford’s hand close to her. “He said grunkle Ford has to get used to things like hearing again, and screaming in his ear isn’t going to help.” “Opps…sorry grunkle Ford!” Mabel was still enthusiastic, but her voice was much lower as she kissed Ford’s index finger, which twitched at her touch. “I think he forgives me.” “I’m sure he does sweetheart.” Stan commented, Ford feeling Dipper join them on the bed and sit beside his brother, small hand wrapping around his extra digit. Ford couldn’t help but feel joy at the three people he held most dear around them, his lips slowly forming a small but unmistakable smile that had them all gasp. “Oh my gosh Grunkle Ford is smiling!” Mabel nearly squealed, bouncing slightly as she hugged Ford’s arm once more. Stan and Dipper both chuckled as the smile remained on Ford’s face until he drifted back into sleep. When he regained consciousness untold hours later Ford felt three warm bodies around him, the chirping of crickets and the slightly warm air settling above him comfortably marking it most likely as it being the middle of the night. Settled on top of his chest and stomach was a small figure, Ford guessing it to be Dipper from the light scent of cinnamon he had smelled earlier, the boy having wrapped his arm around Ford’s neck to stay close to his grunkle. The smaller figure on his left must be Mabel, the girl muttering about unicorns and her father with a slight hum of content, having burrowed against his side under his arm, which lay resting overtop the girl. To his right was Stanley, the familiar scent of wood and the roses his brother loved so washing over Ford as Stanley held all three close to him, chest slowly rising and falling as he slept on. Ford listened to the sounds around him for some time, eventually picking up that a fifth person was in the room, some parchment rustling as they read some sort of book. He struggled to think of who it could be, but had no answer as whomever it was seemed to be watching over the sleeping trio. Ford listened to them read for quite some time until he felt Mabel start to toss and turn, the person standing and going to Mabel’s side in what seemed an instant. “Hush little star, it’s alright.” The voice had a southern tint to it, hands gently moving Ford’s arm so they could pick up Mabel and presumably hold her close to them. “Daddy’s here now…” “Grunkle Ford…don’t leave grunkle Ford…we love you…” Mabel whimpered as she slept, the man Ford now knew as her father gently cooing to the girl until she woke. “He’s right here, safe and sound.” Mabel sniffled as she was placed down onto the bed, instantly hugging Ford’s arm a bit tightly. “I know…I just…I thought he was gone again.” She whimpered slightly, tears streaming down her face and onto Ford’s arm. “I don’t want him or grunkle Stan to ever leave…” “They won’t baby girl.” The man soothed, Mabel wiping at her eyes. “If anythin’, you two are gonna make sure that ain’t gonna happen.” “I guess…” Mabel giggled quietly, grinning lightly when Ford forced a small smile onto his face. “Hi grunkle Ford…sorry if I woke you.” “I’m sure he doesn’t mind.” The other man said gently, Mabel gently squeezing Ford’s hand. Ford’s smile remained, though he was frustrated he could give no other sign than a hand twitch or a smile. He had forgotten how his body worked, but as he thought he remembered he had eyes, slightly stumped but immediately wanted to try and open them. Having been a book for so long, Ford had forgotten what it was to be human, forgotten that once he could see the world around him rather than be limited to hearing and the feeling of pressure. Ford focused on his eyes, straining as he told his body to open them despite not quite remembering how to. At first nothing happened, but as he continued to concentrate Ford noticed a small sliver appear, the only thing he could see was nothing but whiteness. But he forced himself to continue, his eyes slowly but surely opening despite the assault of color overwhelming him. Once they were fully open tears began beading in his eyes as they experienced seeing for the first time in over 30 years, the room a mishmash of muddled colors as he tried to remember what colors and shapes were. ‘Oh my gosh grunkle Ford!” Blinking slowly a few times Ford watched as the figure swimming into view came into focus. Wild brown hair greeted him first, framing a face that seemed to comprise of only a wide grin, a button nose and big blue eyes that were focused on a man she had come to love like family. “You can see me!” “Easy darlin’ he needs to adjust to things.” Ford blinked again as he looked to his left, a short bushy beard the first thing that greeted his eyes. The man was smiling slightly, brown eyes framed by small glasses that were slightly cracked and covered with soot. He was a bit short compared to Stanley (and himself he realized after remembering he was human once again) but seemed to have a spark for research he recognized once having himself years ago. Ford gave the man a weak smile, the man tipping his head in acknowledgement as Mabel woke her brother and Stanley by shaking them rather hard. “Mabel, let me sleep.” Dipper complained with a yawn, nuzzling his head back down into Ford’s chest with a whine. “But Grunkle Ford opened his eyes!” Ford would have jumped in surprise at the mop of brown hair that suddenly appeared in his field of view, curious blue eyes looking into his before a smile crossed the boy’s face. Dipper had a spark in his eyes that mirrored his long ago, his look one of a boy that had grown much in the past few months and loved where he was now, in a place that had started out as a prison and become his home over time. A second face came into view, one that Ford could call his own except for the more prominent chin and mischievous glint in the dark blue eyes he hadn’t seen in such a long time. Ford couldn’t help the tears that began to roll down his cheeks as Stanley moved Dipper from his spot, embracing Ford with his own tears that quickly dampened his shoulder. “Welcome back Sixer…” Ford smiled as Dipper and Mabel watched beside them with matching smiles, finally happy he could see the family he loved so much for the first time sitting around him with loving gazes. Ford closed his eyes and wept happily, thankful for the two little children that had given him and Stanley a new lease on life.

[newstechreviews]

Building a protest movement during a pandemic requires creative — and virtual — work. For illustrators and artists with social platforms, their output has an attentive audience — and an influential role to play, in parallel to the George Floyd and Black Lives Matter protests sweeping the country. Floyd was killed by police in Minneapolis during an arrest on May 25 that turned fatal when Floyd gasped for air as an officer weighed down on him with a knee on his neck. The officer involved, Derek Chauvin, has since been fired and charged with third-degree murder. As artists are aware, their responses can help build narratives of empathy and focus action on what matters.

The movement has seen large-scale marches and clashes with police in cities across the U.S. and abroad as late May turned to June, and has also grown online as support for anti-racism actions and systemic change against police brutality has become a dominant virtual conversation. While the act of re-sharing a portrait or re-tweeting a slogan has drawn criticism as potentially empty, the process of building solidarity through symbolism has played a core role in the history of protest, especially during a pandemic that may rule out in-person activism for some. In the wake of Floyd’s death, social media sharing has helped to dissolve the distances between local pain and global outrage.

Creators have taken different approaches as they engage. For some, it’s a continuation of their activist spirit. For others, Floyd’s death marked a shift into newfound political involvement and more serious subjects. Millions of reposts later, however, one thing is certain: the conversation is still in its nascent stages. With that in mind, we asked artists about the creative process behind some of the most resonant original imagery of the moment. Much of the most popular works reimagine the subjects at hand, giving us new ways to grasp what’s going on.

For Nikkolas Smith, an L.A.-based artist and activist who calls himself an “artivist,” there has never been a divide between the work he publishes and the justice-oriented goals of his creative endeavors. On May 29, he shared a digital painting commemorating George Floyd.

Intentionally unfinished

Like most of Smith’s portraits — many of which focus on other victims of police violence, like Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor — the style evokes a traditional oil painting, but is rendered almost as an abstraction. (He makes them in PhotoShop, and gives himself under three hours to complete them.) And the unfinished quality is intentional. Smith says it’s meant to echo the unfinished business of these lives, cut short. “I don’t like clean lines,” he tells TIME. “That’s a parallel to all these lives. They did not have a chance to see their end. They should still be living.”

View this post on Instagram

George Floyd’s life mattered. His killer, Derek Chauvin has just been arrested as he should’ve been days ago. Chauvin’s arrest is not justice, and his conviction will only be a fraction of justice. Black lives in this country are being destroyed by a virus of racism, fear, and hatred. It is up to everyone to take a stand and actively work to tear down this centuries-old pandemic. NOW. Art for @blklivesmatter #BlackLivesMatter #JusticeForGeorgeFloyd #JusticeForGeorge #Justice #JusticeForFloyd #GeorgeFloyd

A post shared by Nikkolas Smith (@nikkolas_smith) on May 29, 2020 at 10:53am PDT

Soon after posting his Floyd portrait, it was shared by Michelle Obama and Janet Jackson among other celebrity fans. It was spread further by the official Black Lives Matter Instagram account. In fact, it soon became one of the widespread original images of the latest protest movement.

Smith coupled his image with a caption that calls for justice for Floyd, but recognizes that just the act of viewing and sharing is a powerful first step. “Even if there isn’t an action item, people are still seeing an image of a human being. The narrative is building up more and more that these are people who should be on this earth who are not here anymore, and their life is important,” Smith says. “To share it, even if it’s just that, is important. I’m hoping that all of this leads to a bigger, more substantial change, especially with accountability of law enforcement.”

Smith is no stranger to protest art. He was still working at a corporate architecture job in 2013 when he first captured attention for his illustration of Martin Luther King, Jr. dressed in a hoodie, meant to cast doubt on preconceptions of the differences between the civil rights leader and the young Trayvon Martin, the unarmed Florida teenager shot by George Zimmerman in 2012. Smith has been creating works with political and anti-racist themes ever since.

“A perfect poster child”

On the other hand, Illustrator Tori Press’s latest Instagram post was a departure for her. In 2016, Press checked out of her own nine-to-five corporate gig to focus on illustrating full-time, as an emotional response to the election that year. But she has always shared lightly humorous personal anecdotes with bits of advice about self-care and managing mental health in a signature style of pastel watercolors and black ink text — until now. “I’m not very political,” Press told TIME. “It’s not really something I wander into all that often. But in the wake of this murder, I’ve been sick all week. I couldn’t stay silent.”

View this post on Instagram

To my fellow white people: if you are sitting in judgment and condemnation of the protests going on in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, I urge you to look at and reflect on the many, many peaceful protests against systemic racism and police brutality that have gone on in recent years, and how they have been received. I urge you to do the uncomfortable thing by putting yourself in the hopelessly frustrated, righteously furious shoes of the people of color that have been demanding justice for centuries, of honestly examining how you might feel and respond in the same situation, of considering that sometimes a peaceful avenue to meaningful change does not exist. And if you want to see change, as you should, I urge you to do the difficult but critical, unavoidable work of exploring the ways you have benefited from and upheld a racist and unjust system. Only when we can acknowledge that we have inevitably been a part of the problem can we begin to be part of the solution. It’s up to those in power, including white people who benefit from the status quo, to hear the protests of those we have oppressed *in whatever form they take,* to see the system for what it is, to set aside our discomfort and use our power and privilege to reject and dismantle it. I recommend the books White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo and Mindful of Race by Ruth King as places to start scratching the surface. Many more resources are out there and easy to find.⁣ .⁣ I am donating 100% of all proceeds from all my print and greeting card sales to the ACLU for the next week. I am also donating 100% of proceeds from any order placed since May 25, 2020, the day George Floyd was murdered.

A post shared by Tori Press (@revelatori) on May 31, 2020 at 1:32pm PDT

The result: “If you want non-violent protests, listen to non-violent protestors,” reads her latest post in large black letters, with a small kneeling figure of former NFL quarterback and social justice activist Colin Kaepernick in the corner; it has over three times the likes of the prior post. “When something like this happens, and people are righteously angry, and justifiably so, but you hear folks being dismissive of the entire cause — I just think that’s a way to dismiss this fury, and the reason behind it,” she said. Press added that she feels particularly responsible to share this message as a white, privileged woman with a platform.

“I drew Colin Kaepernick because he’s a perfect poster child for someone who tried to make a peaceful protest, and was absolutely vilified for it. It’s just infuriating,” she said. “We need to have space to say, yeah, I recognize how furious you are.”

As she says in her caption, she feels there is a role for white people to play. “I can address my fellow white people and say look, this is a time we all need to stop and reflect. Really put yourself in the shoes of people who are angry right now, who are protesting. Have some empathy.” She hopes her illustration will help “at least a few people” to have that moment of self-reflection.

“It can turn into a tidal wave”

Eric Yahnker, a California-based satirist who has displayed his absurdist works in fine art galleries, laid aside his typical tongue-in-cheek tone when he published his latest Instagram post: another George Floyd portrait, done in colored pencils on a sheet of kraft paper as a “gut reaction” to Floyd’s death.

“I am absolutely unimportant in this story,” he said to TIME. He chose to draw Floyd as the “gentle giant” he was described as by friends, reflecting his “soft humanity.” “It absolutely guts me that if Mr. Floyd were a white gentle giant or anything other than black, he’d still be alive today,” Yahnker notes. “As a Jew, indoctrinated since birth to the scores of my own ancestry massacred by the hands of evil forces, I know full well that silence itself can be a painfully violent and oppressive act.” On its own, Yahnker knows a single piece of art can’t create real change on its own. “But I am a firm believer in the power of the collective. If we all put a drop in the bucket, it can turn into a tidal wave,” he says.

View this post on Instagram

Justice for George Floyd. The wheels of justice are criminally slow. Sweeping institutional change must occur NOW before we can even think of healing our hopelessly divided & wounded nation… *All 4 officers involved in George Floyd’s murder need to be charged NOW. *Derek Chauvin’s charge should be upgraded to 2nd degree murder (a long shot, but should). *All nationwide Mayors and Police Chiefs must IMMEDIATELY adopt the policing strategies/tactics outlined by the Black Lives Matter organization to dramatically reduce these violent incidents. *Non-violent protests must continue across the nation to hold officials feet to the fire until they act. *City, State and Federal Government must not escalate the situation by inviting military tactics to stamp out peaceful protests. *We all must VOTE as if our lives (especially the lives of African-American’s) are depending on it. There is so much more to overcome, but we have to start somewhere. #blacklivesmatter #justiceforgeorgefloyd #ripgeorgefloyd #icantbreathe #ericyahnker

A post shared by Eric Yahnker (@ericyahnker) on May 31, 2020 at 11:33am PDT

Reimagining the possibilities

One of the most widely circulated images is an illustration from Shirien Damra. It’s a pastel, color-blocked portrait of Floyd that sees him wreathed in flowers, one in a series of similar portraits Damra has done for people who have recently fallen victim to violence. Damra, a former community organizer in Chicago and a Palestinian-American, turned to this form of commemoration in order to spread awareness in a way that avoided sharing videos that she said can be “traumatic and triggering,” she told TIME. “I think art can touch our emotional core in a way that the news can’t.” Damra adds that one thing artists can do is help illustrate what comes next.

“We know what we don’t want. We don’t want any more black lives targeted by police and white supremacy. But one thing that I have found we struggle with is actually imagining what kind of things we do want to see in our world,” she says. “I feel like as artists, one role we could play is allowing ourselves and others to reimagine the possibilities. Our society will likely never turn back to how it used to be before the pandemic and everything happening right now. Art can be a powerful catalyst in bringing more people together to take action.”

Damra’s Instagram account is only a year old. But especially in the pandemic era, people are turning to the digital sphere to consume art perhaps more than ever, by default. “This has opened up a way to reach more marginalized communities who need art most during this heavy time,” she says.

View this post on Instagram

Yesterday, in yet another act of anti-black police violence causing mass outrage, George Floyd yelled “I can’t breathe” and pleaded for his life as a white Minneapolis police officer violently pinned him down with his knee on his neck. George died after. He was murdered in broad daylight. His death is reminiscent of the death of Eric Garner. Even with a crowd yelling at him to stop and while folks filmed the murder, the cop did it anyway, showing the massive injustice, zero accountability and white supremacy embedded in the “criminal justice” system. Heartbroken, angry and disgusted. This must end. Much love and solidarity to Black communities grieving another beautiful life lost. May George Floyd Rest in Power. Text ‘Floyd’ to 55156 to demand the officers be charged with murder. You can also call Mayor Jacob Frey at (612)-673-2100, DA Mike Freeman at (612)-348-5550 and demand justice. #blacklivesmatter #georgefloyd #icantbreathe #justiceforgeorgefloyd

A post shared by shirien (@shirien.creates) on May 26, 2020 at 12:07pm PDT

Inspiring protest signs

Another popular image is a gesture to the Black Lives Matter movement by the French artist duo Célia Amroune and Aline Kpade, who go by the name Sacrée Frangine. Like a spin on an earth-toned Matisse cut-out, their trio of Black faces — overwritten with the “Black lives matter” slogan — is a universal statement that is just abstract enough to be repurposed in many ways; protesters have even drawn versions of it for signs at marches. Amroune and Kpade may not be U.S. citizens, but they told TIME they feel “very close to” the movement. This has, after all, had a wide reach.

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Say it with your voice, say it with your chest, say it with your words, but say it. #strongertogether #blacklivesmatter

A post shared by sacrée frangine (@sacree_frangine) on May 30, 2020 at 12:05pm PDT

The comments to their art are a chorus of “thank-yous” and heart emojis, with the promise of sharing. As social media was overtaken by “blackout” trends on June 2, these works momentarily disappeared from feeds. But they will resurface again.

“Some people who never spoke out before — when Mike Brown or anybody else was killed — they saw this video, they see this art, and say, now I’m going to say something,” Smith said about what’s different this time around. “I don’t even really know where things are gonna go from here, but it’s getting to a boiling point. People are done. They’re going to make their voices heard.”

As for Smith, his latest piece of art, called “Reflect,” isn’t a portrait but a depiction of a single masked protester, kneeling at the foot of a line of riot-gear-clad policemen and raising a mirror to their hidden faces. “Can we just hold up a mirror to what this looks like right now?” Smith wants to know. That’s what contemporary art is for, after all: to refract back reality, and raise questions about what we are willing to accept.

View this post on Instagram

So that they may see what they have become… So that they may see what they have become… So that they may see your light. So that they may see what they have become… So that we may see what they have always been. #REFLECT #SundaySketch #ThisIsAmerica #BlackLivesMatter #takeAKnee #cops Art inspired by the incredible photography of @daisugano 🙏🏾✨

A post shared by Nikkolas Smith (@nikkolas_smith) on May 31, 2020 at 10:01am PDT

[phooll123]

New top story from Time: ‘Art Can Touch Our Emotional Core.’ Meet the Artists Behind Some of the Most Widespread Images in the Wake of George Floyd’s Death

Building a protest movement during a pandemic requires creative — and virtual — work. For illustrators and artists with social platforms, their output has an attentive audience — and an influential role to play, in parallel to the George Floyd and Black Lives Matter protests sweeping the country. Floyd was killed by police in Minneapolis during an arrest on May 25 that turned fatal when Floyd gasped for air as an officer weighed down on him with a knee on his neck. The officer involved, Derek Chauvin, has since been fired and charged with third-degree murder. As artists are aware, their responses can help build narratives of empathy and focus action on what matters.

The movement has seen large-scale marches and clashes with police in cities across the U.S. and abroad as late May turned to June, and has also grown online as support for anti-racism actions and systemic change against police brutality has become a dominant virtual conversation. While the act of re-sharing a portrait or re-tweeting a slogan has drawn criticism as potentially empty, the process of building solidarity through symbolism has played a core role in the history of protest, especially during a pandemic that may rule out in-person activism for some. In the wake of Floyd’s death, social media sharing has helped to dissolve the distances between local pain and global outrage.

Creators have taken different approaches as they engage. For some, it’s a continuation of their activist spirit. For others, Floyd’s death marked a shift into newfound political involvement and more serious subjects. Millions of reposts later, however, one thing is certain: the conversation is still in its nascent stages. With that in mind, we asked artists about the creative process behind some of the most resonant original imagery of the moment. Much of the most popular works reimagine the subjects at hand, giving us new ways to grasp what’s going on.

For Nikkolas Smith, an L.A.-based artist and activist who calls himself an “artivist,” there has never been a divide between the work he publishes and the justice-oriented goals of his creative endeavors. On May 29, he shared a digital painting commemorating George Floyd.

Intentionally unfinished

Like most of Smith’s portraits — many of which focus on other victims of police violence, like Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor — the style evokes a traditional oil painting, but is rendered almost as an abstraction. (He makes them in PhotoShop, and gives himself under three hours to complete them.) And the unfinished quality is intentional. Smith says it’s meant to echo the unfinished business of these lives, cut short. “I don’t like clean lines,” he tells TIME. “That’s a parallel to all these lives. They did not have a chance to see their end. They should still be living.”

View this post on Instagram

George Floyd’s life mattered. His killer, Derek Chauvin has just been arrested as he should’ve been days ago. Chauvin’s arrest is not justice, and his conviction will only be a fraction of justice. Black lives in this country are being destroyed by a virus of racism, fear, and hatred. It is up to everyone to take a stand and actively work to tear down this centuries-old pandemic. NOW. Art for @blklivesmatter #BlackLivesMatter #JusticeForGeorgeFloyd #JusticeForGeorge #Justice #JusticeForFloyd #GeorgeFloyd

A post shared by Nikkolas Smith (@nikkolas_smith) on May 29, 2020 at 10:53am PDT

Soon after posting his Floyd portrait, it was shared by Michelle Obama and Janet Jackson among other celebrity fans. It was spread further by the official Black Lives Matter Instagram account. In fact, it soon became one of the widespread original images of the latest protest movement.

Smith coupled his image with a caption that calls for justice for Floyd, but recognizes that just the act of viewing and sharing is a powerful first step. “Even if there isn’t an action item, people are still seeing an image of a human being. The narrative is building up more and more that these are people who should be on this earth who are not here anymore, and their life is important,” Smith says. “To share it, even if it’s just that, is important. I’m hoping that all of this leads to a bigger, more substantial change, especially with accountability of law enforcement.”

Smith is no stranger to protest art. He was still working at a corporate architecture job in 2013 when he first captured attention for his illustration of Martin Luther King, Jr. dressed in a hoodie, meant to cast doubt on preconceptions of the differences between the civil rights leader and the young Trayvon Martin, the unarmed Florida teenager shot by George Zimmerman in 2012. Smith has been creating works with political and anti-racist themes ever since.

“A perfect poster child”

On the other hand, Illustrator Tori Press’s latest Instagram post was a departure for her. In 2016, Press checked out of her own nine-to-five corporate gig to focus on illustrating full-time, as an emotional response to the election that year. But she has always shared lightly humorous personal anecdotes with bits of advice about self-care and managing mental health in a signature style of pastel watercolors and black ink text — until now. “I’m not very political,” Press told TIME. “It’s not really something I wander into all that often. But in the wake of this murder, I’ve been sick all week. I couldn’t stay silent.”

View this post on Instagram

To my fellow white people: if you are sitting in judgment and condemnation of the protests going on in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, I urge you to look at and reflect on the many, many peaceful protests against systemic racism and police brutality that have gone on in recent years, and how they have been received. I urge you to do the uncomfortable thing by putting yourself in the hopelessly frustrated, righteously furious shoes of the people of color that have been demanding justice for centuries, of honestly examining how you might feel and respond in the same situation, of considering that sometimes a peaceful avenue to meaningful change does not exist. And if you want to see change, as you should, I urge you to do the difficult but critical, unavoidable work of exploring the ways you have benefited from and upheld a racist and unjust system. Only when we can acknowledge that we have inevitably been a part of the problem can we begin to be part of the solution. It’s up to those in power, including white people who benefit from the status quo, to hear the protests of those we have oppressed *in whatever form they take,* to see the system for what it is, to set aside our discomfort and use our power and privilege to reject and dismantle it. I recommend the books White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo and Mindful of Race by Ruth King as places to start scratching the surface. Many more resources are out there and easy to find.⁣ .⁣ I am donating 100% of all proceeds from all my print and greeting card sales to the ACLU for the next week. I am also donating 100% of proceeds from any order placed since May 25, 2020, the day George Floyd was murdered.

A post shared by Tori Press (@revelatori) on May 31, 2020 at 1:32pm PDT

The result: “If you want non-violent protests, listen to non-violent protestors,” reads her latest post in large black letters, with a small kneeling figure of former NFL quarterback and social justice activist Colin Kaepernick in the corner; it has over three times the likes of the prior post. “When something like this happens, and people are righteously angry, and justifiably so, but you hear folks being dismissive of the entire cause — I just think that’s a way to dismiss this fury, and the reason behind it,” she said. Press added that she feels particularly responsible to share this message as a white, privileged woman with a platform.

“I drew Colin Kaepernick because he’s a perfect poster child for someone who tried to make a peaceful protest, and was absolutely vilified for it. It’s just infuriating,” she said. “We need to have space to say, yeah, I recognize how furious you are.”

As she says in her caption, she feels there is a role for white people to play. “I can address my fellow white people and say look, this is a time we all need to stop and reflect. Really put yourself in the shoes of people who are angry right now, who are protesting. Have some empathy.” She hopes her illustration will help “at least a few people” to have that moment of self-reflection.

“It can turn into a tidal wave”

Eric Yahnker, a California-based satirist who has displayed his absurdist works in fine art galleries, laid aside his typical tongue-in-cheek tone when he published his latest Instagram post: another George Floyd portrait, done in colored pencils on a sheet of kraft paper as a “gut reaction” to Floyd’s death.

“I am absolutely unimportant in this story,” he said to TIME. He chose to draw Floyd as the “gentle giant” he was described as by friends, reflecting his “soft humanity.” “It absolutely guts me that if Mr. Floyd were a white gentle giant or anything other than black, he’d still be alive today,” Yahnker notes. “As a Jew, indoctrinated since birth to the scores of my own ancestry massacred by the hands of evil forces, I know full well that silence itself can be a painfully violent and oppressive act.” On its own, Yahnker knows a single piece of art can’t create real change on its own. “But I am a firm believer in the power of the collective. If we all put a drop in the bucket, it can turn into a tidal wave,” he says.

View this post on Instagram

Justice for George Floyd. The wheels of justice are criminally slow. Sweeping institutional change must occur NOW before we can even think of healing our hopelessly divided & wounded nation… *All 4 officers involved in George Floyd’s murder need to be charged NOW. *Derek Chauvin’s charge should be upgraded to 2nd degree murder (a long shot, but should). *All nationwide Mayors and Police Chiefs must IMMEDIATELY adopt the policing strategies/tactics outlined by the Black Lives Matter organization to dramatically reduce these violent incidents. *Non-violent protests must continue across the nation to hold officials feet to the fire until they act. *City, State and Federal Government must not escalate the situation by inviting military tactics to stamp out peaceful protests. *We all must VOTE as if our lives (especially the lives of African-American’s) are depending on it. There is so much more to overcome, but we have to start somewhere. #blacklivesmatter #justiceforgeorgefloyd #ripgeorgefloyd #icantbreathe #ericyahnker

A post shared by Eric Yahnker (@ericyahnker) on May 31, 2020 at 11:33am PDT

Reimagining the possibilities

One of the most widely circulated images is an illustration from Shirien Damra. It’s a pastel, color-blocked portrait of Floyd that sees him wreathed in flowers, one in a series of similar portraits Damra has done for people who have recently fallen victim to violence. Damra, a former community organizer in Chicago and a Palestinian-American, turned to this form of commemoration in order to spread awareness in a way that avoided sharing videos that she said can be “traumatic and triggering,” she told TIME. “I think art can touch our emotional core in a way that the news can’t.” Damra adds that one thing artists can do is help illustrate what comes next.

“We know what we don’t want. We don’t want any more black lives targeted by police and white supremacy. But one thing that I have found we struggle with is actually imagining what kind of things we do want to see in our world,” she says. “I feel like as artists, one role we could play is allowing ourselves and others to reimagine the possibilities. Our society will likely never turn back to how it used to be before the pandemic and everything happening right now. Art can be a powerful catalyst in bringing more people together to take action.”

Damra’s Instagram account is only a year old. But especially in the pandemic era, people are turning to the digital sphere to consume art perhaps more than ever, by default. “This has opened up a way to reach more marginalized communities who need art most during this heavy time,” she says.

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Yesterday, in yet another act of anti-black police violence causing mass outrage, George Floyd yelled “I can’t breathe” and pleaded for his life as a white Minneapolis police officer violently pinned him down with his knee on his neck. George died after. He was murdered in broad daylight. His death is reminiscent of the death of Eric Garner. Even with a crowd yelling at him to stop and while folks filmed the murder, the cop did it anyway, showing the massive injustice, zero accountability and white supremacy embedded in the “criminal justice” system. Heartbroken, angry and disgusted. This must end. Much love and solidarity to Black communities grieving another beautiful life lost. May George Floyd Rest in Power. Text ‘Floyd’ to 55156 to demand the officers be charged with murder. You can also call Mayor Jacob Frey at (612)-673-2100, DA Mike Freeman at (612)-348-5550 and demand justice. #blacklivesmatter #georgefloyd #icantbreathe #justiceforgeorgefloyd

A post shared by shirien (@shirien.creates) on May 26, 2020 at 12:07pm PDT

Inspiring protest signs

Another popular image is a gesture to the Black Lives Matter movement by the French artist duo Célia Amroune and Aline Kpade, who go by the name Sacrée Frangine. Like a spin on an earth-toned Matisse cut-out, their trio of Black faces — overwritten with the “Black lives matter” slogan — is a universal statement that is just abstract enough to be repurposed in many ways; protesters have even drawn versions of it for signs at marches. Amroune and Kpade may not be U.S. citizens, but they told TIME they feel “very close to” the movement. This has, after all, had a wide reach.

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Say it with your voice, say it with your chest, say it with your words, but say it. #strongertogether #blacklivesmatter

A post shared by sacrée frangine (@sacree_frangine) on May 30, 2020 at 12:05pm PDT

The comments to their art are a chorus of “thank-yous” and heart emojis, with the promise of sharing. As social media was overtaken by “blackout” trends on June 2, these works momentarily disappeared from feeds. But they will resurface again.

“Some people who never spoke out before — when Mike Brown or anybody else was killed — they saw this video, they see this art, and say, now I’m going to say something,” Smith said about what’s different this time around. “I don’t even really know where things are gonna go from here, but it’s getting to a boiling point. People are done. They’re going to make their voices heard.”

As for Smith, his latest piece of art, called “Reflect,” isn’t a portrait but a depiction of a single masked protester, kneeling at the foot of a line of riot-gear-clad policemen and raising a mirror to their hidden faces. “Can we just hold up a mirror to what this looks like right now?” Smith wants to know. That’s what contemporary art is for, after all: to refract back reality, and raise questions about what we are willing to accept.

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So that they may see what they have become… So that they may see what they have become… So that they may see your light. So that they may see what they have become… So that we may see what they have always been. #REFLECT #SundaySketch #ThisIsAmerica #BlackLivesMatter #takeAKnee #cops Art inspired by the incredible photography of @daisugano 🙏🏾✨

A post shared by Nikkolas Smith (@nikkolas_smith) on May 31, 2020 at 10:01am PDT

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