#its almost certainly not saturday but regardless sparkle on
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yet another misc blinkie assortment
#its almost certainly not saturday but regardless sparkle on#blinkies#graphixxx hoard#flickering#bright colors#flashing#...or. whatever the rainbow one is doing. its flashy/wavy/strobey. just a lot visually#gif warning#old web aesthetic#web graphics#y2kcore#y2k aesthetic#geocities#blinkies.cafe
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Dark Side: Part 2
Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin
Pairing: Steve X Reader
Summary: You expected Captain America to be a lot of things… You didn’t expect him to be anything like you. As it turns out, America’s Golden Boy may be more than a little tarnished.
Warnings: Violence, blood, some feels
A/N: This bad boy is for @littledarlinhavefaithinme ‘s Marvelous Writing Challenge!
Lol, two parts. Who the fuck do I think I am? In all fairness, I feel like @littledarlinhavefaithinme knows my work well enough to know that I’m a wordy bitch.
Hope y’all enjoy!
Tags are open!
You give yourself one more look in the mirror. The black strappy Dior high-low dress is just the right balance of sexy and classy. The gold Louboutins bring the perfect level of sparkle. And your red lips pick up the sole of the heels creating a flawless balance.
It’s not vanity that says you look like a knockout. It’s an indisputable fact. You just wish you were in a state of mind to appreciate it.
Your phone dings alerting you that your driver is waiting. Sighing you plaster your signature carefree smirk on your lips, grab your coat, clutch, and steel your nerves.
As the car pulls up he’s already at the corner waiting. You’re not the least bit surprised that he showed or that he’s early. Captain America didn’t seem the fashionably late type.
Before getting out you eye him through the tinted window of the Town Car. Despite the late autumn chill in the air, he’s not wearing a coat. Those cool blue eyes scan the area taking in everything. He has his hands shoved in his pockets and… he actually seems like he may be just a smidge nervous. That brings a real smile to your face. How endearing.
Knowing it won’t take him long to spot you, you thank your driver and step out. Immediately he locks on to you. Before meeting him it had been a long time since someone had genuinely managed to surprise you. Once again Steve Rogers does so when a breathtaking smile fills his face upon seeing you.
“What do ya know,” you quip as you strut up to him, your heels making you just about eye level, “the man does own a suit, tie and all.” Playfully you tug on the dark navy fabric.
Steve scoffs, “You said suit so I assumed the whole ensemble would be expected.”
“Is this Prada?” You eye the perfectly cut lines, mouth watering just a touch. He was a damn fine specimen. “Impressive.”
“Being friends with a Stark does have its benefits.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” You hold your arm out to him, “Shall we?”
With a crooked smile on his face, he hooks his arm with yours, “Lead the way.”
The restaurant, one of DC’s hottest tickets at the moment, was only about half a block away. As the two of you make your way there heads turn. It’s not just because Captain America is out on a Saturday night either, together you cut an incredible image. Though keeping yourself hidden is usually a part of your M.O. you can’t help but feel a little pride.
There’s no sign above the place, either you knew it was here or you didn’t. As you walk up the door swings open revealing an open, modern, elegant setting.
Steve whispers into your ear, “This is one of those places where you leave hungry at the end isn’t it?”
“I’m almost offended.” One of the hosts takes your coat revealing the thin straps of your dress, your exposed chest, cleavage. Honestly, the thing was almost as criminal as you were.
“Careful there Steven, that’s a great way to catch a fly.” His slightly slack jaw snaps shut, blue eyes narrowing. You wink before turning to follow the hostess leading you to your table.
“It’s Steve,” he grumbles a bit, sounding like an angry boy and not a grown man in a five thousand dollar suit.
A genuine laugh tumbles from your crimson lips as you lazily sit in the proffered chair, legs crossing, the high front of the hem falling just between your thigh highs and holster. His Adam’s apple bobs hard in his throat as he takes his place across from you.
“What can I get you both to drink this evening?” The waiter asks, trying not to gawk, not that you could blame him, you’re sure it’s not every day he has Captain America at his table.
You respond before Steve can even look a the menu, “We’ll take a bottle of Merlot, pick whatever puts the most money in your pocket and,” you pluck a $100 from your clutch, “for your discretion.” He takes it and stares at you for a second. You give him a small wink too, “Thank you.”
“Thank YOU.” With that, he scurries off for the wine.
“Always so generous?” Steve takes a sip of water eyeing you.
“With service employees? Yes.” He raises his brows. “What? Can’t I be a benevolent criminal?”
“Is there such a thing?”
You shrug, “In my experience there is. Some of the most generous people I know make their money in nefarious ways.”
The waiter arrives with your wine. “Thanks,” Steve gives him a smile. As he does a server walks past with a skewer laden with red meat. “What kind of restaurant is this exactly?”
“It’s Brazilian steakhouse inspired.” Those words clearly meant nothing to him. “Basically they walk around and serve you meat until you beg them to stop.”
“Alright,” he nods, “I can get behind that.”
“Figured.” You sip the wine, its excellent. “I may have expensive taste but I grew up far too poor to blow money on four bites of food no matter how delicious.”
He laughs, “Tony took me someplace in New York… Everything was ‘deconstructed,’” he air quotes the word. “I honestly thought it was a joke. I had to stop for a slice after.”
“Yeah. Sounds like some rich kid shit.”
Taking a drink he nods in agreement. “So… not a rich kid.”
“Nope. Purebred third generation trailer trash.”
“From where?” You raise a brow over your glass. “Oh come on. You can read all about me online. I don’t even know your real name. Throw me a bone.”
“Fair.” You sigh, “Oklahoma.”
“Really?!”
“Yup. The land of corn, tornadoes, and disappointment.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” you grimace and he laughs. “How’s life in DC?”
“Fine, I guess… You’ve probably seen more of it than I have.”
“It’s sad that I think you’re right.” He shrugs. “You could see it ya know?”
“You sound like Romanoff.”
“She sounds like good people.”
“You would probably think that. You’re likely cut from the same cloth.”
The servers come by and you both load up on incredible grilled meat and vegetables. He looks more than a little pleased. Your small talk continues on. It is actually pleasant and you just can’t bring yourself to drop your bomb just yet. Instead, you push it to the back of your mind.
After a bit, you decide to ask, “Any other prying questions for me?”
He looks shocked, “Plenty. But will you answer them?”
“Ask and find out,” your lips curl mischievously.
He slowly chews, a pensive expression on his face. “Alright…” Those blue eyes pierce you as he sips his wine. You feel… seen. It’s not uncomfortable but certainly not something you’re used to. “How do you go from, as you said, trailer trash, to this?” He gestures to you.
You think for a minute. “Determination.”
“That all I get?”
Maybe it’s his melancholy. Maybe is the way he looks in that suit. Regardless of the reason you decide... Fuck it.
“Well… I come from a place where you either get pregnant, get a scholarship, or get dog tags.” You take a sip of wine. “Never been very maternal, wasn’t good enough at anything for a scholarship, so I took door number three. One thing led to another and here we are.”
“YOU were a soldier?!”
“You do know the road from soldier to soldier of fortune is pretty short right?”
“I just… wouldn’t have guessed.”
An almost sad smile flickers across your face before you school your expression. “I will have you know I was a damn good soldier. One of the few women in combat infantry. Would have been special forces if the sexist fucks let me in.”
Steve nods in approval. “What rank?”
“Sargeant.”
Something flashes across his face at that but he says nothing. “How many tours?”
“Three.” His brows rise at this. “What? Said I was good at what I did. Thought that was going to be it for me.”
“What happened?”
You flag the waiter for another bottle of wine before answering. “They said don’t ask don’t tell.” You take a big gulp of wine, “Someone asked. I told.”
He takes a minute to sort that out before he realizes what you’re referring to. It’s just long enough for you to remember that old bitter feeling. “So you’re…”
“I’m all sorts of things, Cap.” You offer him a halfhearted grin. “At the time I happened to be with a woman. Thought she was gonna be it too. Turned out she was in it for the financial stability and good pussy-” he chokes a bit on his wine at that and you burst out laughing. “Anyway, when one of the two was gone so was she.”
“I’m sorry,” he lays his hand between you both.
Playfully you push it off the edge of the table, “Ancient history. Nothing to get mopey over.”
“Yeah. Well, good soldiers shouldn’t be treated as disposable.” Or good pussy, you almost fire back but you think you’ve shocked the old man enough.
“We were disposable.” He looks away from you at that. “Get rid of me there’s more desperate kids signing up every day.”
“Well… I guess that’s true. I was one of those desperate kids at one point too…”
“What were you desperate to get out of?”
He stares off into the distance for a long moment. “I was desperate to get in actually. It… seemed like the right thing to do… Whole world at war and whatnot. But… it was a different time.” Your eyes narrow as he shoves food in his mouth to avoid talking. After a bit he breaks, “What?”
“You’re right, I read all about you online. I’ve seen the before shots, read your biographies… Half of it, most of that golden boy rhetoric, is crap I have no doubt. Now you’re trying to tell me you only wanted to join the army just because it was the right thing… I call bullshit.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” You take a bite studying him. “You’re a fighter. You like the fight. I bet you always have, even when you were getting your ass kicked.”
“How would you know?”
You hold his gaze, “Because I’m the same.” Sighing you take a long drink. “All that wartime machismo and patriotism… you wanted to measure up. Maybe there was a righteous element to it but… yeah, I don’t buy that pure American hero serving his country shit.”
He looks like you slapped him before a smile spreads across his face, it’s a little sad but genuine. “Are your grandparents from Brooklyn by chance?”
You laugh, “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “You’re not wrong. I, uh… I did have something to prove.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Prove it?” So many emotions flicker across his face, you almost feel bad for asking.
“I don’t know honestly. All the people who could answer that are dead…” It takes him a moment to continue, “But… Hydra fell… we won… so I guess there’s that.”
Your stomach tightens and you set your fork down. “Well, this has turned distinctly depressing.” You wave down your waiter, “You still hungry?”
Steve shakes his head. “I’m stuffed. It was delicious.”
“Good.” You fish some money from your bag and put it in the dazed waiter’s hand. It was unquestionably more than your tab. He looks like he’s going to protest but you shut him up with a look. In your line of work you never knew if you’d see the next day and you couldn’t take it with you so why not give it away.
You stand, “Come on.”
At the door they go to fetch your coat, “Actually,” you pause them, “could I pick that up tomorrow?”
“Of course!”
“Thanks.” The air outside is brisk but it’s kind of refreshing.
“Where exactly are we going?” Steve asks as he falls in line behind you. “Do you want my jacket?”
How cute, you smile at him, “I’m good. And we are going to have some fun.”
“Were we not before?” His grin is mischievous.
“Look I know you have a low bar for entertainment. Dinner is nice but it’s not fun.”
After a few blocks, you turn to him, “Do you like dancing?”
“Uh…” Suddenly he looks incredibly uncomfortable. “Not… really…”
“Too bad.” You tug him down an alley, the base notes already hitting your ears.
Just outside the club, he stops, “I really don’t think this is my kind of fun.” Lights flash into the dark alley lighting up the line of people waiting to get in.
“Have you ever been to a club?” You stand your ground, keeping him in place.
“Well… no…”
You lay a hand on his… incredibly solid chest, “Have I led you astray in your assimilation so far?” He rolls his eyes. “No, I haven’t. Trust me.”
“Fine. But I’m not dancing.”
“Sure,” you quip over your shoulder as you pull him to the door.
“Isn’t there a line?” He says in your ear.
“I have the universal VIP pass,” pulling a couple bills from your clutch and passing them to the bouncer who happily lets you in.
The music is so loud vibrating through your whole body. When you glance at Steve the grimace on his face makes a laugh soundlessly burst from you. He glances down and shakes his head, not understanding how this is fun. You pull him toward the dancefloor but he refuses, heading against the wall on the edge of the sea of bodies.
Conceding you hold your hands up and begin moving with the music, hips swaying, arms lifting. It takes moments before someone joins you, his hands sliding over your sides moving just barely. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t him you were interested in.
Steve watches you, occasionally looking at other dancers, the very image of out of place in his suit, arms crossed back leaned against the wall. Maybe this really wasn’t for him… He wasn’t insisting to leave though so you let yourself just feel the music.
After a few songs a woman on one of the raised platforms gets your attention, insisting you come up. It’s not far from Steve’s parking spot so you go with it. The bass starts hard and your bodies press close. You spin her in your arms, her head falls back onto your shoulder as she grinds against you in time with the music. Two men watch close to the platform and she beckons them up.
As you move with one of the men you notice Steve’s stepped away from the wall just a bit, his eyes on you. You hold his gaze. Slowly he makes his way toward your perch. You drop low, ignoring the whoop from your near forgotten dance partner at the move, his hands greedily grasping for you as you raise up. But Steve is at the edge of the platform.
His head is about at your pelvis as you stand before him, body still reacting to the music. You rest your hand on his head, fingers gripping his hair, gently tilting his head back as you swing your hips wide holding onto those blue eyes, flashing with the colors of the lights. His tongue flits out for just a second, moistening his pink lips. Once more you drop with the beat. Your free hand catches his tie as you rise.
Steve’s hands reach up, grabbing you just below your hip bones. As if you weigh nothing he lifts you off the platform setting you in front of him. There’s a self-satisfied look on his face, no doubt over your surprised expression that quickly morphs into a greedy grin.
You run your hands up his torso and over his chest. Slipping a finger under the knot of his tie you tug it lose until it hangs undone. Swaying to the music you undo a few of the buttons on his crisp white shirt, barely grazing the golden chest hair that peeks out. He slides the suit jacket off, tossing it over the crowd, obviously not caring that it’s easily worth two grand. You’d buy him another.
Resting your hands on his hips you coax him to move with the music. Again, he’s full of surprises, getting the hang of it quickly. You turn and press close to him, his hands gliding over you before holding at your swaying hips. Reaching back you hook a hand around his neck, head falling onto his shoulder. There’s nothing but the two of you and the music despite the press of the people around you. His breath on your neck making your heart stutter in your chest.
After two songs you’re about ready to have him right in the middle of this crowded dance floor if he’d let you. As much as you wish that could be the case you know better… you need to get yourself together.
Turning to face him you press your lips close to his ear. His hands run down your back, pulling you tight against him. It takes everything in you to say, “I’m going to the restroom. Be back,” rather than asking if he’d like to fuck you in the restroom. He nods and releases you. Unsurprisingly, he follows, leaning against the wall next to the narrow hall leading to the bathrooms.
You wet a paper towel with cold water, pressing it to your flushing chest and racing pulse. Staring at yourself in the mirror you silently coach yourself to get your head out of your ass. The two of you need to go someplace so you can tell him-
You’re so distracted you don’t notice the person behind you. Until your face slams into your reflection. The assailant lands a blow to the middle of your spine. You cry out, pain blossoming. Whirling you grab their wrist before the knife can plunge into you.
“Bitch you ruin this dress I’ll gut you.” The knife clatters to the floor, your hand twisting the wrist back with a jerk. They swing, fist meeting your jaw. Stumbling they throw you through the swinging door back first. The wall catches you. Reaching under your skirt you pull one of your pistols free and let loose a shot. It misses, barely, despite you hardly aiming. The shock has its desired effect and they’re distracted.
Screams react to the sound of the shot and you bolt for the exit at the end of the hall. You sprint into the alley for an instant before something sharp and burning buries itself in your upper thigh causing you to drop to your knees. In an instant they’re on you, arm choking you. Without luck, you try to fling them off but they’ve got weight on you and you can’t get purchase.
Your head is beginning to float from lack of oxygen when they’re pulled off you. Falling onto your hands you gasp for air, coughing. Before you can turn they’re thrown down the alley, slamming hard into the dumpster. Seemingly unconscious they slump to the ground.
“Zelda!” Steve kneels before you gripping your shoulders. “Are you ok?!”
You cock an eyebrow, about to make a snarky comment when you see the guy rise to his feet, gun drawn, aimed at Steve. Reflexively you grab the pistol on your other thigh and shoot, aim perfect, the bullet nestled between the man’s brows.
Steve jerks up and stares, noticing the gun as it falls from the man’s grip. His eyes turn back to you, filled with questions. “Better now.” You offer a crooked smile and rise to your feet groaning.
He steadies you as you reach to your leg and pull out the blade. “Fuck,” you hiss between your teeth tossing it to the side. A few civilians are at the mouth of the alley, gawking at the scene. Great.
“I’ve gotta call this in,” he reaches for his phone.
“Of course you do,” you grumble, slipping out of your heels before the right one fills with blood.
-
As you support yourself against the wall, taking the weight off your injured leg, Steve dials Romanoff. He lays out the situation, she assures him it can be dealt with.
“Not the first time an agent’s had a bar fight go bad, Rogers,” she laughs.
“That’s not the situation. We also need a medic, someone has-” he turns to look at you and… of fucking course you’re gone. “Never mind. They’re fine.”
@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4@piensa-bonito @buckysstar @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @siriuslycloudy2
#steve rogers x reader#captain america x reader#steve rogers#captain america#steve rogers angst#LDMWC
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SATURDAY STORY TIME #1
Every other Saturday, I’ll be showcasing a new piece of my writing! It’s a bi-weekly affair--be there or be square.
Today’s Saturday Story is entitled “The Mistress has Returned.” It’s a spooky story all about a man who made some very bad choices regarding the treatment of his wife. The nachzehrer, a Germanic vampire with some interesting folkloric attachments, is a major feature of the tale. What will become of poor Gerhardt after his wife’s untimely death? Nothing good, I can assure you...
WARNING: This one does have some mildly graphic descriptions of death, gore, and bits of body horror, so avoid if those are triggering for you!
His wife’s body twisted eerily as it hung from the rafters of the great hall, her bare feet dangling off the ground as her eyes, bulging and swollen in death, stared wildly—accusatorily—at him. The servants had found her first. They now refused to enter the manor, much to his annoyance. Superstitious fools. He let out a snort, looking over his shoulder at the closed great doors before sighing and drawing the dagger he wore at his hip. They had left him to clean up the whole mess on his own.
Stupid woman had been a nuisance from the day they had married. Now, she had left him one last mess to clean up. He grabbed a table and shoved it closer to her dangling corpse, wincing slightly when it rotated to glare at him with those glazed-over eyes that still burned green like witchfire. A knock sounded on the door when he moved to begin cutting the thick rope that held her aloft by the neck.
“One moment,” he called, his eyes focused on the rope.
The knock sounded again. The rope frayed.
“Ugh,” he grunted, rolling his eyes as he hopped off the table and stalked over to yank open one of the double doors that closed him off from the rest of the town. A pair of guardsmen met his gaze, staring out at him dully from under their strange, swooping helmets.
“We heard there was a death?” One of them asked, hand resting on the sword at his hip.
“Yes,” the widower responded, folding his arms over his chest. “My wife has had… an accident.”
“Foul play?”
“No. Foolishness.”
“She was due for trial. We had come to make our arrest.”
“Well,” the widower drawled, regarding the pair of guards with a flat stare of irritation, “you’re a little late for that, aren’t you?”
A dull, heavy thud sounded from behind him, and he grimaced. The guards glanced at one another, then moved almost as one to begin walking through the doors. He did not stop them; instead, he turned to stand aside, arms folded behind his back as he took a brief moment to look at the crumpled body of his wife, now in a heap on the floor after the frayed rope had finally snapped.
She had brought it on herself. She was wild and willful, some middle-class upstart that her father wanted to marry up. He watched as the guards rolled her over, laid her out on the floor—her arm had been broken in the fall, hung at an awkward angle as they examined her. His gaze slid away, and he picked at the lint on his fine jacket. She had been beautiful, once. His dear, lovely Adelinde… She had golden hair that shone like the sun, skin the color of moon-kissed petals of the lily, and green eyes that blazed like emeralds. In death, she looked nothing like herself. Those sparkling green eyes bulged from fields of red, and her swollen face stuck out its putrid tongue like the masks the savages wore to frighten their enemies…
“She took her own life, then?” One of the guards asked, and the widower flicked his gaze up for a brief moment before looking away once more.
“I presume so, yes.”
“One of the servants?”
“Doubtful,” he replied at length. “They either avoided her or enjoyed her company. Besides… I doubt they would go through the trouble of… stringing her up like this.”
One of the guards, the younger of the two, fixed the widower with a pointed stare.
“Did she know that she had been accused of witchcraft? Took her own life to keep from going to trial and facing the proper judgment of God?”
The widower grimaced, and he adjusted his jacket with a harsh jerk from both hands.
“If she did, it was from no word of my own. I would never give warning to a witch.”
The guards stared at him a moment, then looked down at the horrible, twisted features of his former wife’s corpse. Finally, as one, the two of them rose, each holding one end of the body between them.
“Well. Either way, she faces God’s judgment now. All sinners must take their rightful places in hell.”
The widower nodded mechanically, watched as they hauled his wife off toward the grounds on the outskirts of the town—unhallowed ground reserved for the burial of criminals, suicides, and witches. As he stood in the doorway, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction, he heard the soft murmurings of the servants rising up like the rustle of leaves falling in the woods.
“Nachzehrer,” one old woman who worked the kitchens whispered, clutching tightly to her apron. An older man beside her nodded, head bobbling like a hungry duck’s.
All at once, the widower was filled with fury. He stepped outside, slamming the door behind him, and glowered down at the hired help that clustered around like a flock of terrified hens after a fox had been discovered in the coop. All eyes were on him, blinking stupidly in the mid-morning sun.
“Enough with your foolish superstitions,” he growled. “Everyone back to work.”
There was no argument voiced, but he could see the resentment that echoed in the pairs of eyes that glanced at him before slowly sliding away. The whispers continued, regardless.
Nachzehrer. Nachzehrer. Nachzehrer… the consuming dead.
He wore mourning clothes for only a week, then promptly shed them to begin making his advances toward other eligible women around the town. Some thought him improper, but most took pity upon him; poor handsome Gerhardt, trapped into marriage by a cunning witch’s charms, only to have her commit the ultimate act of sin before her judgment day! There was certainly no lack of pretty women to walk with, to dance with, to impress with his hunting talent and natural eloquence…
Many of the ladies with whom he pitched woo had been rivals of his dear Adelinde before her death. Women she had jousted with her sharp tongue, who had often slinked away in defeat, licking the gaping, bleeding wounds left in their reputations. Women she vied with in the dance hall, each flaunting the newest season’s fashions and the quick, easy knowledge of the latest steps from across Europe. Women who mocked her low birth, only to promptly have every secret dalliance exposed to the horror and delight of the entire town.
He sighed wistfully as he listened to the vapid rambling of his newest pursuit—beautiful but frightfully boring, with a long family history of producing a large number of heirs. That had been another thorn in his side; his Adelinde had never given him a child, though he had tried tirelessly—to the point where his lovely wife had begun to hate his advances, had glowered at him even in the darkness after the candles had been blown out.
In fits of boredom, he undertook a number of dalliances with tavern women, with peasants, with unfortunate servant girls who got in his way. Through it all, however, their faces became her face. He watched with horror as, at the height of his passion, the face that looked up at him, tears shimmering in dark eyes, swelled and twisted into the horrific mask that had been his wife’s face in death. Green eyes burned like witchfire into his soul, and those bloated lips sneered silent curses at him.
He began to take ill, hiding himself in his rooms save for the occasional venture out into the town to keep up appearances and court the ladies at the balls. Every woman he saw seemed to be his Adelinde, her gaze still falling on his shoulders long after she was gone. The whispers of the servants hounded his every step: Nachzehrer. She will be back. The mistress will return, and God help us all.
The first disappearance came as a shock that rippled throughout the entire community. The boring-yet-beautiful woman he had courted in earnest, now his fiancée, had gone out on an afternoon walk, as per usual, and had never returned. No one that had walked with her remembered seeing her go, and no one in the town or the surrounding countryside had seen anyone of her description. There were suspicions of robbery and kidnapping bubbling up amongst the crowd, and it seemed to be the only subject anyone could speak of at the ball.
“Poor Brunhilde,” one elderly dowager said, fanning herself quietly as she stared off at the dancers with a frown. “And you, Gerhardt. Losing your wife and so soon after to lose your fiancée. How dreadful.”
The widower nodded, face pale as he clutched his drink with white knuckles.
Nachzehrer.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
“I do hope they find her soon, and unharmed. Though the way she carries herself, I have no doubt her father will soon be getting a ransom note. The poor dear. Poor, sweet Brunhilde. She would have made you a lovely wife. Not like that wretch you married, before. No way to speak of the dead, I know, but that woman was a monster. Terrible creature.”
He excused himself from the ball early that night.
Peasant girls vanished with little notice, though their families mourned in their own private way. He had arranged a secret rendezvous with the tavern owner’s girl, but she had never arrived. She did not come to the tavern the next day. Her father leveled the widower with an unpleasant stare the next several times he visited the tavern.
These were only the start. One by one, each and every woman he had made contact with, save for the servant girls trapped in the manor with him, began to vanish off the face of the earth. There was no outcry, no mess left behind—they simply disappeared, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them altogether. People stared at him, now, with the same heavy stare that his wife’s dangling corpse had leveled upon him when he had gone to cut her down from her final perch.
A hunter returned one day after being out later than expected, following the tracks of a gigantic boar. People continued to disappear: hunters, supply wagons, travelers—all vanished without a trace on the outskirts of town. The citizens met and discussed their options, then decided that this boar and the herd it no doubt traveled with was the cause of all their woe. Gerhardt felt a brief reprieve from the oppression of their stares; no longer was he the primary suspect, no longer was he silently accused of murder by each and every pair of eyes that met him in the streets. And, sometimes, they accused him of far worse.
They had no need to; he was tormented enough. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his wife’s eyes bulging from their hideous sockets, lips pulled back in a deathly grimace like a wild, horrible smile. Each time he saw her, it seemed, that smile grew wider and wider...
The hunting party never returned. Vanished.
He went home, resolved to lock himself in the manor. The old woman in the kitchens shook her head at him, and he felt a shiver run up and down his spine as he paused halfway up the stair.
Nachzehrer, she said with her eyes alone as silence hung between them. The mistress is coming home. God save us all.
The next day, he resolved to lay his paranoid concerns to rest. There was no such thing, he told himself, over and over in dizzying cycles of half-coherent thought; no such thing as the dead that rose again to consume the flesh of the living. He wandered to the outskirts of the town, hood drawn up high over his head as he wrapped his traveling cloak tightly around him. It was the dead of winter, now, and his breath escaped him in wisps of pale white smoke as he paused at the edge of the cemetery. The dead slept peacefully under their carved headstones. Further off, beyond the high wall, under brambles covered over with frost, was where the undesirables lay in their fitful slumber, howling for justice, for vengeance… for mercy.
He took his first tentative steps around the wall, creeping closer to the pile of disturbed dirt that marked the recently deceased—but it had been weeks. The dirt should not look so fresh, so—he shook his head, clearing the thoughts away. The dead do not rise to eat the living. The dead do not rise... The dead do not… do not…
There she was. His Adelinde, as beautiful as the day he had met her—but painfully pale, kissed by frost as she lay in the open hole in the earth with not even a casket for her bed. Gerhardt’s breath hitched in his throat, and he reached a shaking hand down to caress her frozen face—only to draw suddenly back when he realized that one of her eyes was open, staring at him, green emerald paled by death and brought to a blind, glassy sheen.
It had been weeks, his mind repeated, like the sudden clanging of alarum bells. Weeks. She was still so beautiful, so—but she was not beautiful when she had died. Her face had twisted, bloated, turned beet-red with the blood that had drowned her brain and forced her tongue out of her sweet, bow-lipped mouth. Her hands held one another, left thumb tucked into her right hand as she stared up one-eyed, unseeing, at the sky, the trees, the world entire—everything but him. She was so… beautiful.
As he gazed upon her, he found himself trembling with a sudden rage. Someone had disturbed his Adelinde in her final rest. Someone had jealously dug up her corpse, had—it was too horrible to think. He pulled himself away, groaning. Why had he accused his dear Adelinde, told the world stark falsehoods of her wickedness? She was a lamb of God, and nothing more. The most beautiful, the most beloved, innocent… no one could have her. No one could see her. Little by little, he began to push the dirt down into the hole with his bare hands, covering his dear, sweet Adelinde with the soft blanket of the earth as she stared blindly at him with that single pale eye. Before he covered her face, he could have sworn he saw her smile.
He washed the dirt from his hands, but he could not scrub her image from his mind.
The church bells rang in the dead of night, and Gerhardt pulled himself from his bed in quiet confusion. He lit a candle, squinting in the dim light as he saw other tiny flames burst to life in other windows all the way down the line of the main street of the town. The bells rang on—a slow, steady drone like a funerary dirge—and he pressed his face against the warped glass of his windows to try and get some idea of what was going on. Had someone died? Even so, they usually rang the bells in the day—never this late at night. Was there an emergency? He saw no one in the streets…
Then there came a loud, panicked knocking at his bedroom door. Annoyed, confused, exhausted from persistent nightmares that had dogged him for weeks, he moved to answer his midnight caller. The old woman from the kitchens stood before him, wringing her gnarled old hands as her nearly toothless mouth gaped wide.
“Nachzehrer,” she said, flinging her arms out to grab hold of her master’s satin nightshirt. “Nachzehrer. The mistress.”
Furious, eyes burning in the dim candlelight, Gerhardt grabbed the old woman’s hands with fierce strength.
“There is no such thing,” he bellowed. “Damn you and your superstitions! Adelinde is dead! She is dead, and no one will ever see her again! No one will gaze upon the roses of her cheeks, nor see the sun gleaming off the spun gold of her hair! She is dead and gone, and I have killed her, don’t you understand? It was because of me! Because of me, sweet Adelinde, light of my life is gone! And all is gone with her!”
He flung the old woman away from him as she opened her mouth to speak again, and watched, horrified, as she stumbled back—and tumbled like a rolling boulder down the stairwell. Her eyes seemed to watch him as she fell, her gaze an unspoken accusation filled with sorrow and hurt and—and something else. She fell on the steps with a final, horrible crunch, and he could faintly see from the moonlight flooding in through the great windows of the main hall that there was blood pooling on the fine wooden floors from her mouth and nose.
He shook his head as other servants opened their doors to see what had caused all the fuss, then quickly slammed his door when one of the servant girls screamed.
“No, no, no, no,” he hissed, raking his hands through thick black hair as he dashed to the window, staring out as the bells rang on, heralding death. “No. I didn’t… mean…”
“The old woman had it coming. Did she not?”
That voice.
He turned, slowly, and saw witch-green eyes staring at him from the darkest corner of the great bedroom he had once shared with his wife. A shadow stood there, strong and tall, fine of frame. He lifted the candle in trembling hands, saw the dirty red dress that his wife had loved so dearly.
“We all… have it coming. Weep not, fair Gerhardt.”
She stepped forward, and he saw her in the light—horribly pale, with the deep bruise that the rope had left behind forever imprinted on her delicate neck. His mouth moved, but no words came.
“Death comes to everyone,” she continued, her form seeming to shimmer and distort in the flickering light of the candle. “And we all… deserve it.”
He turned to look outside again. The streets were filled with corpses oozing blood, and the sky looked as if it burned red with hellfire. The candle fell from his hand, and its flames lazily licked at the heavy curtains, trying to grasp, to climb, to consume.
Adelinde was growing, twisting—he heard the sickly crackling of her bones, the wet sound of flesh twisting and tearing, the faint click of hooves as she set her hands down on the floor before her. A giant boar stared him down with witch-green eyes, standing where his wife had stood. A long tongue flicked out, snake-like, tasting the air, and his heart raced as he reeled back. He did not notice the flames creeping up his nightclothes, did not hear the desperate pounding at his door.
“Poor handsome Gerhardt. Your wife is such a boor,” the massive creature with too-long legs said, its emaciated frame drawing closer to him as he felt the first sharp pains of fire touching his flesh. He could not breathe. His chest tightened, seared with anguish, as his arms and legs went numb.
“And the way she eats! My goodness…”
The tusked jaws gaped open—and open, and open. Gerhardt stared into the mouth of hell until his eyes rolled back in his head, blood running from his nose. He breathed in acrid smoke as the room seemed to grow brighter. The mouth closed on his feet, and he could not scream. The teeth crunched through shin bones, through thigh bones—and he could not scream. His ribs cracked. That tongue wrapped around him, constricting, pulling—and soon there was nothing but hot, wet darkness.
Finally, Gerhardt screamed.
The noise resounded in the hollow echo-chamber of the creature’s gullet until, with sickening finality, the molars crushed his skull and silenced him forever.
The door burst open, and the servants rushed in—only to find an empty room, half-ablaze, with no trace of their master left behind. The city streets ran red with blood, and babes cried, freshly-orphaned, from their beds. As they clung to one another, slowly slinking out of the manor when the building began to burn with renewed vigor, the newly-widowed old man looked at the younger ones around him and whispered a single word: Nachzehrer.
They all nodded. They all knew.
Everyone that had heard the horrible ringing of the bells was dead—save for them. The Mistress had returned, and the Mistress had spared them all. The Mistress was good.
God save the Mistress.
God save them all.
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r.e.m.ember
genre: dream eater!au
group & member: NCT’s Ten
word count: ~3.2k
a/n: this right here lowkey for ten’s plus one @taeyxong
[dream I]
The key slowly turns in a clockwise fashion, his nimble fingers tucking the silver object back to its pocket in his jacket once the door creaks open. His footsteps echo in the long hallway despite walking on his bare feet, eyes narrowed against the white light that greets him once his entry is complete.
“Interesting.”
There is nothing around him, only the span white space that never seems to end. Not even another creature or imagination of a creature crosses his path as he makes a lap around the area, confirming that he had entered a most unusual space for the night. His body leans against what seems to be a wall or some other structure that can support his back, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the solid surface in thought. What to do, oh what to do.
“A dream without a dream,” Ten muses, reaching into the breast pocket of his black jacket and taking out a black ink pen, “Is nothing but an empty canvas left open to the imaginations of dreamers and their reality.”
—
“Back already?”
The door closes behind him and Ten sighs as he greets the gatekeeper at the Entry. “There was nothing, Johnny.”
“Nothing?” the tall figure echoes, frowning at the thought. “Was it just your door?”
“Perhaps. But I did get to draw in the white space, so that was fun.”
“You know you can’t eat what you draw.”
Ten laughs, a chime that rings off the gates that separate the doors and the dreamers. “I had fun regardless.”
“What’d you draw?”
“A tree,” he answers, closing his eyes as he recalls the image of inked leaves scattering down by his feet. “Some of the branches dangled low enough for me to touch with my fingertips and the whole thing glistened with silver pearls.” Reaching into the single pocket sewn at the left side of his garment, Ten beams at the black leaf nestled inside and hands it off to Johnny. “It was beautiful, Johnny. I only wish I was tall enough to reach one of the pearls.”
“Well, maybe someday,” his friend laughs, tucking the leaf behind his ear. “Thank you for the gift.”
“Good night.”
“Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.”
—
[reality I]
You wake rather alert on this fine Saturday morning, the needle of the hour hand on your clock barely past the 6th increment as you sit in bed. Last night had been peculiar, your dreams rather empty for once as you recall seeing a large span of white space. Just white space, nothing more and nothing less besides the omnipotence that was your unconscious roaming against the white walls. Corridor. Shapeless hollow, if you will.
“But there was…” Your eyes close and there it is, the flickering image of what looked like a tree rooted in the center of it all. A tree the color of black ink, with branches hanging low and dropping inked leaves all around the base as the top shimmered silver. You’d certainly never seen a tree like that before, especially not one that glowed with a platinum finish, and inspiration buzzed at your fingertips as you force yourself up and out of bed.
“Yes. Yes, it could work.”
You quickly brush your teeth and make yourself some toast for breakfast, slathering a healthy amount of strawberry jam onto the crisp bread and holding it in your mouth as you grab your paints from the shelf next to the fridge. A full set of watercolors and the small portable easel good enough to start with, you delicately hold the sweet toast in between your teeth as you head downstairs to the basement that served as your art studio. Placing down your colors and easel, you finish the rest of the toast in a few bites and roll your sleeves up, making sure to tie your hair into a bun for ease as you locate your battered sketchpad at the upper left of your worktable.
“Okay,” you mutter, flipping to a blank page and twirling one of your sketch pencils in between your fingers. “It was something like…” A few quick strokes make their mark on the page and you pause, eyes gleaming at the box of oil pastels next to the ruler and some lone markers that hadn’t made their way back into their original box.
“This will do.”
You fish the silver oil pastel out of its spot next to its darker gray companion and dot your sketch, the finished pencil-sketched tree sparkling with silver resemblance to the platinum finish you had seen in your dream.
“Metallica. I can work with that.”
Ripping out the sketch and setting it on the small easel you had brought down, you opened the lid to your watercolors and groan at forgetting to get a cup of water, having to make a second trip up at the unintentional blunder.
—
[dream II]
The early morning brings Ten to the Entry again, giving Johnny a friendly nod as the gatekeeper let him in, silver key already in hand as he approaches his designated door. Shabbier than most and not as nice-looking as some of the others here, it was still the door assigned to him when he first qualified as a dreamer and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he got a new key to unlock a new door. Not that he didn’t like his current door. Yesterday’s spectacle was unprecedented and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the white space and the dreamless dream.
The door clicks open and he steps in, twirling the silver key in his fingers as he enters the dream, pleasantly surprised to see the tree he had drawn yesterday as a greeting.
“Why, hello.” He tiptoes and plucks an inked leaf from the branch, blowing it to his left while the rest of the tree looms overhead. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Exchanging the key for his pen, he scribbles over the trunk of the tree and it melts, forming into a pool of rippling black ink despite the lack of movement within the liquid substance.
Or maybe…
Ten backs up when a hand abruptly reaches out from the surface of the ink pool, and without a second thought he grabs hold and begins to pull, eyes widened in surprise at seeing the figure wheezing by his feet.
—
[reality + dream]
You gulp in large breaths of air and shriek at seeing him. “Who are you?”
“Wild,” Ten murmurs, still staring at you until you manage to get yourself up. “This has never happened before.” He licks his lips in anticipation and you take a step back, the soles of your feet touching the pool of ink again.
“Oh.”
He extends a hand and you cautiously take it, letting yourself be pulled to safety as the pool begins to shrink until not even a droplet of water remains.
“Did you do that?”
Ten shakes his head. “This is your dream, not mine.”
“My dream,” you echo. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Anything here is within your control.”
“So I can make you disappear then?”
Ten snorts at the question. “No, you can’t.”
“But you said it’s my dream.”
“Yes, but there are still some things that operate out of your immediate control.” He takes out his black pen, uncapping it and pausing in thought before using it to draw a glass cube into view.
“I created this,” he begins. “Just because this is your dream doesn’t mean you can erase what I’ve made.”
You tap at the glass, surprised at the sturdiness underneath your fingertips. “This could be a good tank.”
Water starts to fill up the moment those words leave your mouth, churning into a rosy pink color.
“This is your dream,” Ten repeats. “You can’t take away what I’ve made, but you can certainly add to it if you’d like.”
“I want two fishes,” you begin excitedly. “Goldfish… no, maybe koi. I’ve always loved how pretty they are.”
Two koi fishes the color of mottled orange, white, and black appear in the glass tank soon after, their mouths a gaping ‘O’ shape as they make lazy laps around the confinement of their home. Small air bubbles rise to the surface, and you stare with renowned interest at the branch of flowers that hovers over the water’s edge.
“One for you,” Ten offers. “They like the flowers.”
You take the offered branch and hold it over the tank, a smile lighting up your face as the larger of the two koi swims up to your branch and begins to nibble at the budding blossom closest to the water.
“Cute.”
—
[reality II]
Having nodded off, the sensation of cold droplets on your skin bring you out of slumber and back to reality, the shout at black paint smeared across your thighs a sight for sore eyes. Somehow you had knocked over water into your paints—specifically the black inks—water mixing with the colored additive to form the dark river that was still spilling endlessly onto the floor of your studio.
“Fuck.”
Mopping it up with an old rag, you wring out the water in the old basin next to the water heater and leave it tossed inside, shifting your attention to the black smears on your skin. Being messy was a given in the realm of art, nothing to throw a fit over when you had to get your thoughts on canvas before Inspiration took them away again.
“But first,” you muse as you gaze returns to the water heater. “A trip to the pet store to look at some koi.”
—
[dream III]
“I met with my dreamer, Johnny.”
The gatekeeper scoffs. “There aren’t supposed to be any face-to-face interactions.”
Ten nods in acknowledgement but presses on. “It really happened. Creation blossoming at my fingertips and…” He licks his lips at the memory. “Delicious. It was the best tasting dream I’ve had in a long while.”
“Is your key defective?”
“You’re just jealous.” Ten pushes past Johnny and stops before his door. “See you later.”
“Mmm.”
Twisting the knob, Ten opens the door and steps into the passage leading into his dreamer’s dream, shivering at the nippy breeze that greets him once the door closes.
“That’s a first.”
Heavy rain is pouring by the time he steps into the dream, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as the wind picks up, almost howling in the backdrop of the falling water. Feeling his head getting soaked and droplets seeping in through his clothes, Ten reaches into his jacket pocket and draws an umbrella for himself, opening it and leaning against the walls of the dream. The rain doesn’t look like it’ll be stopping anytime soon, and hopefully it doesn’t continue this way when melancholy was the last thing he wanted after the excitement and delight at the dreams nights before.
He doesn’t know how long he fell asleep underneath the umbrella, only that his tongue was now ridden with the taste of frustration and sorrow. Nightmares were the worst dreams to sit through and the worst to eat.
—
[reality III]
You should have expected this after turning in your completed watercolor portraits of the silver tree and koi tank in your dreams.
Inspiration leaving as quickly as she came, your brain remained fuzzy as you tried to brainstorm another idea for the art contest your teacher had entered you in without your consent. It was made worse when the medium for the contest was charcoal, something you had little experience in when your area of expertise had always been watercolor. Sure, she had pulled you aside for supplementary sessions to practice working with it and you did fine with simple strokes and shading, but when it was time for you to use your creativity for your own piece… no. Your brain just does the thing where it shuts down at the thought of creating something new and the deadline was only one week away. Seven days to complete and submit a charcoal sketch that didn’t look like shit because you were better than that.
“I hateeeee this,” you groan, grabbing tufts of your hair in frustration. “I don’t even watercolor so how do I charcoal?”
The package of charcoal still unopened after buying them the craft store earlier this week, you finally reach for it and pull off the plastic packaging, staring at the black art tools with disdain in your eyes. Flipping open to a fresh page in your sketchbook, you take one of the charcoal sticks out of the case and make a diagonal line down the paper, building on top of it with consecutive lines and rubbing out the edges with a soft eraser.
“No no.” You tear the page out and scrunch it into a ball, tossing it to the side. “Not good.”
Two hours pass before you know it and the mountain of paper balls littered around the floor is a sight to behold, scrapped idea after scrapped idea mockingly making their presence known to the frustrated artist. You debate taking a quick nap to recharge, but lately you haven’t been sleeping very well, your dreams morphing into dark and dreary moods of rainy spells and loud noises that jolt you awake not long after closing your eyes. So different from the carefree exchanges from before with that curious—
“Maybe I’ll see him again,” you muse, falling face-first on the middle of your sketchbook. “Maybe he can help.”
—
[reality + dream]
You open your eyes to a spell of heavy rain, water droplets soaking you wet from head-to-toe until you remembered to pull the hood of your paint-splattered hoodie over your head. Walking quickly, you search for any sign of another life but all you see is darkness. The only things you hear are the steady pitter-pattering rain and your own footsteps as you continue onward. Your dreams have never been this dark before, and fear was beginning to gain hold of your frail wits until you spot the shadow of what looked to be a building three feet away. Eager at the hopes of meeting someone—anyone—underneath the roof in the rain, you pick up your feet and make a run for it, the smile on your face dissipating at the lack of presence besides your own.
“I thought he’d be here,” you grumble, taking a seat on the cool tiles of the pavilion and eyeing the candlesticks on each corner. “Wish there was warmth so I wouldn’t be freezing in this rain.”
“This is your dream, remember? Anything here is within your control.”
Each of the four corners light up with a newly lit candle flame and the figure from your dreams earlier waves awkwardly as he takes a seat across from you.
“It’s been raining a lot lately.”
“Ah, well…” You pick your words carefully. “An artist has her moments.”
“Are you working on something?”
You begin to tell him about your charcoal dilemma and he listens attentively, nodding every so often and tilting his head, the glint of his multiple ear piercings catching glimmers from the candle flame.
“Hey, I never got your name,” you speak up, staring at him curiously. “Or do you even have one?”
“Oh, I’ve got one. It’s Ten.”
“You have ten names?”
A burst of giggles and you duck your head in embarrassment after realizing your mistake.
“That was cute,” Ten laughs.
“Your face,” you begin, “It’s… artistic.”
“Really?”
“May I… Can I draw a picture of you?”
A sketchbook and pencil materialize onto your lap and he nods his head in permission before you begin. His features were easy to sketch, definitively recognizable even in pencil, and as you add the finishing touches his nose, the pencil sketch shows itself in your mind in potential charcoal. The shadings could be improved and there were lines that could be shorter and others blending into the neckline but… it had potential. Your contest entry was salvable.
“Thoughts?”
You hold up the pencil sketch of him and Ten’s eyes widen in delight. “That looks just like me!”
“I need to make this in charcoal, do you think this can be reproduced in charcoal?”
“I never doubted your artistic ability at all.”
The grin on your face spreads to each side of your cheeks. “Then I’ll bring this back so I can start immediately!”
“You’ve forgotten this is a dream,” he reminds you, chuckling as two of the candles become extinguished by the sudden breeze that blows in, no sound of the storm from earlier. “I’ll be pleasantly surprised if you can even remember any of this once you wake up.”
“But… it’s my dream. I’m quite good at remembering dreams.”
“Not if I eat it first.” Ten stares at you with a soft gaze and smiles. “I’m getting a new key, so I probably won’t ever meet you in your dreams again.”
“Eat,” you echo, thoroughly confused. “Key…?”
“Best of luck in your future endeavors and never stop believing in yourself, alright?”
“Wait, Ten… what are you—”
—
[reality IV]
You wake, cold sweat running down the back of your neck as you sit up. The charcoal sketch you had slept on now smudged, you touch at your face and grimace at the black stains on your fingertips.
“Oh shit!”
Your reflection exactly as you predicted, you turn on the tap by the crusty basin and wash off the smudges on your face. Staring at the cracked mirror above head, you close your eyes and try to remember the dream you had while you were asleep.
“Come on, come on.” Your nose scrunches in an attempt to speed up the recall process, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing definitively workable, at least.
“Okay,” you mutter, gritting your teeth. “Okay, fuck this, I’ll make use of these lines… darker here… lighter there… pencil and charcoal…”
❀
The envelope comes in the mailbox three months later, the association that had sponsored the art contest you participated in warmly informing you of your win and simultaneously giving you the location of the art museum that had your winning drawing on display. Not caring much for the trophy that you were supposed to pick up by the end of the week, you hurriedly get dressed into more appropriate clothes to wear out and arrive at the museum in approximately thirty minutes, inclined to tell the staff you deserved free admission to view your own work but paying proper fare for ticket entry anyway. You take a map from the information kiosk and locate the correct exhibit, taking the elevator three floors up until you hit the corner designated for the winners of the contest under the group that were the very ones who sponsored this very museum—fitting that they would place winning work in their own sponsored institution.
“That’s beautiful.”
You turn around, face paling at the sight of the young man staring at the charcoal drawing. His lean figure is an uncanny resemblance to the subject of your drawing, down to the sharp nose, angled jaw, long neck, and remaining limbs that hold up the rest of the lithe body.
“You look familiar,” you begin carefully. “But I can’t remember where I’ve seen your face before.”
He shrugs, grinning as he tilts his head curiously at you. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve met each other once upon a dream.”
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WEEKEND TV HOT FILM PICKS!
Check out my guide to the top films on TV this weekend, the best of the rest and what to avoid at all costs. Enjoy!
LATE FRIDAY 10th NOVEMBER
HOT PICKS!
Film4 @ 2100 Predestination (2014) ****
If you like your Sci-Fi clever, complex, thought provoking, packed with mystery and utterly rewarding at each and every turn then get this time travel, paradox filled beast of a underrated film on your watch list tonight. Hit record you’ll want to watch it again.
QUEST @ 2200 The Omen (1976) *****
The original Omen film is by far the best of the Omen films and quite underrated. Regardless of its age it still fills me with dread with its combination of iconic creepy music and the mysterious dead eyes of Damien. Its success lies in the unseen and the implied, a trait that horror movies of today seem to have forgotten with all the unnecessary gratuitous violence and gore that fill the majority of recent horror offerings.
The story follows a wealthy couple that have struggled for many years to have a child and after a successful pregnancy term they are faced with the stillbirth of their son. Robert Thorn fears for his wife’s sanity and he agrees, unbeknownst to his wife, to take a new-born child whose mother died in childbirth and pretend it is their own. As time goes by a host of mysterious accidents plague the family.
Gregory Peck, who has a lot to thank for the success of this film, plays Robert Thorn. He brought the film into mainstream audiences on its release due to his success and fame. That’s not to say his performance here is anything but great either. He drives the film forward and is a great choice for the main character. We follow Thorn as he begins to realise the terrifying truth about his “acquired” son.
The Omen is a fantastic supernatural thriller with some great scenes that horror movies of today can only hope of achieving.
Film4 @ 2300 Dredd (2012) ****
In a dark and dysfunctional future crime is at an all-time high and policed by Judges - these are judge, jury and executioner - dealing out swift and brutal justice to those flouting the law. Karl Urban plays our downturned mouthed hero - Judge Dredd - a seemingly heartless, brutal and ruthless Judge but one of the very best in the business. This is a great adaption of the comic series and with a great sense of pace, amazing visuals - namely the slow motion ultra-violent sprays of blood - and booming soundtrack this is an action movie to remember. Need a dose of Action in your weekend? Make way for Judge Dredd.
Best of the rest:
Film4 @ 1530 Ice Cold in Alex (1958) ****
ITV2 @ 2100 Knocked Up (2007) ***
Syfy @ 2100 In Time (2011) ***
TCM @ 2100 The Deer Hunter (1978) *****
Film4 @ 0050 Bound (1996) ****
Sony @ 0115 Donnie Brasco (1997) ****
***AVOID AT ALL COSTS!***
5* @ 2305 Need for Speed (2014) * AVOID AT ALL COSTS!
Officially my 94th favourite film released in 2014.
NOTE: I have seen 94 films released in 2014.
Car action trash - looking out of the window at the road for an hour will probably inspire more interest and fun.
SATURDAY 11th NOVEMBER
HOT PICKS!
Film4 @ 2310 30 Days of Night (2007) *****
This is one of my most watched Vampire films. David Slade’s 30 Days of Night is a fantastic comic book adaption. It’s a rewarding little vampire shocker set in some great locations with an effective use of colour and sound that sets a real creepy tone. It’s set in Barrow Alaska, the northernmost town in the United States. It’s the beginning of 30 days without sunlight and the towns remaining residents are about to be hunted down by a group of rather nasty vampires. The savage, brutal and ultra-violent gore in a few scenes really looks extra special against the eerie white snowy backdrop of Barrow. Look out for my favourite scene - the superb aerial flyby of the main street in the town where numerous vampires are causing carnage as blood sprays over the snow below in a variety of wicked and wonderful ways. This is a very worthy Vampire film with some of the quickest and most dangerous depictions of vampires you will ever see. There is certainly no sparkling here.
Sony @ 2315 Kick-Ass (2010) *****
A superb creation. Matthew Vaughn brings the previously little known comic book “Kick-Ass” to life on the big screen, and boy does he do a fantastic job. Kick-Ass follows the story of Dave Lizewski who’s had enough of the bullies and takes matters into his own hands - becoming the wet suit clad hero Kick-Ass. The story is detailed with some excellent links to a huge number of films and comics. We are introduced to a host of great characters each with interesting and well explored backgrounds. It’s immensely violent, insanely funny and gruesomely gory. The action sequences are elaborate, stunning and very impressive, especially the great scene in the warehouse. With a super-apt soundtrack and excellent pace keeps you interested every step of the way. Particular praise for Nicholas Cages “Big Daddy” who’s blatant nod to Adam West had me in stitches. In a genre full of pretty average Super Hero movies - Kick-Ass reigns supreme. Great stuff - watch it.
Horror @ 0040 Triangle (2009) ****
I’ve always been surprised this film didn’t get more attention. Written and Directed by Christopher Smith we see him really pull out all the stops with this far superior and more complicated story compared to his previous outing Severance. It really shows how he has grown as a film maker. This is a film very difficult to describe without giving too much away. What I can say is it’s a story of a group of 6 passengers on a yacht which capsizes when caught in a freak storm. They come across a large ocean liner and get on board. The Liner is deserted apart from a lone masked gunman… Here the story takes some very interesting turns.
What I will say is Triangle is full to the brim with twists and turns and an excellent performance from Melissa George. Triangle is really fascinating to watch and watch again. It pulls on good qualities from films like “Time Crimes” & “Memento” also with a couple of nods to “The Shining”. Overall this is a very satisfying film you will want to watch over and over and over again.
Best of the rest:
Syfy @ 1100 Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979) ***
TCM @ 1255 Singin' in the Rain (1952) *****
Syfy @ 1350 Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982) ****
Sony @ 1350 The Return of the Pink Panther (1975) ***
TCM @ 1500 The Cruel Sea (1953) ****
5* @ 1600 Labyrinth (1986) ****
Horror @ 2100 Dog Soldiers (2002) ****
TCM @ 2100 The Hurt Locker (2008) *****
Film4 @ 2100 The World's End (2013) ***
***AVOID AT ALL COSTS!***
C4 @ 2100 Terminator: Genisys (2015) * AVOID AT ALL COSTS!
My expectations were set really low but that just wasn't enough. This is truly an abomination. I'd rather watch T3.... and I'd rather be terminated in the most horrible of ways than watch T3 again. I'd like to slap Emilia Clarke and Old man Arnie in the face - gauntlet style - with an endoskeleton limited edition Terminator box set arm... I'm wholly disappointed - a stain on the franchise that's already on the edge of forever ruining the appreciation of the originals - and I’m now thoroughly angry just remembering it. Let's just pretend it isn't on. Deal? Deal.
I'll be back? No you better bloody not be.
SUNDAY 12th NOVEMBER
HOT PICKS!
C4 @ 1645 Men In Black (1997) *****
There’s no better way of celebrating Sunday than with an action packed Sci-Fi Comedy. Men in Black is exactly that. Unbeknownst to the general public a secret department of Men in Black police the goings on of aliens on earth. We are introduced to some great characters, particularly Tommy Lee Jones’ Agents K who offers Will Smith a job in the agency as Agent J. The two agents get caught up in an intergalactic terrorist plot that could destroy the Earth. Its comic book beginnings show through the direction and camera work of Barry Sonnerfeld to great effect. It is full of great CGI and special effects that were state of the art in 1997 and still hold up really well today. The script is well put together and there is some fabulous dialogue which further strengthens the relationships and chemistry between the two agents. It’s short but sweet at around 90 mins, perfect for a film that’s a bit of fun. It doesn’t take itself too seriously and so shouldn’t the audience. Mindless? Maybe - but it’s great action, comedy Sci-Fi escapism.
Syfy @ 0010 Akira (1988) *****
This is without a doubt one of the most revered animations in my film watching life. Akira blew me away on my first watch and made me want to get back deep into its luxurious and detailed world immediately as the credits rolled. It’s a completely extravagant eye-gasm of luscious animation and a brain bending futuristic story that will burrow deep into your soul. Super powers, Telekinesis, war, violence, disaster, horror… this is a one of a kind and at almost 30 years old it still has an interesting, complicated yet current story to tell. So complex it is sometimes confusing – so I look forward to challenging myself once again with this awesome animation experience. I just hope it’s not dubbed – it’s always bloody dubbed.
Best of the rest:
TCM @ 0705 Singin' in the Rain (1952) *****
TCM @ 0905 The Cruel Sea (1953) ****
Film4 @ 1630 Hugo (2011) ***
TCM @ 2100 The Dirty Dozen (1967) ****
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If you’re the kind of person who reaches for Pocky before KitKats, you’re going to want to mark Anime Festival Orlando (AFO) on your 2018 calendar with a pair of sparkling bishojo eyes. The yin to Florida Anime Experience’s yang, AFO is a sugoi, Akihabara-esque, just-according-to-keikaku sort-of-Con. And, yes, senpai will notice you before the weekend is over—especially if you plan to march through the autograph lines.
I certainly did. I may have squeed inside (just a little) when Barbara Dunkelman traced her gorgeous signature over top of my Team RWBY poster, bringing it one step closer to completion (three down, one to go!)… but I’ll get to special guest meet-and-greets in a second.
With seventeen years of experience under its Hidden Leaf-emblazoned headband, AFO 2017 continues to summon Orlando’s otaku to the metaphorical dojo.
The Scoop:
What – A multi-day celebration of all things related to Japanese animation and pop culture held at the Wyndham Orlando Resort.
When
Friday, June 9th (1:00AM –2:00AM) Saturday, June 10th (9:00AM – 2:00AM) Sunday, June 11th (10:00AM – 6:00PM)
Where – Wyndham Orlando Resort International Drive
Who – Einlee, Barbara Dunkelman, Arryn Zech, Kazha, Josh Keaton, Katrina Devine, Robert Axelrod, Sana, Caitlin Glass, Melody Perkins, and Reuben Langdon
Price – $35-$45 (single-day), $70 (weekend), $100 (weekend Gold Pass)
Perks – Tales of Orlandia/Warriors of Orlandia Interactive Game, Cosplay and Costume Contest, Haunted Dance and After Party, fan events and panels, Gameshow Theater, tabletop gaming, Anime Viewing Room, and much more!
Each year, without fail, I’m convinced that AFO is under the spell of some serious time-freeze magic. The Dealer’s Room sets up in the same space, the artist ally curves into the same familiar “U” shape, and the autograph queue forms the same line across the same double-doored back entrance. Walking into AFO is like walking into an anime store once a year, where all is left arranged exactly as it was 365 ½ days ago, and you are left with the comforting feeling that there is order amidst the chaos of your life—that for all the shifting and churning of time, this one thing remains constant.
That’s a bit dramatic, but AFO’s solidarity of structure grants it an organizational consistency that many small Cons lack. AFO doesn’t always bring new things to the table, but its repetition is also its strength. First-timers who have a titan-sized blast at AFO are sure to become annual attendees. Perhaps the only real deterrent is AFO’s price tag, which rivals the cost of a single-day ticket at Floridian giant, Megacon. To get the most “yippee!” for your yen, it’s prudent to purchase the discounted weekend pass or stake down your (much cheaper) pre-purchased ticket months in advance—a commitment that AFO regulars will gladly make into a habit.
While AFO is a three-day weekend event, I was only able to attend Friday (because adulting is hard). Characteristically, day one made for a less populated, roomier experience, with the narrow halls never quite becoming clogged, despite long lines. One of the advantages of a press pass is getting to skip the ticket queue for the ticket counter. This year, AFO delivered my custom-printed, fully-prepared press badge with a promptness I’ve never before experienced from the venue.
Breaking from con-ventional (ha!) standards, Barbara Dunkelman (Yang) and Arryn Zech (Blake) of RWBY fame set up shop inside the Dealer’s Room, rather than the designated autograph area. Regardless of the reasoning, the accessible positioning seemed to state: “We want to hang out with you, guys!” Rooster Teeth prides itself in its down-to-earth transparency toward fans, and no doubt Dunkelman drew on her experience as its community manager for the occasion. The open-floor format encouraged walk-by waves and call-over chats with RWBY’s leading ladies, though photos and autographs cost a reasonable penny.
A few years back, it was considerably uncommon for anime actors and actresses to charge for autographs, though that’s changed to a default $20-$30 in recent times. This marks the first year in my experiences with AFO that I had to pay for every autograph I obtained. That’s not an unreasonable request, nor would I object to providing people I respect and appreciate their due. However, the in-addition-to-entry autograph fees are important to note, particularly for fans attending specifically for those once-in-a-lifetime meet-and-greets.
The most in-demand of those meet-and-greets on Friday was, by far, Caitlin Glass, whose autograph queue filled most of the special guest’s room, and I can see why. After I pointed out Matthew Mercer’s “Levi” autograph on my giant Attack on Titan wallscroll, Caitlin enthusiastically sketched an “x Petra” underneath and signed it with her trademark scrawling signature, complete with angel wings and a halo. Her resume of popular anime roles is rivaled only by her awareness of fanon.
AFO’s own awareness of fandom seems to be expanding, too, most prevalently in its special guest lineup. AFO’s previous anime VA-exclusive list of Vic Mignogna’s and Stephanie Sheh’s has branched into other otaku genres—live action Japanese-influenced franchises like Power Rangers and almost-anime series like RWBY. Kazuha Oda, lead singer of J-Rock band, Kazha, took a tip from Rooster Teeth’s approach and walked the Con floor in a pair of black wings, advertising her evening concert and posing for photos with fans. To my disappointment, character designer, Einlee, did not attend Friday’s event, so I was unable to meet her in person.
Many adjectives compete to describe AFO 2017 in my mind, but “relaxing” might be the most suiting. Friday was an utterly stress-free experience, and not just because of the lower attendance rate. It’s clear to me that AFO recognized and took advantage of what they had control over, while downplaying what they didn’t.
The bar area and outdoors were completely open to cosplayers without exception, though most preferred to stay inside and escape the Florida heat. Sparse checkpoints kept the event from venturing too close to the uncanny valley of “legal supervision.” In fact, the artist’s alley was completely accessible to non-pass-holders—perhaps an unprofitable move for AFO, but certainly a profitable one for the artists (and that’s clearly who the Con aimed to prioritize). Coolers dispensed cold water throughout the Dealer’s Room, which helped offset the occasionally stifling body heat therein, and a massage room offered to knead the stress out of any tired muscles.
It’s clear that AFO has rooted itself deep in the Wyndham Orlando Resort. Rather than expanding itself to bigger concourses, it focuses on expanding within—providing more for fans to photograph, enjoy, and squee about. True, AFO has always embraced a bit of the Western pop culture scene, what with artists selling prints of Superman alongside Goku, but as AFO itself moves toward the blurry line between anime and almost-anime in its marketing, it’s beginning to experience a Renaissance as a Con culture. In doing so, it’s sending a powerful message–one that many fans have given up hope of ever getting from larger Con venues: “We hear you.”
Though its umbrella of fandoms continues to expand, AFO’s kokoro still goes doki doki for anime. Any doubts I had about that were swept away as I headed for the exit, snatching up a complimentary Attack on Titan Season 2 poster and catching an assortment of shonen heroes playing a game of musical chairs to the tune of a rip-roaring OP.
AFO is a multi-day celebration of all things related to Japanese animation and pop culture held at the Wyndham Orlando Resort.
Visit the AFO Official Website
Join the AFO Facebook Community
Photography by Amy Covel
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Anime Festival Orlando (AFO) 2017 – Friday If you’re the kind of person who reaches for Pocky before KitKats, you’re going to want to mark Anime Festival Orlando (AFO) on your 2018 calendar with a pair of sparkling…
#afo#AFO 2017#anime#Anime Festival Orlando 2017#Arryn Zech#Barbara Dunkelman#Caitlin Glass#cosplay#Einlee#Josh Keaton#Katrina Devine#Kazha#Melody Perkins#orlando#Reuben Langdon#Robert Axelrod#RWBY#Sana#Wyndham Orlando Resort
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