#its been a decade since I drew art like this it feels odd

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 28: Death

“ B A D E N D”

TW // Blood

TW // Suicide

[bosskie]

3 Years of Molluck: Art 'n' the Journey

Man, it's time to 'celebrate' me drawing this Gluk for 3 years since I have barely drawn anything else than him since then... So, this is gonna be a huge post where I have bundled the most of my Molluck stuff (2021-2024) and tell ya about my Molluck (art) journey.

I started sharing my Molluck content first on Twitter but then, I moved to here since this was more fitting home for my 'Molluck love headquarters'. I have pretty much abandoned every social media but Tumblr. Right now, it just feels like I have found the right place to be but also myself. I mean, it feels like I have finally found out what actually interests me and what feels like me, so Oddworld made me find home.

I have known Oddworld for... Well, at least known about its existence for a decade or something, seen gameplay of AO and AE for multiple times, but I actually got into it only in Janurary (?) 2021 when, for some odd reason, I wanted to watch all those cutscenes from AO, AE and MO. Those cutscenes made me fall in love with Oddworld! Even I'm quite a new fan still, it's my favourite game series! It just hit me... I just love the dark humour, that darkness in general, the brutality but also that silly humour (yes, I laugh at farts)! I can understand why Lorne never really liked the fart tho' but man, I cannot let it be... I really need to draw my silly comic idea of Molluck farting... Got some proper comic paper for it; just perfect waste of paper! (Never used that paper, even it's like over a decade old pad...)

But yeah, for this reason, I got no nostalgia for the series but I got into it 'just in time', before the release of SoulStorm on the same year. So, I had time to play the previous games before playing SS, though I have never finished Stranger's Wrath... Must be the lack of Glukkons... But I'll try to continue it one day! So, from the ones I have finished, my top3 is: Abe's Exoddus, Abe's Oddysee, and SoulStorm. I have finished them all at least 3 times.

Since the beginning, Gluks and Sligs have been my favourite Oddworld species, but yes, Glukkons are my beloveds! First, I actually drew just my own Glukkons, probably because I didn't really have any favourite Gluk first, just loved them in general, but Molluck was the first 'official' Gluk I ever drew since I had started to love him. It happened after watching all those SoulStorm cutscenes; I started to see myself in him and only after that he got my attention, noticed his special appearance too. So, it wasn't love at the first sight but after I got into him, saw his personality; I just felt like he is me as a Glukkon. Man, he has felt like the love of my life and still does!

But my first ever Oddworld piece was this Abe:

Yeah, just some random Abe I felt like drawing since I got quite into Oddworld stuff! But yes, getting into Oddworld was also like starting from a new table for me since I wanted to abandon my old stuff for multiple reasons. I just wish to let that past be and focus on the present. Like I said, it just feels like I have finally found home, thanks to Oddworld! I have heard so often that I'm 'odd', so I indeed belong to there! Molluck has just made me finally comfortable with who I am and helped me to find myself. No one else has felt so right as him. Therefore I believe that I'll have lots of years with Molluck in the future!

But yes, it's time for Molluck art! I drew my first Molluck exactly 3 years ago:

I swear, I didn't draw this badly back then... You know when you just have some kind of 'skill drops' when your skills just get worse for some reason. I just had no idea how to draw him, so I ended up drawing quite horrible Molluck stuff first... But after a few months, I already started to get a lot better at drawing him. My way to draw Molluck was quite experiemental for a long time and kinda still is... I still have no idea what my style is but some randomly stylized realism... I have never even liked my own style to draw, no matter if the others liked it. Maybe it's just like food: it's better when someone else does it!

I didn't repost all my Molluck art here, just with some criteria since I have drawn Molluck so much... You can also already find on my blog almost every Molluck I have drawn, so nothing new here really but maybe two lil things. I bet that next time, when I do a post like this, I'll only post my top favourites since yeah, I do draw Molluck a lot... Cannot still draw him too much!

So yeah, welcome to my life Molluck art journey:

2021

2022

2023

[Less stuff due to worse mental health and exhaustion.]

2024

Yeah, this was like my Molluck art journey in a nutshell! I feel like redrawing some of these, at least as sketches, not really because the original looked bad but because I just love the idea I drew! There are also some WIPs I still wish to work on and finish... But maybe after I feel like doing digital paintings again. I'm just kinda tired of drawing with the mouse... Yes, all my digital stuff is done with a computer mouse; it's actually restricting me but don't feel like investing in digital art supplies, at least right now... I haven't even liked using a drawing tablet nor a touch screen, so it's what makes me hesitate... I also just enjoy doing traditional art stuff in general. The main reason why I did mainly digital stuff before was my self-hatred because I thought that I just draw some trash and therefore would waste the art supplies... Yeah, it wasn't about preference, just mental health issues... Though digital art has its advantages I miss while doing traditional stuff... So, I do still like doing digital stuff for those reasons.

Heck, what a difference:

Frankly, I feel like this year, I have finally managed to start drawing Molluck like I have wished to be able to or at least close to that since I still feel like I have a lot to learn... I more like feel like I have gotten my older skills back than actually gotten better... I mean, I haven't really improved that much. Even I have pretty much zero desire to post my old stuff, I wanna give you an example of what I mean:

This is actually a WIP still but I did it 6 years ago. Never really done any proper car drawing/painting before but I like old cars, so had to paint one! Yeah, I actually wish to draw more vehicles... I don't wonder why I actually enjoyed drawing Molluck's blimp. Gotta draw a proper 'GlukMobile' for Molluck, I guess!

I'm not here to boast, just sharing my journey, and that it can happen that one's skills kinda get worse for some reason but it doesn't mean that they are gone. I more like wish to inspire people! Like, frankly, there's one specific (SoulStorm) Molluck fan art I saw like 3 years ago, posted by OWI, that really made me wanna push harder to improve my Molluck art. I really wanted to draw Molluck like that person, it was so amazing, and still is! Just gotta give some credit to that piece, at last; it's been such a big inspiration for me! Though, I still cannot see Molluck's sinister spirit there, like OWI describes the piece... I must function somehow differently since I have never really found Molluck intimidating, no matter which Molluck it is... Oh, and I don't really wish OWI to share my Molluck stuff... I don't feel like it's good enough for such, yet... I don't really enjoy (too much) attention either. Those are also reasons why I didn't send anything to their fan art celebration thing they held recently. I'm still kinda curious to know what they would think about my doings... It was like a miracle I even felt like taking a part in that SoulStorm tattoo competition since I don't enjoy competitions, just wanna do my stuff in peace.

I still don't know how 'perfect' my way to draw Molluck is, but like I have said, I'm finally starting to feel like I draw him somewhat like I have wanted since I started drawing him. I just feel like I could still draw him better, and better... But thru telling you this, I only wish to encourage you! There has been people who have said that they wish to have my skills/talent and I have been in that same position with my Molluck stuff, wishing being able to draw like someone else. It only made me push harder, though yes, it has also made me feel like my stuff looks like crap, but I don't wish it to look like that, so gotta just keep drawing! Art is pain, got even a deep scar from making it, but I do still love creating stuff; enjoying my own results is a different story though... Like, I seriously thought that my entry to that SoulStorm tattoo competition (that realistic piece of Molluck and his Slig from 2022) looks bad and almost deleted it after submitting it, but I won... I still don't know how to really handle it...

But honestly, I never thought that someone would ever look at my stuff and think that they wish to have my talent... It's such a big compliment... I feel speechless when I think about it, especially when I'm a someone who has literally taken all his own stuff away multiple times because he has hated his own creations, saw them as mere trash... One side of me is still saying that 'What talent? Please, wish to have someone better's talent...' or 'Oh, you want it? I can give it since I'm only wasting it!' since I don't personally feel talented (and I suffer from self-hatred), even I have heard so long that I'm a multi-talent, been even called a genius... I don't know what's the reality with this... Welp, I just wanna focus on creating my Molluck crap stuff in the best way possible! I still got so much Molluck stuff to do... But I still hope that I could see the talent the others see me having... Maybe it's just too close to me, literally being me, so I just cannot see it... Or maybe I can see it but wanna deny it... I really don't know what to think of my stuff; sometimes I only see it as just some trash, feel throwing them away, and sometimes I'm even able to like my stuff but that I loved my art... Nope, just cannot say it, mostly because I don't love myself either, but I'm trying my best to learn it. I only love my subject, Molluck.

I'm sorry but I just can be honest about how I feel about my stuff... I do not wanna create any idealized picture. Also, I have suffered from self-hatred for over a decade, so I'm sick 'n' tired of it... It just makes we wanna be brutally honest. I know how it can affect people but I just cannot hide my actual feelings, I'm so exhausted... Molluck also just relates so much to my mental health, like he is keeping me together... Man, I don't know in what kind of dark 'n' deep pit I would be right now without him... That Gluk just means so much to me... I don't really wish to post my self-insert stuff because it's my personal stuff but here's one old WIP I could show, especially when I really wish I could hug Molluck right now...

Yes, there was a version of this without me earlier and it's not the only self-insert thing I posted without myself. Some of them are also cropped NSFW stuff... Sometimes, it kinda feels sad when I succeed to draw Molluck well but then, it's something I don't wish to show... Yeah, could have more stuff to show but eh, I keeping them to myself, at least for now. I already confessed that the only Molluck animations, in 2D 'n' in 3D, I have done are NSFW... I wish to do ones I can actually post...

But yes, I'm sorry but I'm not the one 'contribuiting' the rule 34, even I do create NSFW stuff about Molluck, like I have said... But I could make his 'OnlyChumps' account, like I have seen some people joking about, but it would cost an arm and leg; Molluck ain't cheap! Just joking but, yeah it's just my own self-insert stuff and it would be odd to let people kinda come to 'our bedroom'... Also yeah, I know that Molluck is asexual for a natural reason but maybe he could still enjoy it since for me, it is about sharing and giving love. I just wish to give love to his beautiful body! Frankly, I feel like I'm kinda in a minority when it comes to loving his body like it is... Like I have said earlier, haven't seen anyone like me with this, especially when it comes the way I 'want' him... I have just mainly seen people laughing at his body... Welp, maybe I just got odd taste but he is literally the most beautiful creature I know and drives me crazy... Just no one else has made me feel like this... There was always a feeling like something isn't right but not with Molluck. I only just feel so good with him! Oh, and I'm not talking about real living people here, never had such a relationship.

Oh, and yeah, I have forgotten to say that when I think about my self-insert relationship with Molluck, I feel equal with him, even though yes, he got the moolah, owns the stuff ect... But we could own the stuff together too. The thing is just that there is no boss in our relationship; there are compromises. I just feel true love toward him. I tend to think that he kinda loses his 'boss-self' with me, meaning that he can be vulnerable, show his soft side, and feel free with me. Though yes, he does still have his dominant side but at the same time, he can be submissive and vulnerable, so this is complicated to explain... But yeah, the thing is that we both prefer to be dominant, so it creates a certain dynamic to our relationship. I have also just read that some people who are in a dominant positition, like a leader, like to swap the role in private, so it has inspired me. There is still no need to really explain this stuff but just saying that I have built a complex and deep relationship with Molluck.

It took me some time to build this relationship with Molluck and figure out how I prefer/like him to be, in many ways. But I have always just seen that there's a sweet side of him, even it's barely visible, but he just feels friendly... I don't know if it's just me being like the opposite, again, but he just doesn't give me that 'sinister vibe' I often hear people saying... So yeah, my way to see him is kinda soft but just because he did make me have this image. I have tried to find all the information about Molluck but there ain't much still, so I have done my own part to fill the gaps and try to make this all make sense. I also do feel like he is actually softer now since he is different in New 'n' Tasty than he was in Abe's Oddysee; he doesn't even laugh with the other Gluks anymore when he revealed his Mudokon Pops plan! He just seemed to be happy about that the other Gluks liked his plan. I just bet that it was actually like his last hope to save his business since he did invent the other products first, like his own cigar brand and that Molluck's MouthLube... But I just bet that he did his best but his fate was unfortunate... His Mudokon Pops plan might have been like his last hope, him being desperate. I just love this Gluk so much that I feel genuinely sad for him... I don't wanna pity him and I bet that he doesn't want it either but he just has my sympathy and I don't wish him to get killed... I still laugh at that AO's good ending like every time I see it since I just love that Abe's disgust and shock when he sees naked Molluck! It's really the funniest Oddworld cutscene for me, even at the same time I feel bad for Molluck...

This cutscene is the best reason to play the good ending in AO. (Y) Man, we don't even see Molluck's suit burn in NnT! I mean, it's really a worse version of this, Abe doesn't even sound disgusted there... I have also said this earlier but in NnT, Molluck's voice is awful... Just way too much pitch shift... AO one had more personality there too, and SS Molluck feels more like that AO Molluck still. I love the both Mollucks! Oh, and I would also say that I'm glad that they added a bit pitch shift to SS Molluck's final voice... I heard the trailer one later on and man, it just made me laugh! Though, when he breathes, that pitch shift sounds too artificial... When I have done my Molluck dubs, I also add a bit pitch shift to make it sound more accurate since it's a part of his voice in SS. It's just funny to me that I can imitate him quite accurately... But it's useful too since I can 'make' him say whatever I want for whatever I wanna do! I can say that I use it like every day to entertain myself... Mostly just saying silly things or quoting him...

When I create my Molluck content, I do wish to respect him, handle him with care, even I can also kinda make fun of him... I see that his personality has different shades, like that he can be an angry, bossy jerk but also such a sweet Gluk. He still cannot do much with his body but he is able to give affection, love, and pleasure, even if in a limited way. Yeah, since I did say it out loud back then, him being 'the receiver' only makes sense to me too... I mean, his body ain't really meant for physical acts... But maybe it's just my own preference and the way I see him... I love his body like it is, even it kinda happens that I make him somehow a bit more muscular... It's not my intention but well, I bet that it's not a bad thing. He does still have his arms and... Well, his mouth... Just saying that he is able to do some physical stuff with them!

This already a long ass post but since I mentioned some stuff, I feel like saying that I know some fan stories about humans being in Oddworld and I know that some people don't like humans being therem, so it's a controversial topic. But my reason to imagine myself being in Oddworld is just that I wish to be with Molluck, looking like I do IRL. I have invented my own story like how we ended up together but it's kinda still in development, especially when I just cannot really think of a single reason why anyone would start to love me or get interested in me and so on... Like, I just recently started to feel alright with that if I was an artist in Oddworld and Molluck was one of my customers and something just 'clicked' between us, but he would have also really loved the way I drew/painted/sculpted him, wishing me to be his personal artist. I had another story earlier, mostly because I just couldn't imagine myself doing art in Oddworld due to my self-hatred... That ad I drew recently just inspired me to think about this new version of the story. This version would just make much more sense but I don't really care about thinking of how I ended up in Oddworld in the first place, it's not really important. I only care about my time with Molluck!

Oh, and yes, I don't mind being his 'partner in crime' either! Love is... well, blind since I just feel like I love this Gluk, no matter what he has done. It doesn't give me anything special 'kicks', more like just see that his personality has different sides, and he is a part of the Magog Cartel, so he kinda must act that way. He has grown in that environment, got the Gluk narrative of the things, thinks that he is doing the right things. I understand him and wish to be kind to him since I just feel like there somewhere he is actually a sweet Gluk. I don't know how alone I'm with this but SoulStorm Molluck just gives me 'friendly vibes'... I bet that the fact I see myself in him affects a lot the way I see him. It's just that I associate myself the most with the Gluks... I would be a Glukkon if I was an Oddworld character! (I should redesign my Gluk-sona...) Well, Lorne also associates himself with the Gluks the most, so, heh, I'm not alone with this. Dunno if it's a good thing but Gluks have just won my heart, despite of all the crap they do... Maybe they are just way too adorable to me... Glukkons literally made me be into octopuses too! Oh, and related to this I haven't actually ever really had Molluck as my wallpaper/background... Dunno if it's a surprise but just felt like using the default stuff or octopuses... Though, I found from the files of Steam version of Abe's Oddysee some desktop icons, like the best possible trash can icon, being RuptureFarms meat barrel! Just had to use it after I discovered it by accident. So, if you got that, check out the game files! There's quite interesting sound effects too... Yeah, good stuff! (Fun fact: I got 7 copies of AO... 4 physical and 3 digital. Maybe it's my fave after all, not sure honestly... Maybe it's just my love for Molluck...)

Man, it's time to end this post... I still feel like I have only gotten started with my Molluck stuff. There is still so much to create, so many styles to explore, just so much to do! I don't even really feel like I have a certain style... It feels like I always draw somehow differently... Like, just look how varied my Molluck stuff looks! Welp, life is too short to use only one style! Just joking, I just wish to see Molluck in different styles and put him in different situations! I'm actually quite used to draw with different styles... I personally feel like I got nothing that makes people think that 'Oh, it's drawn by Bosskie/Riki!' if there was no signature nor maybe even Molluck...

I have no idea what kind of style I wish to exactly have, I just draw something in a way I feel like drawing it. I mainly do realism because it's something 'easy'... Just draw what you see and that's it. Though, I do enjoy different drawing styles, like photorealism but also cartoony style, so why only choose one? But like I have said earlier, I have never liked my cartoony style, even the others have... Though, I also like to mix different styles together, so yeah, my way to do art is kinda a mess... Don't really know what I'm doing... But that I'm trying to picture Molluck! But one style I have wished to achieve for years is to draw in a photorealistic way but like it has a filter on it, so stylized realism or something. Can't help that the style I admire the most do is realism...

I cannot really say what I think of my own art but that I feel like I don't really draw well... Just have so much to improve here and there but at least now I do draw actively, after a long time! It's just that whenever I look at how the others draw, I tend to feel I draw worse stuff... But it only makes me push myself harder, maybe even too hard, to improve my stuff, though sometimes, I also feel like I should stop doing art since my stuff just sucks... Well, I only wish to create more Molluck content, no matter how crappy it was. It's just the truth that I tend to feel depressed when I look at my stuff... I often find it that bad... They are rare moments when I can actually say I liked something I drew. This is pretty muchly the reason why I'm also drawing Molluck so much: I'm not often pleased with the result but I just love drawing Molluck. I'm sorry but I could mop the floors with my self-esteem, it's just quite low... Still trying to build it and stay positive, even I can easily think quite harsh things about myself...

Whoa, if you made this far, I really wanna thank you for your time! I hope that my stuff is enjoyable, despite of my mental health issues!

~ Much love to ya! 💛

[spartanguard]

even death won’t part us now (2/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | AO3 | 3.9k words

A/N: I was going to post this update yesterday but *life*. We really get into the story, though—I hope you enjoy it! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl​ for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair​ for her amazing art; and to @kmomof4​ and @cssns​ for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

say what you will about Glee, but Darren Criss’s version of this song is amazing

part two— the air is humming, and something great is coming...

2020

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was not rent-controlled. 

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more What We Do In The Shadows than Twilight.

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went. 

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight. 

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing). 

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?” 

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side. 

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing. 

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what. 

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order). 

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver. 

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious. 

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing Hamilton.”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again. 

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long. 

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right. 

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.” 

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot.  

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat. 

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609​ @xpumpkindumplingx​ @shipsxahoy​ @amortentia-on-the-rocks​ @mryddinwilt​ @cocohook38​ @annytecture​ @shireness-says​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @distant-rose​ @wellhellotragic​ @welllpthisishappening​ @let-it-raines​ @pirateherokillian​ @bleebug​ @its-imperator-furiosa​ @fergus80​ @killianmesmalls​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @ineffablecolors​ @laschatzi​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​ @nfbagelperson​ @stubblesandwich​​ @lenfaz​ @phiralovesloki​ @athenascarlet​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​ @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook​ @lfh1226-linda​

[unholyhelbig]

The Vampires Familiar

Read Both Posted Chapters on AO3 

Title: The Vampires Familiar

Ship: Lizzie Saltzman/Hope Mikaelson 

Hope Mikaelson took three even gulps of the shop's air and tasted magic. Old magic that burned the back of her throat and nipped at her lungs until she felt like they were on fire. The odd odor of rosemary and chamomile clung to her clothes. The herbs were stacked in even and dusty jars against the far-right shelves like candles in a store. They had no lids, and separately everything was harmless. But she feared what could be created when combined.

She listened as the bell chimed with her entrance to the small business at the edge of the French Quarter. It was narrow and long instead of large and wide, posters for an upcoming circus littered the walls and a few sheets of paper advertising summer babysitting had the bottoms crudely ripped off, number smeared in black ink.

When she was younger, Hope used to enjoy taking trips to magic shops with her Aunt Freya, the jazz scene in New Orleans had just sparked a flame and different melodies, melancholy and otherwise, flowed through the city like air. They would find herbs and boil them up and fix things that had been broken for a long time.

That strength was felt the moment she walked through the door of Conrad Drew’s, Jade at her heels dutifully. There was soft gold light and the building shielded them from the sounds of the city, the bustle of parties, and iron wheels of cars.

Drew was an old man now, still holding himself correct behind the glass-paned counter with his fingers leaving little smudges. His hair was graying and his body fell rigid with fear when he glanced up, smile fading. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.” Was all he said.

“Don’t worry, we won’t stay long,” Hope responded, walking across the wood floor until she reached the desk. “I just have a few questions.”

“Take them somewhere else, plenty of magic shops in town.”  

Conrad Drew was a resolute man, once young and vibrant and strong in his words. He had held the shop under his thumb for the better part of a decade, before that, it was his fathers, and his before that. Hope met him when he was twenty, simple, and able to down liquor as if it were pure water. He had aged, and so had she.

“Oh come on, I thought we were friends.” Hope cooed, letting the glass cool her fingertips. The heat left small crescents close to the service. They dissolved as quickly as they appeared. “Besides, it isn’t up for much discussion.”

He clenched his teeth and thinned his expression into a tight one. His leathery skin was glossy under the low light of the magic shop and his lungs growled like a lion pacing it’s iron cage, shoes kicking around sour hay.

Jade picked up the nearest book, dust pulling from the pages. “Don’t touch that. What do you want?”

Though the words were directed towards the curious vampire, he never moved his ghostly stare from Hope. Her fingers twitched and he noticed entirely all too quickly. Hope Mikaelson had a temper like stained glass, just like her father. Intricate and beautiful but shatter prone.

“There’s been an unusual spike in magic lately. It’s buzzing around us even as we speak, Mr. Drew, I can feel it.” She was soft with her words but still moved her fingertips against her bare arms until they left little white lines from the pressure. “You can too.”

“It’s a magical city, girl. Of course, you can feel it.”

“This is different. This is darker- an uprising of sorts. And I want to trust that I’m not foolish enough for believing in the loyalty of your witches.” Hope leaned forward and the scent of old magic was replaced with cheap cologne and sweat, primal fear that Conrad Drew didn’t show well. “Am I foolish?”

The French Quarter witches had been rooted in New Orleans for centuries before they branched out into different covens. Hope had an unmovable fist around the throat of each of them- and that stemmed from the control of the company Conrad liked to keep. The ninth ward kept to themselves, kept their magic in check.

“If there’s strange magic it’s not from us. We’re not naive enough to practice right where your castle stands.”

Hope couldn’t’ tell if that eased her worry at all, or the strange electric feeling that danced across her skin in a dangerous tango. But she believed him, even in his annoyance and bubbling anger at her for crossing the boundaries they had drawn a long time ago.

He let out a sigh and pulled a yellowed jar from the shelf behind him, Hope couldn’t read the label, mottled with age. “You should try the Garden District.”

“The Garden District?” Jade had long ago abandoned her book, “Those hippie freaks don’t have it in them. Don’t they worship their regent like a God?”

“They’re unconventional, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can discount them.” He said.

Jade shrugged her shoulders dejectedly and wandered over to the far wall. She squinted at the contents in the mason jars, careful to shove her fingers in her pockets like she was in an art museum, gazing at pictures expertly painted, gold plaques carved with the words DON’T TOUCH.

Hope had no such worry about the witches that dressed in white to get closer to the pure source of magic. They had been holed up in a large house on the west side of town since she herself was a child; her father let them be, let them simmer, and practice what they wanted with the respect and patience of a noble man. So she had done the same.

“Was that all, Miss Mikaelson?”

It had been. The early evening was bleeding into a desolate night filled with the sound of crickets and the wet summer air that made her want to peel her own skin off. An expertly crafted wooden sign indicated that the magic shop was closing its own doors and Hope was never one to linger after hours when a place lacked good liquor.

The door with the little bell and the burgundy paint flung open with enough force to crack the double-plated glass that protected it. Jade drew in a sharp breath and Hope felt the defensive bit of energy strike against her fingertips akin to a match.

A girl crashed to her knees and winced as they stung tearing against the aged wood. She was drenched in the pungent smell of sweat mixed with swamp water and mud, it left an even ring against the midsection of a pure white dress, something that had once been spotless but was now torn with the scent of blood and moss.

Hope exhaled because she decided that it was better than the opposite, perfectly content with the heir of magic instead of muck. This girl was captivating and a near stranger. Her blonde hair was stained similarly with mud and tears streaked down her cheeks. Eyes so pale they were almost gray. Mud darkened behind her nails and blood soaked close to her collar, not from a bite, but a tear, a simple slice in her skin that looked all too intentional.

Conrad moved across the shop wordlessly and flipped the large iron lock against the door “What in God’s name-“  

“I need help,” She girl gulped out, her voice was broken, pained from screaming. “There are people after me and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“A hospital?” Jade suggested, blinking at the scene.

“No, no I couldn’t. That can’t help me not against them.”

Hope hesitated “Who did this to you?”

The girl’s breath slowed, no longer a jagged pant but something loose and unstable. She hugged herself close, still sitting against the floor and dripping mud that would be nearly impossible to scrub away. “I took something important from a group of witches. It was for the greater good, I swear it, but they don’t’ see it like that. They have a tracking spell on me and I figured— fuck if anyone was strong enough to counter it with a cloaking spell it would be”

“Me,” Conrad finished the sentence. “Whatever it is, I’ll need more power than I have. It was half-witted to show up here. One man can’t take down an entire coven.”

“What about yours?” She searched desperately.

“They’re indisposed. You can’t hide here, girl. I’m sorry, it’s not my fight.”

Hope rolled her eyes, staring the sad excuse for a regent down. He liked to protect his people, and the tribrid could admit to her own motives as well. But watching the girl, so small and unsure of herself, it pulled at her. Pulled at her the same way that it did with Jade in the 1800s and countless others that shared her disposition. She blamed her mother for her soft side.

“Have some pity, Drew. Where would the world be if we didn’t take mercy on anyone?”

“A hell of a lot safer, your daddy knew that.”

She ignored the comment and the mention of her father. Flames licked at her skin, and an acid taste pressed against the back of her throat but she swallowed it down, kneeling in front of the scared witch, so pulled into herself that she barely noticed another presence until now. Her beaten stare flashed in recognition, and fear, and something else entirely that Hope couldn’t read.

She whispered, soft “Now, I think you and I can make a deal.”

“I’ve heard stories about you.” The stranger swallowed the dirty taste on her tongue “I think I’d rather risk my luck in the quarter. I don’t need your protection.”

Hope gave a wolfish grin, fighting back a bitter laugh. Even now, even crouched low coated in every kind of grime that the Louisiana swamps had to offer, she refused her. It made an odd bout of pride swell in Hope’s chest because the stories had lived on and so had her presence in this town seeping with the history of her family.

“You took something from a bloodletting frenzy of homicidal witches. Like hell, you need my protection.”

The girl gulped in the same air that Hope had when she first entered the small shop. She stared at her supposed savior, at Conrad Drew, and a stranger leaning close enough to the shelves to clear them entirely. She felt the hot floor against her knees and tasted the waters of the swamp she had waded through, and though it was slight, she could pick up on the magic of a woman entirely too patient to compete with the fairytales.

She conceded “What kind of deal?”

[jpat82]

Knives

@silverhart93 requested 17.

17.) pretty little blade you got there.

Silverhart93

You stood in your dirty raggedy apartment, it wasn’t that you felt it was filthy, it was more the fact no matter how much you cleaned it it never looked clean. There were burns in the carpet, the walls were smoke stained and the five coats of white paint just couldn’t hide it, the color always bled back through. The cracked tiles in the kitchen and the dented fridge, it wasn’t like you had company to worry about how it looked.

You hung pictures to cover the holes caused by previous tenants, and you tossed a pretty rug over the worse stains on the carpet. You had made your best to personalize your space, the china hutch that was your late grandfathers held your knife collection. Each blade had a different story, each as unique as the weapon itself. Some of them were his, ones he had collected while traveling the world while in the service, none having ever had been used in battle but each from the opposing side.

You grabbed a few of them, one thing you did, and did well, was knife throwing. The owner of the building let you have a large room in the basement that was adjoined to the gym. Well, what was supposed to be a gym. There was a few barbells, scuffed up and laying haphazardly in the corner, and a stationary bike from what had to have been the eighties was tucked against a wall. It was rail thin, the metal lost its luster long ago and the only wheel, in the front, was slightly dented.

Cracked and discolored mirrors, floor to ceiling, hung on two of the four walls. The ceiling itself was yellowed and bare fluorescent tubes hung over head casting the room in an odd yellow glow. It reminded you of movie gyms from the seventies or eighties, pathetic and depressing. It was always the one the hero would work in, trying to be the best he could be until his big break. The underdog gym, that was what you called it your head.

However, the only action the gym ever saw, that you knew of at least, was when you walked through it to get to the side room. It was quiet, and still, just as always. It always surprised you to see there was never a spec of dust in the gym but who knows maybe some body came down and used it.

You unlocked and pushed the side door open, listening as it creaked in protest. You leaned in and flipped the switch on the side of the wall, the hum of the lights over heard started as they flickered on dousing the room in a bright white. It was one of the few additions you added since you started coming down here. You set you bag down to the side, allowing your jacket to slide off your shoulders. You walked over to the sound system, and put your iPhone in the dock, allowing it to charge and the speakers crackled before music began to pour out.

Slowly you walked back to your bag, grabbed five of your knives out and setting them on the table that was placed in the corner. You fished out the straps you created to hold them to your body. Quickly you fastened one to your bicep, another to your hip and one on each thigh.

Turning you look over at the mangled up foam body that was hung from the ceiling. Amble slits in the wall behind it proved that you had been practicing. It took a while, seemed like years before you actually landed a blade into the mock human shape. There were days where you had almost given up, but you remember what your grandfather had said, it took him a decade before he could throw them properly.

You pulled the knife from you bicep, tossing it lightly in front of your body, eyes focused on the dummy that just hung there. You cleared your mind as the music flooded the room, you caught the knife by the handle as you allowed your body to relax. You tossed it up again and caught it, pinching the steel blade between the tips of your fingers. The cold silver gleamed lightly, before you drew back and sent it hurtling through the air into the body.

~~~

Bucky walked down the cement stairs, the smell of of damp musty paint filled his senses. The yellow light from the gym spilled out into the cramped stair case as he neared the bottomed. He raised an eyebrow and slowed down. To his knowledge nobody ever came down here, he was the only one that used the miserable space that the land lord called a gym.

Sure, he could go to the state of the art one that Tony had but there was something calming about this one. There wasn’t much equipment, but he really didn’t need that, he just needed the room to move. Push ups, sit ups, mock fighting that’s all he really needed the space for. In fact that’s why he had pushed the bit of equipment to the side.

Quietly Bucky peered around the door way, his body on high alert, looking for any sign of danger. Logically he knew there wasn’t anything to worry about, but years- decades of training made him that way. He looked in and through the mirror he saw the only other door, the one that was always locked, was open slightly, music spilling out.

Bucky took a step into the gym, and tentatively walked closer. When he looked in he didn’t expect to see a woman in there.

Her hair was pulled back out of her face, she was in a sports bra and loose sweet pants. The skin on her shoulders were potched by lighter and darker skin tones, a light sheen of sweat covered her as she pulled a knife from her hip and toss it up, catching it by the blade and throwing it forcefully into the practice dummy that was covered in thin holes.

She pulled another one out from her thigh, flick her wrist, spinning the weapon before launching it across the room. The corner of Bucky’s mouth pulled back as he watched her in disbelief, slowly crossing his arms as he leaned against the door frame. She was definitely something to behold, the way the muscles in her arms coiled with each precise movement she took.

~~~

You pulled out the last one, your favorite. The knife didn’t look like anything special, the hilt was pure black, carvings adorned it, tigers and dragons. In Japanese characters was written, Fumeiyo no mae ni shi, meaning death before dishonor. It was the last one your grandfather obtained before he came and stayed home. It was given to him as a gift after he rescued a family in japan.

“Pretty little blade you got there.” A deep voice rose over the music startling you. You turned with the knife drawn and silver sparkled in the lights as you were suddenly disarmed if your weapon.

You were pressed against the wall in an instant, confusion and panic written all over your face as bright blue eyes looked down upon you. Slowly the man backed away, hands raised, your knife in his silver hand. Silver hand? What the hell?

“Sorry, old habits die hard. I’m bucky.” He said, as he flipped the knife in his hand, handing it back to you hilt first. “Beautiful knives by the way.”

“Y/n.” You replied, taking the weapon warily. “I thought I was alone.”

You walked over and grabbed your jacket and pulled it back on covering your skin. You eyed him as you walked over to the dummy and pulled your knives out.

“I use the gym nightly and I saw the door open, I honestly didn’t mean to scare you.” He explained, bringing his normal arm up and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ve never seen you down here, though I usually come down here earlier. And thank you, the knives were my grandfathers.” You replied calmly, feeling a bit safer while holding them. “These are just a couple I have more in my apartment.”

“Really? You have a knife collection as well, I thought I might of been the only odd ball in this apartment building.” He chuckled.

“No, you’re not the only one with a knife collection, odd ball we will have to wait and see about.” You winked as you put your knives into your bag and pulling the strap up on your arm.

“Maybe you can show me your collection sometime? I’m more then happy to show me my knives.” He smiled as you walked towards him.

“How about coffee first.” You winked as you brushed past him.

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Bucky Tag-

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[fullsunhyuckie]

we grow up!

*here’s to mark’s graduation from dream! you’ve done well, mark.

slice of life!au

in which a group of strangers go for an adventure of a lifetime.

disclaimer: i know mark graduated yesterday but i wrote this story a long time ago and i feel like there isn’t a better time than now for me to post this. so here goes my tears :,) 

day0:

at 19, mark was unsure of his future.

it never crossed mark’s mind that the age, twenty, would come so early but boy was he wrong. it was as if it was only yesterday he just learnt how to chew gum.

mark was intending to go on a road trip for five days right before he officially becomes an adult. but you see, the downside of being a hardworking individual is that you simply have no friends. that’s how mark came up with the idea to invite 6 other teenagers around his age to follow him. he went to the local cafe right opposite his block. it was the place where teenagers often hang out.

there he met 6 other teens who were different yet he could connect with them easily. renjun, an 18 year old aspiring artist who left his hometown to pursue his dreams. he’s small but he can hit a bitch if he needs to. jeno, an 18 year old cheerful soul who will do anything to ensure that everyone is happy. he says he is no fun but he can turn on his funny button if he needs to. haechan, an 18 year old devilish boy who should’ve been born in the 80s. he picks on others but he sure is full of love. jaemin, a loveable 18 year old boy who could flirt for a living. he may seem a little odd with all the flirting but he’s the most loyal friend you can ever come across. chenle, a 17 year old loud loud child who is absolutely talented. he screams a lot but he definitely has a beautiful voice. and lastly, jisung, a 16 year old dancer who is insanely talented. he’s young but he is taller than you. a fact.

“let’s go on a road trip.” and that’s how their journey began.

day1:

mark thought this was a stupid idea. he was the only one who could drive so how was he supposed to fully experience his adventure. whatever it was, he still continued on. it’s not like he could find group of 6 other willing boys.

he borrowed his brother’s, johnny, red suv and drove right off. there was no plan, nothing. just 7 boys in a red suv ready to experience life together. it started off awkward. none of them talked. even haechan, the supposed moodmaker, was silent throughout the whole journey. there was just nothing they could talk about, they didnt know each other at all.

even as they reached the first pitstop, they were silent. probably just constant gag sounds from renjun because he disliked awkward situations. i mean it’s not like mark could do anything, he was driving. while they were having a cup of hot chocolate (weirdly enough, all of them ordered the same thing), mark blurted out a question about why they decided to follow him. they all had the same exact answer (well not exactly but you get it) and that is because they all have a dream,,,,,and then the awkward silence returned.

they all willingly agreed to pitch a tent and have a camp by the sea, the moment they arrived. well, at least it wasnt so awkward when they were asleep.

day2:

the next morning they drove off to have brunch. on the way to the diner, famous for their pancakes, haechan boosted his stereo to michael jackson’s bad and surprisingly all of them enjoyed it. they had more similarities than they thought they would. as they reached the diner, the mood was lighter than ever. it was as if sleeping together made them bond well. again, all of them ordered rather similarly. jaemin suggested they played a prank on the waitress to add a little spice to their morning. jisung decided that they should play a game and the loser has to sing the menu to the waitress.

as expected, renjun lost and he was forced to do the prank. he came up to her and before he could say anything the waitress said, “with voices as loud as you boys, you think i wouldnt know what you’re about to do? save yourself the embarrassment.” with that all of them ran out, leaving a red cheeked renjun standing in the middle of the diner. remember when i said renjun could hit a bitch if he wanted to? well this is what i meant. none of the boys left without a bruise. especially chenle who could not stop laughing.

they decided once again to stop by a park to take in fresh air. mark decided they should get to know one another even better. thats how they ended up playing a game of two truths and one lie. there were stupid lies and horribly dumb truths that came up and one that got mark thinking whether growing up was something he wanted. during haechan’s turn, he explained that his truth was that he was afraid of not having anywhere to go after being an adult. they all left what haechan said aside because truth be told none of them knew for themselves either.

they carried on playing other games and having dinner at the same diner because let’s be real, renjun’s pride comes after a good meal. but throughout the whole time, all of them started getting afraid of the horrors of their adulthood. even for jisung who still has 4 years left till his coming of age.

day3:

now, the third day was the most awful. they felt raw this day. but we’ll get to that. it has only been 2 days but the boys felt as though they had been friends for decades. or rather decade, none of them are twenty as of now.

jaemin and jeno went to the nearby convenience store to get breakfast for the boys. for the whole day they decided to just sit around and talk. and so they did. thats the reason why they felt raw.

mark sat without sharing anything. he was terrified. he was afraid that if anyone knew about it they would mock him and his innocent dream.

renjun began first. he talked about how he thinks that his dream is dumb. it has been 4 years since he came to korea and not once has he gotten an offer to further his art studies. whats the point he thought? anything he drew would never be approved as beautiful enough. and it sucks because when he showed his artwork, mark thought that it was a masterpiece. to him it doesnt matter how beautiful the piece was, it was the story behind it that counts. and that came mark’s first lesson, that nothing in life is ever fair.

jeno went on to talk about how he had no goal. nothing at all. for him, his dream is to live a life with no regrets. thats why he’s not pushing to do anything to stress himself out. he’s just gonna go with the flow. after graduating from his high school barely passing, he feels as though it doesnt matter. jeno believes that he’ll get somewhere one day. after all he’s still a teenager he’s got enough time to think about these things. but for now, he’ll just live in the moment. and that was mark’s second lesson, to live and let loose.

haechan was next. he had a dream to be a singer. and god that boy could sing. but for haechan he felt insecure. no matter how many people came up to him to tell him he was talented, he just cant accept that. that’s probably why he hides it with all the snarky remarks and the over the top compliments for himself. he never felt that he was good enough. but mark feels bad because haechan doesnt deserve to feel that way. haechan was full of love and he couldnt understand why he couldnt give himself any. this made him learn his third lesson, that only you can bring happiness to yourself.

and then there’s jaemin. mark cant help but feel sympathetic for him. jaemin was a dancer, a really good one (from the videos jaemin showed). but the thing is he cant dance anymore. at all. he got into an accident and now he isnt allowed to dance anymore. but the weird thing is that it didnt stop him from being content with life. for he feels that everything happens for a reason. and mark looks up to jaemin because he never fails to put on a smile knowing that his dream of being a dancer is near impossible for him to achieve. that’s how mark learnt to smile even if failure comes.

well for chenle, he had already achieved his dream. well partially. he is currently a trainee singer at a well known agency in korea. as a child, chenle was a music prodigy in china. he went on talent shows and clinched first place in almost every one of them. it was as if chenle’s future had already been written for him to be a singer. but he never used his past to get a boost for an opportunity in the industry. he worked incredibly hard to get into the agency and never once did he take his place for granted. mark learnt from him that its important to stay humble.

and lastly, jisung, the dancing king. mark was amazed by how insanely talented this boy was. it was no wonder he became a famous child dancer, known all over korea. anywhere jisung went people would recognise him and mob him for his autograph or a picture. but as mark sees how jisung acts when he’s with those his age, he realises that jisung is in fact just a kid and he’s just trying to enjoy life as normal teenager. its a pity for jisung because he devoted his whole youth to dancing, and now even when he looks back, his childhood was all just a blur. he complains that if there was one regret he had, it was not living each day to its fullest. that was mark’s last lesson. to seize every moment.

by the end of it all, they were all starting to doze off. and before they knew it , they fell asleep. except mark because he cant help but wonder what will happen to these boys once they part. and in that same moment he thinks, thank god i met these people.

day4:

the next day they woke up in the late afternoon. all of them felt exhausted after spilling almost everything about themselves.

the moment mark woke up he felt awful. there were only two days left till he becomes an adult and that thought scared him to his wits. he began sobbing softly and the boys came running to him. mark explained.

mark was afraid of having a future at all. everytime he tried, he failed. mark wanted to be a rapper. wanted. because there were so many competitions that he attended and he failed. so many people told him that he’ll fail because as a rapper, there’s no future for him.

mark shared that his parents were supportive of him so that wasnt a problem. but you see he didnt want to burden his parents. he knew if he pursued this dream it would take a lot of money and none would be gained back. now mark’s left, all goal-less because he knows if he tried, he’ll fail for sure.

so that’s how mark ended up here in seoul. because he needed a breather. his parents advised that if he doesnt know what to do he should just enter college. thats a sure success because a degree can get you any job you need. but mark was sure it wont bring him happiness because he knows that he doesnt want to go to university, it’s just not him. mark felt empty as though no one understood him, until now of course.

as the 7 dreamers sat under the night sky they thought to themselves. the adults always say you need to plan for your future, you need to know what you want to do. but they never help you. they’d just leave you to figure things out by yourself.

the adults never tell us how hard the process of growing up is. they never prepare us for it. its like going into a battlefield without weapons. no matter how loud you shout or plead for them to aid you. its useless because now they’ll pull out the “it’s your life. it’s your decision” card. but if you fail, its all on you. and if you succeed then suddenly, the family’s the one who paid for the fees and give you moral support and all that jazz.

so that made them awfully afraid because they knew that one day they’ll be doing something and that they’ll get somewhere. but what if they arent happy? what if they’re miserable?

day5:

it was the last day. the 7 of them drove back. the whole drive home was silent. they knew that it’ll be the last time they would see each other. mark will be leaving. he didnt intend to grow so close with the boys but he did and now he hates it. his heart is heavy to leave them but he has to. he understands that people come and go. thats just the cycle. unknown to mark, this is part of growing up. he has to accept that, nothing in life is constant, no matter how hard it is.

as they reached the same coffee house, you could see how all their eyes turned crystal. but their egos are high, so fret not cause they’ll not cry. except renjun and haechan, they cried. hard.

all mark did was put a smile on his face and he said “yo dream. promise me you’ll remember me, alright. we’ll see each other soon.”

and with that he left. and never turned back. because he knew if he did, he wont be able to say goodbye.

day6 (the day mark turned 20) :

now, mark’s 20.

at 20, mark’s still unsure of his future. but he knows that all he wants for now, is to be happy.

-Z

[fred-frederator-studios]

Arlen Schumer: The Frederator Interview  

Arlen Schumer is the designer and illustrator of our Frederator Fredbot, the robot that’s inspired so many variations.

You read that right.

We all hear so much from fans about our “red robot” that I thought the time was right for Arlen to design something for us again, 20 some-odd years after his first.

So here it is! The 2019 Frederator New Year’s poster. (You can see some of the poster’s development work here.)

Arlen’s not only a fantastic artist/designer, but he’s a prolific pop culture historian with some great books and essays to his name, and a thriving lecture series on some of the famous (and even more unsung heroes) of comic book art.

How did Arlen Schumer come to Frederator? And how did Arlen come to art, specifically, comic book art? As you can read below, he and I have known each other and worked together for several years, even pre-Frederator.

All this and more, in the first Frederator interview of 2019.

Hi Arlen. When did you start drawing? 

I grew up in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, a great place in the early-mid ‘60s, with equal parts bucolic American suburbia and small-town Rockwellian, pop culture ambiance—everything from an uber-Jewish deli like Petak’s to Plaza Toy & Stationery, which had a classic 20th Century soda fountain: it was there, after school, that I read all the comic books of my youth while drinking chocolate egg creams (with a pretzel log, natch). And because Fair Lawn, like all of New Jersey, was in the shadow of New York City, I grew up on all that pop culture through television, not just the 3 networks but the 3 local stations that showed everything from the old Universal monster movies to The Little Rascals to The Three Stooges to the George Reeves Superman TV series.

One of those local TV shows, a children’s show called Diver Dan, which was filmed in black & white to look like it took place underwater—the actor, in a deep-sea diver’s suit (with a helmet that never revealed his face, so he was like a superhero), walked slowly like he was underwater, surrounded by pop fish hanging by wires—triggered my interest in drawing, as I watched my brother draw him first, and copied him. I’ve been drawing ever since!

What was the first comic you fell in love with?

Giant Superman Annual #7 (Summer ’63): Not only is its cover the hands-down greatest of all the great multiple-panel Superman Annual covers that Superman Artist of the Baby Boom Generation (and my first favorite artist) Curt Swan drew in the ‘60s—not only does it feature perhaps the greatest single Superman figure ever rendered by Swan (in pencil; head of DC coloring Jack Adler did the hand-painted grey wash tones over it) or any Superman artist, before or since—but it is the first comic book cover I can recall ever seeing, when I was five years old, in summer camp that year. What an image to come into the wonderful world of comics by!

What was your first professional job as an artist?

My summer job between freshman and sophomore years at art school (Rhode Island School of Design), creating black & white line illustrations for a t-shirt silkscreening company in Fair Lawn.

I know that you count Neal Adams as a primary mentor? Were there any others?

Neal Adams was one of two Gods of Comic Book Art in the late-‘60s: the other was Jim Steranko, who was described as the Jimi Hendrix of comics, because Steranko’s career was as meteoric in its rise, and as short-lived. Though Steranko didn’t die in ’70 like Hendrix, that’s when he left Marvel Comics after less than 4 years of explosive and experimental works—and, like Hendrix, his impact on both the art form and its audience was in converse proportion to the relatively small amount of work he turned out. In particular, Steranko’s design sense and typographic talents were a tremendous influence on my choosing to major in Graphic Design at RISD.

It was sometime in my junior year there that I must’ve written Steranko a fanboy letter, gushing about those very things—and much to my shock and surprise, he wrote me back, inviting me to come see him in his home/studio in Reading, PA! So I took a bus from Providence, RI to Reading, and spent the day with Steranko—except I barely remember a thing about it! Why? Because I think I was having a Dr. Strange-like ectoplasmic out-of-body experience the whole time I was with him—I, a fan, spending quality time with one of the Twin Gods of Comics!!!

He wanted me to leave RISD and begin working with him as his apprentice! I couldn’t believe what he was offering me; I remember the bus ride back to Providence in a daze, feeling the utter cliché come to life of my future like the road in front of me: I could either stay on the main highway of getting my college degree, or take that exit ramp and join the circus! What do you think I did?

I stayed in school and got my diploma a year later. Had it been freshman year, maybe I would have left; but not when I was a year away from matriculating—not to mention honoring my mom’s sacrifice of putting me through school financially. But I’ve remained in touch with Steranko ever since, and feel both fortunate and unique, that I am the only fanboy who grew up to not only work for one of the Twin Gods of Comics (I ended up working for Neal Adams 3 years after I graduated from RISD), but almost worked for the other, too!

And then, Fred, there was—YOU! You were one of the first great professionals I met/interviewed with after I graduated from RISD and moved to New York City, when you were still at Warner-Amex having just created the MTV always-changing logo [actually it was Manhattan Design; I was the company creative director]. You impressed me as someone who was “real,” who didn’t hide behind a phony “professional” mask. We stayed in touch after that, and you gave me my first real breakout illustration job when I went solo as a freelancer a few years later, designing and illustrating an animated 30-second spot for a radio station, working with Colossal Pictures in LA (who later became Pixar)—and a NY metro-area billboard to go along with it!

Since then, we’ve done a bunch of great things together, up to and including this Frederator poster! And I’ve watched you wade through your own career waters as a multi-dimensional leading man, wearing so many different hats over the years—the decades—which has inspired me to cultivate my own Renaissance Man attributes. I’ve always described you to others as a mensch, the ultimate New York pro who’s got a great big beautiful heart an d soul to match his creative mind. If I could ever be described that way one day, I would consider that to be the highest compliment I could ever receive!

How about the mentors that you never met?

My father died when I was only four months old; my mother raised my older brother (by a year and a half) and I herself. Neither of my grandfathers was alive, and, though I had a handful of uncles, I would only see them a few times a year at family gatherings. So I had to find surrogate father figures elsewhere—and I found them in the American Pop Culture I grew up with in the’60s, in roughly this chronological order: Sean Connery’s James Bond, my first idealized masculine role model (the first movie I ever recall seeing, when I was around four-five years old, was Dr. No, the first Connery Bond, at a drive-in theater); Twilight Zone’s Rod Serling, a pop prophet of moral righteousness in the vast television wasteland, looking cool as all get-out in those incredibly tight TZ introductions—all of my artworks based on the series can be seen as my ways of honoring Serling’s legacy as a son would honor his father’s; and the superheroes in comic books, first and foremost Superman and Batman (the Yin-Yang of the genre), pseudo-paternally teaching me right from wrong, good from evil, and standing up and fighting for one’s beliefs. These are the things I suppose sons learn from the fathers, as well as their religious and academic authority figures. But “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Comic Books”!

You've published a few pop culture histories, and given countless lectures on various great, neglected figures. What got you started as an historian?

I don’t know how any artist in any genre or medium, if they truly love their work, cannot also be equally-interested in the history of that art form. When Keith Richards plays any of his classic Rolling Stones licks, he knows which black bluesman he nicked it from; filmmakers like Spielberg and Scorsese know the history of film like they know their own films. And the history of comics is as rich in artistic triumphs (and personal tragedies) as the histories of the other major 20th Century art/entertainments: film, television, popular music and rock and roll.

When I was a senior at RISD, for my degree project, I toyed with designing an exhibit of comic book art, and when I went looking for a theme, the only subject that seemed both worthwhile of my passion for the material and deep enough for the demands of the assignment was one based on the comics I grew up with in the 1960s, and the artists who drew them, the twin founts from which I drew the inspiration to become an artist. Though I never did that exhibit (I ended up doing a giant autobiographical photo-comic instead), I kept the ideas and images that I gathered, in the hopes that one day I’d use them in some other form. Many of those 1979 layouts are the same ones I’ve used in my book published in 2003, The Silver Age of Comic Book Art; its introduction, in which I place the images and ideas encountered throughout the book in a socio-political, historical framework, is composed of essentially the identical concepts from my aborted exhibit idea.

The idea to do a book instead on this period of comic book history goes back even further, to 1970, when Jim Steranko, on the heels of his amazing barnstorming stint at Marvel Comics, wrote, designed and published the first of his twin-volume History of Comics, which remain the best books of their kind, and were—and continue to be—a source of inspiration. Except they were about The Golden Age of Comics (circa 1938-1950), the period Steranko grew up with and was affected by, not The Silver Age of Comics (circa 1956-1972) that I, and the entire Baby Boom Generation, was turned on to.

Steranko himself might have been inspired by the first great book about comic book history, Jules Feiffer’s 1965 The Great Comic Book Heroes, even though it’s more of a handful of wonderfully written, witty essays on specific Golden Age superheroes Feiffer followed avidly as a boy, accompanied by reprints of the origins or earliest adventures of those heroes. Feiffer may not have realized what it was like to be an 8-year old comic book fan in 1966 and hear that there was actually a book in the Fair Lawn public library about comics!

How did you come to design the Fredbot?

When you asked me to come up with my take on the classic Japanese-influenced sci-fi trope of the giant-monster-attacks-the-tiny-people back in 1997 for your first Frederator brand image—but make it a robot, and make it look like you [I don’t remember this last part], to boot—I immediately thought of the animated robot Gigantor, one of the first Japanese anime to reach American shores in the wake of the Batman TV series in 1966. Once I started drawing my version of Big G, it was a no-brainer to add the distinctive Seibert horned-rim eyeglasses, topped by the equally-distinctive Seibert eyebrows, and voila! Fredbot!

OK, I know you love Bruce Springsteen. How come?

I believe there are Four Pillars of Rock & Roll, in roughly chronological order: Elvis, Dylan, the Beatles, and Jimi Hendrix, representing the greatest voice, lyrics, band, and guitar; hence, The Four Pillars.

Like Elvis, Bruce is a singular, dynamic presence with a commanding vocal power; his lyrics and songs have stood the test of time and made him the only one of the many “new Dylans” to actually live up to the label, living a true, real rock & roll life while writing it down, The Great American Novel but on records, great American songs chronicling not only his life and career, but that of the postwar generation that has come of age with him, timeless anthems like “Born To Run,” “Thunder Road” and “Born in the USA,” just to mention three of his greatest hits; with The E Street Band, Bruce captured the sheer joy, enthusiasm and positive energy of the early Beatles; and, like Hendrix and any of the other guitar gods—Clapton, Page, Van Halen, The Edge—Bruce has played searing, soulful, melodic leads with the best of them.

But Bruce isn’t one of those rock & roll pillars—he’s the rock & roll roof built over them, the complete rock & roller, putting it all together as no one has before. Bruce Springsteen is, quite simply, the promise of rock & roll...delivered.

His uncompromising and unparalleled creativity, body of work, attitude, and performance and work ethic have been an inspiration to me since I first heard the song “Born to Run” over a tinny AM car radio when I was 17 years old in the summer of ’75. Especially when I lecture, I employ what I call the “Springsteen Performing Style,” which is to give your 110% all to your audience, whether it’s 10 people or 10,000 people.

Bruce is also a bonafide moral leader for our age, doing what a true leader should be doing: living his life by example, and using it to inspire and exhort others to do the same.

He is the true President of the United States.

Thanks for the interview Arlen. And of course, thanks for the Fredbot! Happy New Year!

[deathbanchou]

⚡️ What is your best drawing?

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY || accepting!

      “…Best drawing?”

   He sounds surprised and quickly falls pensive, caught off guard by the question – something he honestly has never been asked before. It wasn’t that his art hobby was a secret, really, but neither was it a widespread known fact about the former Boss. Not these days it wasn’t, very unlike it had been in his past. He used to carry around his art supplies proudly, even despite the mockery it sometimes garnered his way. Then… what had happened? Why was he no longer as open about his talent, the one thing he once loved so very dearly? It was only recently that he was able to – though perhaps not answer the question – at least speculate about it. Why his dream had changed.

   “Oh, it’s… actually something pretty recent.” Though his heavy makeup somewhat obstructs such subtle change in expression, his bashfulness still shines through. Like embarrassed or hesitant to go on. Perhaps it was no surprise. After all, his truthful answer to the inquiry remains extremely personal. In some ways, the entire subject was quite … delicate, to say the least.

   Mt. Iwato. The place many painful memories were buried within that summer day ten years ago. To have them back was neither pleasant or easy, such unbearable guilt it was – carrying the burden of the sin committed by a group of kids who knew not any better back then. With those memories, however, many uncertainties also gained some clarity. As such, Eikichi also finally understands his complicated relationship with his former passion. It was longing, a wistful feeling deep down; like there was something missing. Gradually, in the ten years that passed, every time he’d lift a pen and began sketching, something would eventually stop him from truly getting into it. A certain, inexplicable sadness, or even a lack of inspiration. He still felt inclined to keep up this hobby to a certain extent, as something that just came naturally to him; something he’s always been good at, but with the sad reality of most of his artworks being left unfinished. And so, eventually, he no longer yearned to become a mangaka like back then, instead focusing his energy towards his new passion; music and performance.

   Was it possible to remember something without acknowledging it? For a sorrowful memory to dwell somewhere deep in one’s subconscious, faintly making its existence noticeable by guiding its owner’s actions? It certainly seemed that way; the child within him, whose memory of those wistful feelings had disappeared for an entire decade, instead gaining the disguise of a distant dream, somehow longed for the one thing he always wished he could have done with his friends. To share his passion for art; to draw with them. Their little group of friends, calling themselves the Masked Circle, had a habit of choosing a leader each time during their meetings by a game of rock-paper-scissors, and the leader then would choose the activity for the day. The leader’s rules were absolute, and everyone would follow them. However, Eikichi (or Yellow Owl) never got to be the leader. This, perhaps – he now finds himself musing in retrospect, having regained those memories – may have been the very cause behind that odd, wistful and empty feeling that drawing would sometimes rouse in him. Such a naive thought, it truly was, but with so much heartache and longing associated, it may have made sense for a childish thought like that to persist, deep down. Even without fully acknowledging it until now.

   “Well… It’s something I did with my friends.” His voice is somewhat quiet, still reluctant to ‘spill the beans’. Rarely is such a silent and sincere side of him on display. He’s not used to being this vulnerable around strangers – let alone anyone outside of his tight-knit group of friends. It’s awkward, even though the answer itself carries a significant amount of happy thoughts. Not only had he regained his memories – though painful, also bittersweet – he also had his friends back. Finally, having been able to do what he for such a long time wished he could. Playing Masked Circle, ten years later and finally winning and having his go as the leader. And so, they all drew pictures together, just like Eikichi desired since a little child of six. With this, every single sad association seemed to as if melt away, in turn producing what the boy strongly felt was the best drawing he remembers making in full ten years of time. Like he had his passion back.

   Finally, he lifts his gaze and crosses his arms, his earlier, pensive state turning into something much firmer. Speaking now louder and with more energy, he gives an honest, solid answer – though still avoiding going into too many sensitivities or personal details.   

      “It ain’t so much what I drew, so forget about that… Sometimes it’s the feeling you get, when you do something you enjoy. And that time… I felt really happy and inspired. That’s why it’s the best piece I’ve done so far. – Makes sense, right?”

[unfortunate-rp]

Congratulations, GISE! You have been accepted as your original character, PAMELA LUGO. I’m really excited to see Pamela on the dash! She’s got an interesting background that I think will be great for the plots to come! Please be sure to complete the steps listed on the NEW MEMBER CHECKLIST and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?

OOC INFORMATION

Name: Gise

Age: twenty two

Pronouns: she / her

Time zone: GMT -6

Activity Level (Please give a number from 1-10 and an explanation): I would say 8.5 because while I currently have a lot of free time, writing inspiration doesn’t always strike exactly when we want it to. Still, I’ll be available almost all the time for plotting, direct messages and so.

Tumblr account (for contact purposes): REDACTED

(If applying for second character) Characters played: n/a

How did you find us?:  through the ‘asoue rp’ tag

Triggers: n/a

ORIGINAL CHARACTER APPLICATION

Character Name:  Pamela Lugo

FC: Melissa Fumero / America Ferrera

Date of Birth: April 8th

Age: thirty five

Character Quote: “If you reach for the stars all you get are the stars, if you reach for the heavens you get the stars thrown in.”

Gender: cis female

Pronouns: she / her

Sexual Orientation: undetermined

Occupation: Astronomy Art Specialist at Orion Observatory

Affiliation: V.F.D (firefighter)

Neighborhood: The Homes at Poplar Grove

Personality: (witty, curious, kind | stern, impatient, elusive)

BIOGRAPHY

Most of us get our names picked for us when we’re barely a few days, or even a few hours, old. Pamela picked her own name when she was a few, four to be exact, years old. Surely she had had another name (for two years at least) before she arrived at Miss Finch’s home for Orphans. All she arrived there with was a set of pyjamas, a star-patterned blanket and a confused expression. It was never explained to her why or who had brought her there.  She wondered about growing up, there wasn’t much free time about Miss Finch’s to sit and wonder. Though the people were kind, the chores were far too many. And whatever free time she did have, she spent at the Library.

An important reason was that her own life sometimes seemed to her too dull to spend as herself and in that one crowded home. The other, that the Library had newspapers going back decades, and once she’d gone through those of the year she arrived at the home, she kept looking back and back, searching for any clue, any photograph with a face that looked faintly like hers. Her blanket seemed an important clue for her, because she knew she couldn’t have picked it herself. Thus, anyone who wrote or drew or had anything at all to say about the stars became an interesting daydream. From two of those subjects she came to choose the name Pamela and the last name Lugo. As she grew older it seemed fated, as she discovered the stars were also her favourite thing to write, draw, read and talk about.  By age nine she had intricate knowledge of constellations and how to work a telescope, as well as a commonplace book filled with notes and illustrations.

When the orphanage funds grew thin and her future seemed dim, the door on future books and schools closing, a new opportunity opened. It came in the form of a note, written in a yellow piece of paper slipped inside one of the books she checked out most often from the library. It stated that a mysterious benefactor would help her pursue a career in Astronomy as long as she promised to make use of that career in the Orion Observatory.  She dismissed it, but a few days later, on the taxi ride back home from the library, the driver revealed the benefactor to be a Secret Organization, as well as the reason they needed someone trustworthy and well versed in all literature to look after a particular parking spot in the observatory.

And so, she finally found the two things she had always longed for in life: people to belong with, and the opportunity to do something extraordinary, even if through the seemingly ordinary. She grew up to do just that, eventually finding the perfect job in Orion Observatory. But good things can only last so long, and as the organization started breaking down in two, she had no choice but to align with those doing the noble thing. Little did she know things would only grow worse from Sybil Halloway’s murder on …

CONNECTIONS

Co-Worker to GEORGE JOHNSON George Johnson is one of the guards at Orion Observatory. She is one of the very few people Pamela makes a point of greeting and making small talk with at work, for he is vital in her role of guarding the messages passed along at the Observatory.

ADDITIONAL NOTES

Pamela gave up on the idea of finding her family many years ago. Her devotion for V.F.D runs as deep as blood, to the point where it has surpassed and replaced her childhood dreams of growing in the Astronomy Art field.

She is a quiet, secluded person. The schism within the organization has made her even more so.  Though her talents have earned her a good salary, she remains modest and does not like to flaunt or draw any attention to herself, not even at V.F.D parties or balls.

She is currently working on the development of an Astronomy related code for her side of the schism. She thinks old codes are untrustworthy since both sides know them, so this project feels of the uttermost importance for her.

What potential plans do you have for this character? I want the moral greyness of V.F.D to become more apparent for her. Even if I think she will always remain loyal to her side and the organization, I’d like the events of this roleplay to present a conflict for her that forces her outside an isolated, black and white perspective of the world.

What do you hope to bring to this roleplay with your character? First of all I’d like to bring someone who can help the plot move along in quiet ways. Just the passing along of information can be very important. And like I mentioned, I’d like to bring in someone who grew up within the Organization and is mostly – and consciously – blind to its flaws. Someone who can lure potential volunteers in by selling the V.F.D she believes in, and who is determined to protect it.

Anything Else? Why it was Into the Spider-Verse and it was awesome, thank you for asking.

WRITING SAMPLE

Ah, so it was quarter past eleven already. She had set her alarm for that time just in case she lost track of time – and she always did.  It was raining, too. She quieted the alarm and relished in that quiet for a moment.  There was only the soft sound of the raindrops against her window and the faint footsteps from up in the Main Telescope room. For a telescope room they were an awful lot and awfully noisy, she thought. Maybe once she would’ve liked to be in that room, peering for her assigned five minutes.  Or it could be ten now. Surely they would’ve given her fifteen, because she had once liked to imagine she’d always be the one to say the most interesting things in the room. Don’t get her wrong, she still enjoyed herself immensely on the rare occasion she used the telescope, but now … now she liked it quiet.

Or at least quiet enough to listen to any odd footsteps. Not that they were a frequent thing, yet she was frequently alert for them. And for any headlights lighting up her window view. For everyone else in the Observatory, it wasn’t a great view. It actually made one of the ugliest ones. Many argued she should argue for a move, because it didn’t allow her to look at much except the parking lot and a bit of the sky. However, it was perfect for her.  

It was perfect because, should anyone park there at night, it was her job to keep an eye on it. By now she recognized the few who took the spot –taxis, most of the time – and found looking at it expectantly as thrilling as the night sky. Thrilling in every way, exciting and tense. It was the tensest when the park in question wasn’t a taxi, since taxis was what her associates preferred to drive in.  And as a pair of headlights, somewhat squared and bright, moved in, she realized it would be one of those nights. She leaned a bit closer to the window, making her chair squeak – quick note, a better chair was something she shouldargue for.  The car stood still, and when someone finally exited from it, she was more tense than excited to make out a silhouette she didn’t recognize.

Tiptoeing, she made her way downstairs, and sneaked into the accountant’s office. They always left at five, so the lights had been long turned off and the windows long closed. She peered from them, and the figure stood right where she’d left it. Tick tock, half an hour went by, and the figure didn’t move. She rushed back upstairs to turn her office’s light off, grab her purple coat, and make a casual exit. Just an excited employee staying a little bit longer under the night sky.  Casually she strolled past the figure, who was a man in a black coat and hat.

“Goodnight sir. Are you here for our midnight Verified Firmament Display?”

[kmalexander]

2020 in Ten Significant Photos

Today is December 19th, also known as March 294th, around our house. 2020, man. 2020. I think we can all agree it’s been a terrible year. If not personally, then nationally and globally. And we still have twelve days left. Feels like it’s been forever and yet, somehow, no time at all.

The tradition around here dictates I need to assemble a post wherein I share ten photos from the year representing the most significant moments of my personal past 365-ish days. Normally, I look forward to this, but 2020 was tougher than most. This time around, I wasn’t so eager to ponder how the year went. I didn’t want to dwell on the events that have unfolded. But I did. And below is the culmination of that effort, for better or worse.

The rules are simple but firm, pick ten photos from your past year that are the most significant to you: positive or negative—significance can be found in either. But it can’t be more, it can’t be less. Some moments will have to fall by the wayside—and that’s intentional—culling is essential. It’ll help create a more realistic picture of your year. Some years will be harder than others, and sometimes you’ll need to discover significance in the smaller, quieter moments. The ten are irascible, and they’re relentless. It is the way.

So, enough talk! Let’s take a look at my 2020 distilled into ten significant photos.

The Multnomah Whiskey Library in Portland

We began our 2020 by going on a trip to celebrate Kari-Lise’s birthday. Ah, those carefree halcyon days. Feels like a lifetime ago. This time we took an extensive food-focused trip to Portland and Hood River, Oregon. It was easily one of the best trips we’ve taken together and a wonderful way to celebrate Kari-Lise’s birthday. We ate and drank and tasted so many incredible things. I had planned to put together one of my standard travel posts a few months after we returned, but 2020 had other plans. It’s odd to looking back. It feels like a different era.

Amberlynn being cozy. (Photo by my brother, Nick Alexander.)

Not long after our return from Portland, my brother Nick and my sister-in-law Hallie welcomed their second child, Amberlynn, into the world in February. With Liesel and Blakely arriving last year and Amberlynn this year, I now have three nieces that have all shown up in a very short time. Can’t wait to watch them grow up and spoil them rotten. I’ve yet to meet Amberlynn. (Details why in the next photo. You can probably guess.) But, I’m looking forward to the day I do.

Pandemic hair. Pandemic mask. Pandemic isolation.

So, the obvious one—the COVID-19 pandemic. I could wax poetic about everything that’s happened in the last ten months, but we’ve all been dealing with this. What can I say that hasn’t been said already by a thousand other folks? I am tired of staying at home. I miss my family and friends. At the same time, I know it’s the right thing to do, and I’m blessed that I have a job that allows me to do it. Please do what you can to stay safe and healthy. Be kind. Wear a mask. Social distance. Avoid groups. Get your vaccine when you can. All that stuff.

Not where you want to find yourself at 3AM

2020 was the gift that keeps on giving. Early in the pandemic Tyrant, one of our two old dogs (he’s fifteen!) started having breathing issues one Saturday morning, and we had to take him to an emergency vet. That turned into early morning calls and early morning trips to the pharmacy. The same weekend our other old dog, Suge (she’s fourteen!), had a cyst that burst on her back leg, so she ended up in the doggie hospital for minor surgery. Two dogs. Two hospitals. Many vets. All in the middle of a pandemic. It was an exhaustive and stress-filled four days. Thankfully, both dogs are doing well. Suge is back to her rambunctious self. Tyrant is still sleepy and lazy and gets to take doggy pills three times a day.

Welcome to the CHAZ

Black Lives Matter. I don’t know why that’s a difficult concept for some people to grasp. This summer was similar to summers in other parts of the country. Protests. Marches. Police action. Bits of violence. For a brief moment, Seattle had the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone and offshoot of the protests, which drew most of the country’s attention. The outgoing President might have declared Seattle an “Anarchist Jurisdiction” (whatever that means,) but the tales of chaos were greatly exaggerated and largely overblown. Ignore your weird uncle on Facebook. The CHAZ only lasted for a few weeks. Demonstrations there have largely faded away. But the BLM movement rightfully continues, and I don’t think it’ll stop until we see systematic change.

Kari-Lise in front of the titular Night Garden

Kari-Lise revealed Night Garden, her latest solo show at Roq La Rue, and it was wildly successful! It’s strange to have a gallery show in the middle of a pandemic. There was no official opening. No opening night crowds. No afterparty. But the show premiered online and ended up selling out. I feel like I broken record repeating the same thing I do every show, but I think this series was her best work ever. I’m incredibly proud to see how she continues to evolve as an artist. Can’t wait to see what she does next.

Pork chop sandwiches! (Technically pork butt, but references.)

So, I’ve always liked cooking, and this year was no different. If anything, this year I cooked even more, since I had more time at home. I feel like I dialed in my meat-smoking game and got a little better at baking (like everyone else, but I’m still not great.) This little BBQ sandwich was 100% made from scratch. Smoke pork butt. Steamed/Fried sourdough half-way buns. Homemade dill pickles. Homemade pickled onions. Stone ground mustard. Yes, it was delicious. Yes, I made it more than once.

Sunset on the Colvos Passage

In October, we briefly escaped one house to retreat to another. We rented an incredible cabin on Vashon Island, only a ferry ride away from Seattle. We spent a week on the island. We hiked, explored, cooked, relaxed, read a ton, soaked in a huge bathtub, took showers in an outdoor shower. I also took the time to revamp this website. And we were able to do it with proper social distancing! It was a chill and relaxing week away from the world and unplugged from a stressful news cycle. We loved it so much we are planning a return visit in January. So don’t be shocked if a similar photo appears in next year’s list.

I voted! You voted! A lot of us voted!

One of the wildest and most important elections in my lifetime happened, and what an election it was. Records were smashed. Norms were abandoned. Lawsuits were filed and quickly tossed out when no evidence could be presented except for wishes, hopes, and dreams. (Turns out wanting something to be true won’t make it true.) It was great to see so many Americans actively involved in the civic process. King County, Washington (where I live) had an 85% turnout, which I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. It made me really proud of my city, county, state, and country. Nice work, America. Let’s keep this trend of civic involvement going.

New floors and a fantastic built in room divider bookcase built by my pal Steve.

It’s hard to encapsulate this in a single image. Like much of the world, 2020 became the “Year of the House” for the Alexanders. This had been the plan for us before the pandemic set in, and we had been saving toward it for a while. We bought this place in 2010, which means we’ve been living in our house for a decade, and it was past time to put a little love back into the place. That means, among other things, new paint, new roof, new floors in several rooms, lots of love pour into the garden, new countertops, that fantastic bookcase in the picture above, and we’re in the middle of a bathroom remodel. It’s been awkward, stressful, and a bit odd at times juggling all this work with the pandemic, but we think it’ll be worth it.

In Conclusion

Looking back at everything that happened in 2020, I was surprised to find how much significance happened even while I spent most of my time here at home. The ten photos above don’t begin to cover everything that happened. My sister-in-law’s father, Tom, passed away, a dear man, and we could only send condolences from afar. Friends and family got sick, and not just from COVID. Pets passed away. People lost jobs. There were the forest fires and the awful weeks of smoke that blanketed much of the PNW. MURDER HORNETS.

But it wasn’t all awful events. New hobbies were found. New skills explored. Moth & Myth continued its wild growth and is leaping into a new phase of business. Friends published books. Friends made art. Friends had shows. Friends wrote new books and game systems. We all learned how to video conference (for better or worse.) There was good to be found even among the muck. I’m not going to miss 2020. It might have been an awful year, but it’s probably been one of the most notable years of my life.

So, how about you? What did you experience in 2020? What are your ten? Assemble them and leave a comment with a link! Let us all know about the significant events in your year.

Want to revisit my photos of past years? The experiences then seem almost charming now. Just click on any of the links below and check out my pictures from that specific year. I find it fascinating to watch subtle changes year over year.

2014 • 2015 • 2016 • 2017 • 2018 • 2019

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[clonerightsagenda]

These keep getting longer

I think it’s evident at this point that I consider my duty to the prompt filled if the words are mentioned in passing or even implied

tuesjade prompt: art supplies

Jade isn't in the greenhouse or napping in the common room (or even halfway up a tree, which is where you found her last time you went looking) so you check her bedroom, which maybe you should have done first. There she is, flat on her back and flicking pennies at the ceiling. Instead of dropping back down onto her pillow, they settle into orbit around her head like a glittering halo. When you walk in, they fall in a copper shower around her shoulders.

"Jake!” she says from beneath a pile of loose change. “Do you need something?"

"Not need, exactly." You hover at the doorway until she motions for you to come in. "It's more that I'm here to ask you something. You see, Calliope and I have been working on a comic together."

"Oh, is that what you two have been hiding away to work on? We were wondering what you were up to." She sits up and pats the bed. Stray pennies clink and shift. "Can I see it?"

"As a matter of fact, I did bring some samples along." You're a little shy, but if you can't show your fumbling attempts at artwork to your grandmother, who can you trust? Calliope took the reins for most of the first booklet anyway. "Behold!” You hold out the hand-stapled collection of pages with a flourish. “The brand new adventures of our enterprising heroes."

She pages through your first issue, complimenting the art and laughing aloud at your cornier jokes. “My grandpa used to make that exact pun, you know," she says, tapping one speech bubble you were proud of.

"That stroke of genius must be hereditary."

She smiles down at the panel for a moment before turning the page. "Guess so."

“It’s funny,” you say. “Speech bubbles feel so… constrictive, for some reason. I know it’s a function of the medium, but you just can’t fit that many words in. You’d think I’d be used to it, since I’ve read my fair share of the funnies. But I keep thinking, how can they say everything they need to? They have to be so terse. It makes for a lot of revising.”

“You’ll get it with practice,” she promises. “And then we’ll all notice you’re sending us monosyllabic texts!”

When she reaches the end, you clear your throat. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to be a guest artist. We're trying to get as many people as we can for different issues, so it can be a group project." Calliope took a while to sell you on that. Some of your friends are actual artists. Their work will make your scribbles look pitiful. Still, you saw her point in the end. These things are more fun done together. And she's promised to stab people with pencils if they laugh.

"That sounds like a lot of fun. I haven't drawn in..." She shakes her head. "I don't know. A long while! I'm not great at it, but it was a nice way to pass the time."

"Oh grandma, you're being modest. You were always the best at arts and crafts.” Once you’d gotten into some old paints and left a trail of child-sized handprints on the wall. Instead of yelling, your grandmother had handed you a brush, and the two of you had covered the plain surface with a mural of swirling colors and flowers. It was one of the things you missed most when your house exploded. “The things you could do with a magazine collage were sheer magic."

"I don't know about your version of me, but this me is no Picasso." She waves her hands, and a sketchbook appears between them. You’d expect something with glitter or drawings of flowers – Jade is no stranger to the stereotypically “girly” end of accessorizing, even with the deconstructed guts of appliances and a few odds and ends of weaponry stacked up in the corner of her room - but the leather binding is plain and worn. "Here are some things I did before the game."

You open the book to the first page and blink. You know that handwriting. “Is this… mine?”

“Oh, that’s right.” She reaches over you and turns over a big chunk of pages. “This used to be one of my grandfather’s journals. He drew schematics for inventions or sketches of wildlife he’d discovered on his explorations. Sometimes he’d take me out on an “expedition”. He’d take field notes, and I’d imitate him by trying to draw what I saw. That’s how I got started doing art, actually. After he died, I kept it up. Maybe using his book was disrespectful, but…” She shrugs, reaching a page where no more of your – your other self’s – writing is visible. “I always thought he wouldn’t mind.”  

The sketchbook feels different in your hands now that you know your alternate self once held it. Heavier. You try to put it out of your mind. You have drawings from the Jade who is right here. Her lines are thick and defined, like a child's crayon drawings. Of course, she would have been a child then. Here's a doodle of a school classroom, with Jade and Bec behind a desk. The other students... They’re not pretty, but one of them has clunky square glasses. Another wears a headband. "Are those John and Rose?"

She laughs. "Yes. They hadn't sent me pictures yet, but I'd seen them in the clouds. I liked hearing about school, even when they complained. They never understood why I pestered them for so many details, but I wanted to imagine myself going too. Maybe they’re right and I wouldn’t have liked it, but I hated having to wait until they came home to tell them something."

Her human faces are clumsy and cartoonish, but she has an eye for rendering detailed objects in perspective. Students like flat paper dolls sit behind three-dimensional desks. "You could be an architect," you say.

"I had a Pictionary modus, so I had to be accurate," she explains. "I was never as good at people. I didn't have anyone to practice with."

You nod, flipping further. "Going off a picture just isn't the same." Here's something different. She's drawn a figure fast asleep. The lines are sketchier and more uncertain, with a realistic softness the other drawings are missing. This time, you’re confident assessing their identity. “You drew John?”

"I tried to get a good look at him while I was dreaming on Prospit," she says. "Then I drew him from memory afterward. I thought about asking him to pose a few times once we were on the battleship, but I couldn't think of a way to ask that wouldn't sound silly."

"So you resorted to candids, did you?" The last few pages of the sketchbook are populated with quick doodles built from lighter lines. The jointed fingers of a carapacian. John with his long windsock hood, gesturing broadly with his hands. Dave, no, it would be Davesprite, hiding a half-smile with one hand. An echidna curled in a tight ball with its tongue poking out. It would set your behind ablaze to say any of them are photorealistic, but you can tell what they're supposed to be.

After those you find renderings of the innards of the battleship, a mess of interlocking pipes and conduits. Now these you'd believe were ripped out of a user's manual. The rest of the pages are blank. "Did they catch on?"

She snatches the sketchbook back. "No, they don't know about it, so don't show them."

"Have you been sketching me at all?" You strike a pose, lifting your chin in the air. "How’s my profile?"

"Stop teasing, I haven't drawn anything in years." The book vanishes, and she puts her hands on her hips. "So you see, I'm not sure I'd be very good at it."

"I'm much worse than you, and I'm one of our lead storyboarders. Calliope insisted she wasn't doing all the visual components. Apparently I'm supposed to "learn" and "grow"." You tug at her elbow until she drops her arms. "Don't you want to learn and grow, Jade? Isn't that what you Space players are all for?"

She puffs out her cheeks. "Fiiiine. I guess I can pick up some colored pencils again."

"There's just one thing..." Oh rats, you hadn't thought of how this would come across. "Our guest artists... policy is that they do the villains. To keep the heroes consistent and all that. Is that ok?" You hurry on. "You could be a werewolf, or a mad professor who gets turned into some creature after exposure to magical radiation. You know, something fun."

She blows her cheeks back out. "Radiation sickness isn't much fun. I might prefer a well-intentioned extremist. Maybe I destroy corporations for harming the environment."

"But..." You hesitate. "Is that a heroic thing to do, when you boil it down? Greater good, and all that. It might be more of an anti-hero occupation, so to speak."

"Not when you're hurting the employees."

"We could convince you to let them go first... No." You shake your head. "It doesn't fit our profile to become anarchists. We'll have to save that for our gritty reboot in a few decades."

"I'll go with something more ethically simple."

"So it's ok with you?"

She pats your hand. "I'm not going to get offended about it. I know I was the bad guy for a while. Pretending to do it again won't hurt me."

"I know I wouldn't want to relive it."

"It was different for you.” She looks down at her hands, and you wonder if she’s remembering them ashen gray. “I didn't have a bunch of people living in my head. After the first moment, it was just me, the worst bits. It's not like you wanted to rip anybody's heart out."

You shudder. Caliborn had shoved you to the back of your mind, where you kept company with a bunch of silly green men and a spooky clown, but you'd caught flashes of the outside world. He was happy leaving you to feel your body's pain. Human hands weren't meant to take that kind of punishment, but the vision-blurring impact hadn't prevented you from seeing one of your best friends die. "Can we talk about something more cheerful?"

Her ears pull back slightly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"And here I was worried about upsetting *you*.” You laugh. “I guess we know which of us is made of sterner stuff."

"You're pretty tough," she says, poking you in the shoulder. "You're our adventure guy."

"Mostly in comics. My alter ego is much braver than I ever was."

She shakes her head. "They're just made up. You're the real deal. And you made it through the worst a bored comic book writer could ever throw at you."

You tap the cover of your comic book thoughtfully. "We *are* the grittier reboot."

She laughs. “That’s right. We are! So now you can enjoy your… less gritty reboot, if that’s a thing comics do.”

“We could have a beach episode.”

“Name a day, and I’ll take us back over to the island. We’ll make a vacation out of it.”

How will it feel to revisit the place where you grew up? Will it feel like coming home, or more like visiting an old prison cell? Which memories win out – the fond ones or the terrible ones? At least you’d have your grandmother at your side. Maybe that way you won’t keep expecting her to pop out from behind every tree and boulder. “There’s an idea. Your character could be a Captain Nemo type. He had a mysterious island and everything.”

“I have in the past piloted something somewhat like a cool submarine,” she agrees.

“Let’s doodle you a nifty uniform,” you say, and she grins and picks up a pen.

[jakejamesjournalism]

a list: the best posse cuts in hip-hip over the last 10 years.

Highlighting some of the best group efforts in rap.  To qualify, the song must have been released after July of 2009 and feature at least 4 people.  There are some incredible tracks with 3 rappers that had to be omitted...

10. Slippery- Migos ft Gucci Mane

It felt right that the list of best posse cuts started with raps premier posse. Migos, the most charismatic and star powered rap group this half of the decade shows why on Slippery, with the help of a rejuvenated Gucci Mane.  Like all their best tracks, Quavo immediately sets the tone with his great ear for melody and unpredictable cadence.  Offset seamlessly takes it from there making hilarious brags about his girl looking like a wildebeest before going into triple time about the usual suspects: Patek Phillipe, models, full throttles, and Gucci’d up collars.  Takeoff ends the song sounding possessed after Gucci gives one of the most patient and introspective verses of his life.  When it comes to posse cut trap rap, Slippery has all you’ve ever wanted in abundance.

9. All the Way Up (Remix)- Fat Joe, Jay Z, Remy Ma, French Montana & Infared

I’d venture to say this song got more mainstream airplay than any other track on this list.  Released late May of 2016, this siren glaring club ready banger was synonymous with the summer of 2016.  The song has more than most summer hits that come and go. Show-stopping verses from both Jay Z and Remy Ma make this remix a truly memorable affair.  Jay Z understood the moment, realizing the magnitude of publicly addressing Lemonade on record for the first time.  He brilliantly deflects the scathing aspects of the record and brushes it off as just another example of him getting money.  His homage to Prince is among the most emotionally resonant rap bars he’s conjured up in years…all the more so since Jay actually owns the Prince catalog.  I would love to see Jay relegate himself to an Andre 3000 type of role going forward, especially after he cemented his legacy with the late career gem 4:44.  The second half of the song belongs to Remy Ma, who makes you feel every syllable in a verse so raw and emphatic you can’t help but feel all the rage spending “7 winters and 6 summers” on vacation can build up.  South Bronx legend Fat Joe’s verse gives you a laugh and French relegated to the bridge is the perfect amount of him on this radio posse cut that offers far more than most in its class.

8. Big Beast- Killer Mike, Bun B, T.I & Trouble

There isn’t a track #1 on any hip-hop record in recent memory that just set the tone for what’s to come quite like ‘Big Beast.’  “Hardcore G-Shit! Homie I don’t play around!”  A call to arms that is just the beginning.  Listening at the time primarily out of my love for Definitive Jux.  The track, produced entirely by El-P drew me in, especially the tempo flip after Trouble’s futuristic bridge. Futuristic or not, the song is a vivid portrait of street life in Atlanta.  Full of Bun B’s wise man advice “Don’t leave till your ass get grown” and T.I’s full-bodied imagery, “A record full of felonies, searching for a better me/ But choppers go off in my hood like Iraq, Cuba, Tel Aviv.”   For five minutes you inhabit that ATL street corner.  

Killer Mike makes it clear, in order to make it in the streets of Atlanta; one must be a Big Beast.  The socially conscious rap anthem served as an unforgettable reintroduction into Killer Mike, someone I’ll admit, I always associated with as an inferior extension of Outkast and the Goodie Mob. Here Michael Render demands to be heard.  A singular vision with the power to resonate in an underground rap scene that happened to be dying for his perspective.  With Big Beast, the El-P and Killer Mike creative flood gates officially opened. Lucky for us.

7. Really Doe- Danny Brown ft. Kendrick Lamar, Ab-Soul & Earl Sweatshirt

Like all great posse tracks, the best verse shouldn’t be easy to agree on.  The down played modest hook provided by Kendrick Lamar does a good job bridging what’s most important on the track. The verses.  Every verse could be considered the best.  A hilarious manic Danny Brown who is “rolling up with them vegetables.”  Ab-Soul’s sixteen bars playfully bend his patent hardcore bars with socioeconomic realities, a verse that exemplifies all that’s ever made him a compelling emcee.  Kendrick does his thing as per usual and Earl Sweatshirt doesn’t.  In my favorite verse of the song, Earl ditches his cryptic and triple entendre tendencies for a more straight forward take a bat to your head approach.  Aggressively honest and devoid of his usual wordplay techniques, Earl ponders “I’m at your house like, ‘Why you got your couch on my Chucks?’ Motherfucker.” The comic relief is there.  Really Doe is lyrical labyrinth designated for the purist of rap fans.  Four world class emcees each with a different flow, each on top of their game. Enjoy.

6. Move that Dope- Future ft. Pusha T, Pharrell Williams & Casino

Future’s creative 360 from emo auto-tuned heart throb to drugged up nihilist was complete here.  His split from Ciara turned his heart cold and drove him into various chemical comfort zones.  Chemical zones that acted as his muse, similar to Pusha T, who finds himself right at home on a track like this.  He delivers some of the most expressive drug rap bars of the song, totally in tune with the general concept.  Someone who is a stranger to the general concept of “moving dope” is Pharrell.  Such songs aren’t usually up his alley, but Pharrell rapping on anything is usually a gift, and here is no exception.  His personal alienation from dope moving proves to be totally irrelevant as he spends time in the cosmos “frequency: high, like a spaceship” and bringing to life his personal idiosyncrasies “The Gandalf hat and the weird ass clothes, that’s Commes des Garcon and the Buffalo.”  Over menacing production from Mike-Will-Made-It, Future rings in his new sound and mantra with a group of A-list friends, one familiar with moving dope, the other familiar with constant reinvention.  Here, Future handles the scales beautifully.

5. Zip That Chop That- Black Hippy

Revisiting ‘Zip that Chop That’ makes me once again yearn for the Black Hippy album that was always promised but never came.  This overlooked early career gem was released in 2010, and provided a young white kid with his very first Kendrick Lamar exposure. Before Section.80 and Setbacks, ‘Zip That Chop That’ was all I knew. What’s amazing about Black Hippy is how easily they fall into their respected roles.  Jay Rock comes on strong as the deep voice of reason, having the rest of the crews back no matter what Compton issue may erupt. Ab-Soul acts as the groups source of comic relief, while Schoolboy Q acts as the vice, the devil on the other shoulder.  And then there’s a young Kendrick… his commentary on the plight of black Compton youth not yet legendary.  Excelling in the tracks latter third, it takes three listens to realize Kendrick is the best rapper on the song.  It’s no surprise success has came to the rap collective individually, but Zip That reminds us all some of their best material comes from them working together.

4. Oldie- Odd Future

The most influential group to any millennial ‘Left Brain’ hip hop listeners.  After Bastard I wrote off Tyler as a creative but drama seeking iconoclast, I didn’t give much else released by the collective an ear.  It wasn’t until Frank Ocean started to release music did I think to revisit odd future’s discography in a different light.  Oldie is a song that makes me glad I revisited.  Who is rapping is ultimately irrelevant, the chemistry between the worst rappers of the group and those who could be considered geniuses is uncanny.  It creates a universal feeling of friendship and community that transcends skill level.  This was taking putting your friends on to a whole new level. The talent lies in Tyler, Frank, and Earl, but for a long time the other members of the collective had roles inside the collective that held immense value to those who actually had talent.  Tyler, Frank and Earl fed off the group, all of its flaws, for better or worse.  Seeing how unwavering and passionate their belief is in their own vision, it’s clear that Odd Future was a talent incubator that ended up cultivating three of the most influential artists of the modern-day era.

3. Mercy- Kanye West, Pusha T, Big Sean & 2 Chainz

Turning the posse cut into high performance art was something Kanye spent a lot of the decade mastering.  Quite frankly, from the G.O.O.D Friday roll-outs to the standout tracks on Cruel Summer to Ultralight Beam, this entire list could’ve been comprised of Kanye orchestrated posse cuts.  Excluding Ultralight Beam, which I didn’t find qualifying enough to be featured on this list, Mercy is the most meticulously curated posse cut Kanye released.  The lead single on a project Kanye wanted to use to emphasize the depth of his label, Mercy does exactly that.  He put Pusha T and Big Sean in a position to spend the summer all over the radio, threw down a solid verse himself after an understated beat switch, all leading to the breakout performance of 2 Chainz, who’s rap career took off to stratospheric heights after his show stopping verse on Mercy. Kanye succeeded in putting all his boys on without compromising the artistry in the slightest bit. Most posse cuts will sacrifice a bit of innovation in order to focus more on the lyrics.  An old school approach to keeping posse cuts and the spirit of rap as competition alive. Once again, Kanye refuses to play by those rules. Mercy is high performance art, lyrical rap, pitch-black club banger, and total team flex all in one.

2. 1 Train- Asap Rocky ft Kendrick Lamar, Joey Bada$$, Yelawolf, Danny Brown, Action Bronson & Big K.R.I.T

The sound of ‘1 Train’ actually sounds like a train ride.  The production for this timeless epic rap track fits the narrative perfectly.  The track provides a transient urban feeling mixed with unpredictable DJ premier like scratches and gritty lo-fi drums.  It’s a beautiful canvas for hook-less rap music. It never tires, and neither do the emcees.  Every rapper featured on this track has something relevant to say from Danny Brown’s hilarious “Weed a different color like a hood rat bra and panties” observation or Action Bronson “selling Susan Sarandon.” Asap’s impressive “Bag made of Goyard, cheffin’ like I’m Boyar-Dee, probably selling D in your local courtyard” line is an emphatic change of cadence.  Big K.R.I.T declares himself a true artist on the songs final line and after delivering what could arguably be the tracks strongest verse, a true artist sounds like an understatement.   Everyone rapping punches above their weight.  The ULTIMATE posse cut.

1. Forever- Drake ft Kanye West, Lil Wayne & Eminem

Released ten years ago in August, Forever did a great job living up to its namesake.  From the Lebron starring music video to Drakes hook, Forever basically predicted the future.  Three weeks later on another platinum record Lil Wayne raps “We gon’ be alright if we put Drake on every hook.”  That era of hip hop officially started on this track.  Finding himself on a track with three legends who all decided to bring above average verses, Drake holds his own by coming up with the first of a million ubiquitous hooks.  His combination of rap skill, hook making and singing proved to be a tool set big enough to hang with the greats, even when they themselves brought their A-games.  It also opened the door to the possibility that Drake himself could be a great one day. Personally, I think it still remains to be seen, but the hooks are still catchy, and the numbers don’t lie.

[jakejames09]

Raps Best Posse Cuts of the last 10 Years.

Highlighting some of the best group efforts in rap.  To qualify, the song must have been released after July of 2009 and feature at least 4 people.  There are some incredible tracks with 3 rappers that had to be omitted..

10. Slippery- Migos ft Gucci Mane

It felt right that the list of best posse cuts started with raps premier posse. Migos, the most charismatic and star powered rap group this half of the decade shows why on Slippery, with the help of a rejuvenated Gucci Mane.  Like all their best tracks, Quavo immediately sets the tone with his great ear for melody and unpredictable cadence.  Offset seamlessly takes it from there making hilarious brags about his girl looking like a wildebeest before going into triple time about the usual suspects: Patek Phillipe, models, full throttles, and Gucci’d up collars.  Takeoff ends the song sounding possessed after Gucci gives one of the most patient and introspective verses of his life.  When it comes to posse cut trap rap, Slippery has all you’ve ever wanted in abundance.

9. All the Way Up (Remix)- Fat Joe, Jay Z, Remy Ma, French Montana & Infared

I’d venture to say this song got more mainstream airplay than any other track on this list.  Released late May of 2016, this siren glaring club ready banger was synonymous with the summer of 2016.  The song has more than most summer hits that come and go. Show-stopping verses from both Jay Z and Remy Ma make this remix a truly memorable affair.  Jay Z understood the moment, realizing the magnitude of publicly addressing Lemonade on record for the first time.  He brilliantly deflects the scathing aspects of the record and brushes it off as just another example of him getting money.  His homage to Prince is among the most emotionally resonant rap bars he’s conjured up in years…all the more so since Jay actually owns the Prince catalog.  I would love to see Jay relegate himself to an Andre 3000 type of role going forward, especially after he cemented his legacy with the late career gem 4:44.  The second half of the song belongs to Remy Ma, who makes you feel every syllable in a verse so raw and emphatic you can’t help but feel all the rage spending “7 winters and 6 summers” on vacation can build up.  South Bronx legend Fat Joe’s verse gives you a laugh and French relegated to the bridge is the perfect amount of him on this radio posse cut that offers far more than most in its class.

8. Big Beast- Killer Mike, Bun B, T.I & Trouble

There isn’t a track #1 on any hip-hop record in recent memory that just set the tone for what’s to come quite like ‘Big Beast.’  “Hardcore G-Shit! Homie I don’t play around!”  A call to arms that is just the beginning.  Listening at the time primarily out of my love for Definitive Jux.  The track, produced entirely by El-P drew me in, especially the tempo flip after Trouble’s futuristic bridge. Futuristic or not, the song is a vivid portrait of street life in Atlanta.  Full of Bun B’s wise man advice “Don’t leave till your ass get grown” and T.I’s full-bodied imagery, “A record full of felonies, searching for a better me/ But choppers go off in my hood like Iraq, Cuba, Tel Aviv.”  For five minutes you inhabit that ATL street corner. 

Killer Mike makes it clear, in order to make it in the streets of Atlanta; one must be a Big Beast.  The socially conscious rap anthem served as an unforgettable reintroduction into Killer Mike, someone I’ll admit, I always associated with as an inferior extension of Outkast and the Goodie Mob.  Here Michael Render demands to be heard.  A singular vision with the power to resonate in an underground rap scene that happened to be dying for his perspective.  With Big Beast, the El-P and Killer Mike creative flood gates officially opened. Lucky for us.

7. Really Doe- Danny Brown ft. Kendrick Lamar, Ab-Soul & Earl Sweatshirt

Like all great posse tracks, the best verse shouldn’t be easy to agree on.  The down played modest hook provided by Kendrick Lamar does a good job bridging what’s most important on the track. The verses.  Every verse could be considered the best.  A hilarious manic Danny Brown who is “rolling up with them vegetables.”  Ab-Soul’s sixteen bars playfully bend his patent hardcore bars with socioeconomic realities, a verse that exemplifies all that’s ever made him a compelling emcee.  Kendrick does his thing as per usual and Earl Sweatshirt doesn’t.  In my favorite verse of the song, Earl ditches his cryptic and triple entendre tendencies for a more straight forward take a bat to your head approach.  Aggressively honest and devoid of his usual wordplay techniques, Earl ponders “I’m at your house like, ‘Why you got your couch on my Chucks?’ Motherfucker.” The comic relief is there.  Really Doe is lyrical labyrinth designated for the purist of rap fans.  Four world class emcees each with a different flow, each on top of their game. Enjoy. 

6. Move that Dope- Future ft. Pusha T, Pharrell Williams & Casino

Future’s creative 360 from emo auto-tuned heart throb to drugged up nihilist was complete here.  His split from Ciara turned his heart cold and drove him into various chemical comfort zones.  Chemical zones that acted as his muse, similar to Pusha T, who finds himself right at home on a track like this.  He delivers some of the most expressive drug rap bars of the song, totally in tune with the general concept.  Someone who is a stranger to the general concept of “moving dope” is Pharrell.  Such songs aren’t usually up his alley, but Pharrell rapping on anything is usually a gift, and here is no exception.  His personal alienation from dope moving proves to be totally irrelevant as he spends time in the cosmos “frequency: high, like a spaceship” and bringing to life his personal idiosyncrasies “The Gandalf hat and the weird ass clothes, that’s Commes des Garcon and the Buffalo.”  Over menacing production from Mike-Will-Made-It, Future rings in his new sound and mantra with a group of A-list friends, one familiar with moving dope, the other familiar with constant reinvention.  Here, Future handles the scales beautifully. 

5. Zip That Chop That- Black Hippy

Revisiting ‘Zip that Chop That’ makes me once again yearn for the Black Hippy album that was always promised but never came.  This overlooked early career gem was released in 2010, and provided a young white kid with his very first Kendrick Lamar exposure.  Before Section.80 and Setbacks, ‘Zip That Chop That’ was all I knew.  What’s amazing about Black Hippy is how easily they fall into their respected roles.  Jay Rock comes on strong as the deep voice of reason, having the rest of the crews back no matter what Compton issue may erupt.  Ab-Soul acts as the groups source of comic relief, while Schoolboy Q acts as the vice, the devil on the other shoulder.  And then there’s a young Kendrick... his commentary on the plight of black Compton youth not yet legendary.  Excelling in the tracks latter third, it takes three listens to realize Kendrick is the best rapper on the song.  It’s no surprise success has came to the rap collective individually, but Zip That reminds us all some of their best material comes from them working together.

4. Oldie- Odd Future

The most influential group to any millennial ‘Left Brain’ hip hop listeners.  After Bastard I wrote off Tyler as a creative but drama seeking iconoclast, I didn’t give much else released by the collective an ear.  It wasn’t until Frank Ocean started to release music did I think to revisit odd future’s discography in a different light.  Oldie is a song that makes me glad I revisited.  Who is rapping is ultimately irrelevant, the chemistry between the worst rappers of the group and those who could be considered geniuses is uncanny.  It creates a universal feeling of friendship and community that transcends skill level.  This was taking putting your friends on to a whole new level. The talent lies in Tyler, Frank, and Earl, but for a long time the other members of the collective had roles inside the collective that held immense value to those who actually had talent.  Tyler, Frank and Earl fed off the group, all of its flaws, for better or worse.  Seeing how unwavering and passionate their belief is in their own vision, it’s clear that Odd Future was a talent incubator that ended up cultivating three of the most influential artists of the modern-day era.

3. Mercy- Kanye West, Pusha T, Big Sean & 2 Chainz

Turning the posse cut into high performance art was something Kanye spent a lot of the decade mastering.  Quite frankly, from the G.O.O.D Friday roll-outs to the standout tracks on Cruel Summer to Ultralight Beam, this entire list could’ve been comprised of Kanye orchestrated posse cuts.  Excluding Ultralight Beam, which I didn’t find qualifying enough to be featured on this list, Mercy is the most meticulously curated posse cut Kanye released.  The lead single on a project Kanye wanted to use to emphasize the depth of his label, Mercy does exactly that.  He put Pusha T and Big Sean in a position to spend the summer all over the radio, threw down a solid verse himself after an understated beat switch, all leading to the breakout performance of 2 Chainz, who’s rap career took off to stratospheric heights after his show stopping verse on Mercy. Kanye succeeded in putting all his boys on without compromising the artistry in the slightest bit. Most posse cuts will sacrifice a bit of innovation in order to focus more on the lyrics.  An old school approach to keeping posse cuts and the spirit of rap as competition alive. Once again, Kanye refuses to play by those rules. Mercy is high performance art, lyrical rap, pitch-black club banger, and total team flex all in one.

2. 1 Train- Asap Rocky ft Kendrick Lamar, Joey Bada$$, Yelawolf, Danny Brown, Action Bronson & Big K.R.I.T

The sound of ‘1 Train’ actually sounds like a train ride.  The production for this timeless epic rap track fits the narrative perfectly.  The track provides a transient urban feeling mixed with unpredictable DJ premier like scratches and gritty lo-fi drums.  It’s a beautiful canvas for hook-less rap music. It never tires, and neither do the emcees.  Every rapper featured on this track has something relevant to say from Danny Brown’s hilarious “Weed a different color like a hood rat bra and panties” observation or Action Bronson “selling Susan Sarandon.” Asap’s impressive “Bag made of Goyard, cheffin’ like I’m Boyar-Dee, probably selling D in your local courtyard” line is an emphatic change of cadence.  Big K.R.I.T declares himself a true artist on the songs final line and after delivering what could arguably be the tracks strongest verse, a true artist sounds like an understatement.  Everyone rapping punches above their weight.  The ULTIMATE posse cut.

1. Forever- Drake ft Kanye West, Lil Wayne & Eminem

Released ten years ago in August, Forever did a great job living up to its namesake.  From the Lebron starring music video to Drakes hook, Forever basically predicted the future.  Three weeks later on another platinum record Lil Wayne raps “We gon’ be alright if we put Drake on every hook.”  That era of hip hop officially started on this track.  Finding himself on a track with three legends who all decided to bring above average verses, Drake holds his own by coming up with the first of a million ubiquitous hooks.  His combination of rap skill, hook making and singing proved to be a tool set big enough to hang with the greats, even when they themselves brought their A-games.  It also opened the door to the possibility that Drake himself could be a great one day. Personally, I think it still remains to be seen, but the hooks are still catchy, and the numbers don’t lie. 

[thefamilyineverknew]

Turning 47: pt. X

“Take the Highway to the Great Divide”

22-23 May 2018

Being a mono-tasker does have its advantages; a sharp focus on the task at hand, attention to detail, seeing a project through to the end. However, it comes with some stark deficits. In my haste and certitude in driving here, I have not only completely forgotten to contact any of my friends in Colorado to let them know I would be in the area, I haven’t even bothered to look up who is even living here. I have not thought this through.

Colorado Springs sits at the rough middle point in the state, east of the range, and I decide I’ll stop there to gather myself and hatch a plan. I just plug “Colorado Springs” into the navigator and let it guide me its deemed destination in the city, where ever that happens to be. It turns out to be the courthouse. So, park and sit for awhile, feeling mildly panicked, checking FB for people I know in Colorado and start writing. Friends who haven’t heard from me in years are now receiving messages, like “Hey, I’m in Colorado. Are you around?”.

Not feeling like the brightest bulb in the pack, I feel like a walk in the sunshine and a good stretch the legs is in order. As I head up the downtown street and across to a park, my senses are heightened by the unfamiliarity of the place. This leads me to finding a café. Starbucks, of course. Like a McDonald’s sign in a foreign country, a known quantity in a strange place is always a welcomed sight, however bland or blasé it might be. I order an iced coffee and take a seat outside. Check my social for any messages (none), and sip my cold beige.

Yesterday, before they left the farm, my aunt Lydia gave me both her phone number and my uncle Harry Kent’s, saying I would be welcomed to stay with them in Denver, should the need arise. Need has arisen. So I make the call.

Harry Kent & Lydia had been career missionaries in Costa Rica until retiring back to the US a few years ago. Though I had just been with them in Kansas, I hadn’t seen them for decades prior. They are very gracious, but also quite staid, so I am feeling both grateful and a bit like I’m on my tip-toes when Lydia gives me the green light to come.

The drive from Colorado Springs to my aunt & uncle’s takes about an hour and a half, but WHAT an hour and a half. For those who live here, I imagine the mountains to my shoulder and the massive rising and dipping earth formations have long become so commonplace as not to be noticed. But for these fresh eyes, it is a tall drink. I would prefer to be a passenger at this point, giving my full attention to the gorgeousness of it all, like I did when I was a kid on family vacation. As it is, I have to drive, and driving and gawking do not mix easily, especially for this mono-tasker. So, I try keep my eyes on traffic, while stealing glimpses when I am able.

Colorado is where my parents met, at Bear Trap Ranch in the mountains to the west of Colorado Springs. Both were in college at the time and were working there over the summer of ‘66, my mother in the kitchen, while my dad was a horse wrangler. The details of their courtship are unclear to me, other than my dad was strapping and my mom looked like Sally Fields, but I do know they were married within a year and have been ever since. The stretch between their hometowns, from southern Minnesota to western Kansas, was an enormous yawning midwestern gap (one our family would lap dozens of times). My dad would finish his studies at Kansas State in Manhattan, Kansas (very confusing when I was a kid. Where were the skyscrapers?), while my mom would teach kindergarten. Then they would move to Denver, where my dad would attend seminary, which is where I come into the picture in 1971.

In those early years, I can remember returning with them to Bear Trap; seeing young college co-eds in school sweatshirts, the smell of ponderosa pine, and the incomprehensible natural wonder of the mountains and surroundings. My dad always talked about his desire to move back to the Rockies when he retired. Instead, it is his older brother, Harry Kent, who has made Colorado his post-career residence.

The sun is setting as I arrive at their place; a latin turquoise blue house in a neighborhood of strict beige on beige. I absolutely approve. My aunt & uncle greet me at the door, show me my room, and give me the grand tour. The walls are lined with artifacts and memories from Costa Rica; sculptures, prints, and paintings. It is such a relief to be able to be caught by the family net, even after so many years and such distance.

Over the next couple days, Arla and I volley emails back and forth; I am still confident, feeling the needle is beginning to point toward a “yes”. In the meantime, I am fielding replies to the odd messages I had sent out to the diaspora of friends in Colorado. I hear from my friend Dawn Wilkinson.

Dawn was the Assistant Residence Director (ARD) in Fischer dorm at Wheaton when I was a Residence Assistant (RA) on 5-South, a year that nearly did me in. See, for both my freshman and sophomore years, I had developed this reputation for being wild and/or crazy, warranted or not. I would merely say that I was uninhibited. I certainly was making the most of my time, going for broke. Anything creative; music, performance, comedy, art, intricate pranks...it was all the same cloth to cut. I was going full-bore and having a blast, trying and doing new things, surrounded by some of the most interesting and creative that I had ever met. I was certainly set on having a good time and making an impact. An impact which backfired on me when, in my junior year, I took on the position as RA.

Now, Wheaton is a small school, about 2400 students, and when word spread that I would be in charge of 5-South, this naturally drew the interest of a certain type of student. One with a certain flexibility to rules and regulations. This would have been all fine and good had the school kept their former RD (Res. Dir.). However, the person they brought in, two weeks before school was to start, was a strict, by the books, rule enforcer. It was law by black & white vs. rainbow tie-dye, that whole year. Had my floor been a full house of buttoned-up types, it still would have been a challenge (it was 46 guys, after all, 18-19 yrs old on their first foray away from home). The sum of these parts added up to a nearly impossible and completely unmanageable year for me. This was the year I learned how to sleep through alarms, the year I sunk Marianas trench deep into Sergio Mendes & Brasil ‘66 records, and the year my grades plummeted, nay, spelunked, a full grade point. One of the saving graces was my superior, Dawn Wilkinson. She was the buffer between me and the RD, and was one of the few reasons I was able to make it through that year, tattered, but intact.

So, now, present day Dawn mentions to me the Air Force Academy is putting on their annual graduation air show in Colorado Springs, where she is. Perhaps, we could meet afterward? So I cruise down to see the air show which has just ended (although there is air to look at). Turns out they had started an hour earlier than scheduled. Bummer. Dawn & I text and she gives me the address of the church where she’s working. I plug in the coordinates and head that way.

I meet her in the church office and we go out to sit in the lobby. We talk Wheaton, our old colleagues from Fischer dorm, Colorado, her husband Dave (who I knew from back then), their kids, my kids, Sweden, and this trip I’m on. I lay down the skinny on why I am out this way.

“Do you think it will happen?”, she asks. “We’ll see, but I feel pretty good about it,” I say. We talk and talk, and then her teenage son and nearly-to-be married daughter arrive. “This is the guy I’ve been telling you about all these years! You know, the crazy one”, or something like that...(not verbatim). More talking and sharing and then it’s time to go. 25 years can go by and feel like a blink of an eye. Time is one of the strangest things we experience in life, I am convinced.

Getting back in the car, I can see Arla has written again! From her tone, I am certain she is getting closer to granting my offer to meet. Time, place, and logistics are the obstacles, yet, what I am seeing looks like a solution is coming....soon.

[captain-jason29]

I was looking for some work done by CZs world outside of YouTube; google was being dumb and said he was not a real person. After a many tries and fails I came across Adam troy Castro. Is an author and freelance writer for nightmare magazine. I read his second to newest short creepy horror story called the narrow escape of zipper-girl. It’s scary. It does not have death, blood, guts or core. It’s a twisted love story. What make it scary is if you have tattoos or pricings or any other body modafacsion you feel the fear that it could happen to you. And if they could put the right music to it, you would not sleep. So if you want help keep writing or reading alive check out Adam troy Castro or just read his short horror story below. Thank you. The Narrow Escape of Zipper-Girl: It was her zipper that drew me to her. She was beautiful enough, according to what most people seemed to consider beauty. She had a black buzz cut, the kind of body that gives the impression of lankiness even on someone petite, a complexion pale as milk, and an overbite that made sure that a sliver of teeth was always visible even when her bee-sting lips were mostly shut. Everything about her face seemed tentative, as if placed there by a designer who knew just how much any given feature needed before it gained enough prominence to overpower the others; hence her tiny nose, her light eyebrows and her gray eyes. When she first crossed the room, she struck me as so light on her feet that she might have been something drifting in the breeze; but it was the long line of her neck that made me look twice, the longest and most graceful neck I had ever seen on any woman, to that point. I’m a neck man. Some guys notice breasts first. Others are first taken by long shiny legs. I notice necks. I’ve always noticed necks, the most beautiful and most vulnerable attribute women have. Hers had a zipper. I had seen any number of studs and implants and piercings on women, but had never seen a zipper.It stretched across the curve of her throat, drawing a diagonal line from just below the base of the jaw, to the edge of her collarbone. Later, analyzing just what made her zipper so intriguing, I decided that the angle was crucial. Worn horizontally, it would have resembled a second mouth, worn vertically, a second vagina equipped with gold metallic dentata. Slicing diagonally, like a slash, the way it was—and here I note how impossible it is to describe it accurately without running into the traps laid by the very language—it was its own thing, denying easy analogy. I bought her a drink, and chatted with her long enough to allow the obvious question to arrive naturally. She had no problem demonstrating that the zipper was functional. She touched the fingers of one wispy-thin hand to the zipper’s pull-tab and drew it south. The teeth duly separated by a hair, revealing another expanse of pale skin beneath them. The zipper was, in short, a false promise, implying entry to the flesh beneath the surface but in the end just an overlay, a fraud. I liked her a little less right away. I still asked her what had given her the idea to implant such a thing. She had some reason I forgot within minutes of her offering it—some deep appreciation of the artificial, some philosophical point about the fictions we all embrace while navigating modern life. It was background noise, just like the band’s set and the fruity flavor of the house specialty drink she recommended. Her name, some exotic spelling of a commonplace name for girls, was just a label. To me, she was always a mostly unremarkable girl who had brushed greatness with the implantation of a zipper, but had retreated from it with other lame attempts at individuality. To her, I was the guy who admired the zipper but seemed to have found other points of attraction. I didn’t like her much. I never did, though we were together for over a year, and most observers would have supposed that I was wild for her. In truth, I found her tiresome and vapid, a girl who had substituted style for substance. But I successfully hid that. It was the zipper that drew me. That night and over the next few weeks I discovered what little else there was to learn about her. She lived in a third-floor walk-up with stairways so narrow that it was hard to imagine how anybody had ever been able to move furniture into any of the shoebox apartments above. The hallways were dim places with octagonal white tiles the diameter of silver dollars, separated by grout that had gone black from decades of scuffed feet. The building was narrow, too, and there were no more than two apartments per floor, one unimpeded by the stairwell and one that assumed an eccentric L-shape to accommodate it. She had one of the L-shaped ones. I liked that. It was easy to imagine her just around the bend, minding her own business, not knowing I crouched in wait on the other side. She had artistic pretensions. She had written poetry and performed as lead singer in small bands. She had a voice that had turned to premature gravel, and she enjoyed the character it lent her. She was extraordinarily proud of the one gothic horror story she’d written that an anthology had published, but she was not driven to produce more. When I asked her if it was about zippers, she thought I was joking, and said yeah, right. Later, I read it, and it turned out to be nihilistic vampire shit, redeemed only slightly by her facility with poetic language. It was a story where nobody’s throat got cut, where the point was more the weight of the alienation her blood-sucking creation felt, and I read all of it waiting for the mood and the poetry to get out of the way so the bleeding could start. But nobody died. Nobody even bled. I didn’t see the point of that, but still complimented her as she seemed to expect, and at regular intervals during our time together asked her when she was going to write another story. She was a casual smoker, but she hated what the lingering smell of tobacco did to furniture, and so she never lit up at home, limiting herself to one a day, on the street. I liked to think of the way she would have exhaled if the zipper had opened up onto her windpipe, the fumes exiting her throat without ever rising as far as her lips. I liked to imagine her head, expressionless and unconnected from the breathing process, almost dead, floating atop a bed of smoke, like a vision. She had two tattoos, a bleeding barbed-wire band circling her right bicep and, showing more age, a tiny rose blossom at the base of her spine. I told her that if she was already bleeding on the arm she should add a long stem with bleeding thorns to the rose. She said maybe. It was not wise to return to such ideas too often; I had to pretend other interests. She owned a one-eyed cat. It had lost half its vision before she rescued it, in what was clearly some wound inflicted by a human being. It was uncommonly friendly to most people, especially considering what it had been through, but after a few sniffs it never came near me. I shrugged and said you could never tell with animals. It never would come near me, not even after the zippered girl and I moved in together. Maybe it knew I didn’t like its asymmetrical features, the way that single slit pupil regarded me with perfect comprehension. Much later on, after the zippered girl and I had lived together for a few weeks, I climbed down the fire escape one day I knew she wasn’t home, broke the window with a brick, ransacked the place, and took the cat so I could make it symmetrical again. The zippered girl had a regular job. I wondered aloud how she managed to hold one down, let alone in the dentist’s office where she served as a perky young receptionist, while sporting a zipper in her neck. She told me that it was easy to camouflage. When she wanted to, she could look quite conservative, a nice conventional girl who wore minimal make-up and had a mysterious love of neck-concealing scarves and high collars. She laughed that it was her boring disguise. I laughed and said, your secret identity, before you rip off the scarf and stand revealed as Zipper-Girl! I didn’t tell her that she was boring no matter how she was dressed, that nothing about her intrigued me except for the one delightful change she had made in herself. She had no way of knowing. I wasn’t interested in most people, and had long since perfected the art of seeming to participate in conversations while paying minimal attention to them. I was great at it. I gave her no way of knowing that she was only the medium for the zipper. When she lit candles and we made love, I was careful to pay obeisance to all the other stations of her personal cross, bringing pleasure to her breasts and her ass and both the northern and southern set of lips, but it was the zipper that kept me interested, the thought of it being a real portal instead of a fake one, the image of the tab pulled down and everything wet in her pulsing underneath. At one point, I bought a red light bulb and she teased me for having such a corny device in my erotic arsenal. She didn’t know that red light made certain things easier to imagine. Some nights we used oils, and the sheen on her skin, combined with the scarlet glow, made her breasts and arms look like they’d been lubricated by wounds. Once in a great while I unzipped her neck and licked the pale skin between the interlocking blades, making her giggle as I felt the blood pulsing underneath, and tortured myself with the thought of how it would take only one convulsive whim, now, to get at it. The night she blurted that she loved me, I took that as a cue. She may have thought it was inappropriate shyness, at odds with our supposed closeness, but I let my eyes dip downward just before I said me too. As intended, she thought I was talking to her. I used the name Zipper-Girl whenever I could. She liked it, and before long, in most private conversations, I hardly had to use her real name at all. Sometimes I had to remind myself what it was. I put her name on my arm. She was thrilled. But I did it because I needed a convenient reference. I was an efficient worker. My work duties occupied only about twenty percent of the time at the job. My bosses tried to give me more, but they couldn’t keep up with my ability to arrange my work day around vast tracts of free time. I refused any promotion that required additional responsibility. They honored me with an office anyway, and I spent hours in there with the door closed, using Photoshop on portraits of the girl with the zipper. I gave her more than just the one. I airbrushed out her eyes and put a pair of sealed zippers over each one. I did the same to her lips. Who needs lips? They’re imperfect sealants, and instruments for fricatives. The improved portrait became a sock-puppet, even more attractive in its artificiality and in its censorship of the personality the excised features could no longer express. I imagined her sitting in a chair, not tied there, but trapped there by blindness, waiting for me to unzip her mouth so she could eat. I imagined the one in her neck being an opening to her esophagus that I could use as the entry point for nutrients that would keep her alive but that she could not taste. Zippers gave me the option of controlling her very senses. In my fantasies, she made sounds of protest until I taught her to stop. Then I would return home to a Zipper-Girl who was to the images in that file what a paper airplane is to a fighter jet. I had to endure doing things with her. Clubbing was all right because the music was so loud I could pretend enough local deafness to abstain from conversation. Dining required more work, but I made myself the kind of man who spent more time listening than he did speaking. Going to museums was hellish, but I developed a particular interest in the paintings where the faces were caricatures, like the aftermath of terrible accidents where the bones had healed back in inhuman shapes. I became a fan of one artist who liked to obscure the eyes behind screens of concealing shadow. I told Zipper-Girl this was a representation of just how much human beings hide from one another. This was bullshit. I just liked to imagine that along with the eyes I couldn’t see there were also concealing zippers. She got serious and said, you know, you hide more than any man I’ve ever known. What are you thinking about, what are you feeling, when I catch you staring into space? I made a special effort to be attentive toward her, for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t do to be so mysterious and moody that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. One day when I was out and about without her I found a young girl’s hoodie abandoned at a bus stop. This was a warmer day than expected, and the owner must have taken it off to cool down, leaving it behind when the bus arrived. I wondered how long it had taken her to realize that she’d left it behind, if her parents had enough money to replace it or if when the cold weather came again she was left walking to and from school in hunched misery, hands stuck in dungaree pockets. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out, because I could have asked her. A tag bearing her name and address had been sewn to the base of the hood. I brought the garment home in a bag, hid it away, and the first time Zipper-Girl was not around used a pair of shears to amputate the zipper running from hem to collar. I zipped it open and zipped it closed. There was one section near the bottom where it tended to get stuck, surrendering to motion again only after ardent struggle. I thought of the girl needing to take it on and off, growing red-faced whenever she had to fight with it, perhaps even breathing heavily, in a battle consummated only when it once again gave her what she wanted. I imagined that the zipper knew that it was conquering her, that it made her its bitch with its recalcitrance. I imagined Zipper-Girl weeping because she had pulled the false promise in her neck halfway down only to have it stuck in place, refusing to either ascend or descend, its teeth forming an asymmetrical, vertical grimace. I put the zipper from the hoodie away where I could find it again whenever I wanted. I carried it around in a jacket pocket and fingered it, imagining that the two strips bounding the metal teeth were not material from a hoodie, but skin, taken from a breathing neck. The weather turned cold and she bought a distressed black leather jacket for herself. It had zippered pockets on the breasts, on the shoulders, and down the arms. There were pockets too small and too tight to house more than spare change. They were not meant to be open or closed, just to display their zippers. I banged her while she wore it and nothing else, paying all due attention to all the soft and unzipped parts of her anatomy. She asked me to use her name. I called her Zipper-Girl. She asked me to call her by her real name. I was able to arrange a glimpse of my own tattooed reminder, but knew that she’d noticed the hesitation. One night, as an experiment, she brought home a bondage hood. It was a full-face mask with zippers covering the mouth and eyes, with another zipper running down the back, to the neckline. She donned it just to demonstrate that it was too large for her, regardless of all available adjustments. She asked me to wear it. I had no choice. I had to say yes just to make it possible that she would someday wear one like it. I put it on and she drew it tight, sealing the one over my mouth, then zipping it back open, then sealing it again. In darkness, unable to see her face and therefore cut off from what she was thinking or feeling, I knew only that this had gone on far longer than I had expected. After a while she loosened the hood, removed it and left the apartment with it, returning two minutes later without it. It was just enough time to have taken it to the garbage chute. She didn’t talk to me again for the rest of the night. Sex became more and more infrequent. One night when angry she told me that sometimes she looked in my eyes and saw nothing behind them but an empty space, that it was like looking through a dirty window into a gutted building. She said that when she saw something moving in there, it wasn’t necessarily something she liked. I told her she was imagining things. She asked me to name five things about her, aside from the zipper, that I liked. I was only able to come up with four. I was fortunate that she had either lost count, or been so satisfied with rote poetical evocations of her smile, her sense of humor, her singing voice, and her eyes that she let the subject drop. When we did make love, I noticed her studying me during the act, measuring my own sincerity by the negative space formed around the one feature of her body that was not currently safe for me to acknowledge. Winter faded. Spring came. The jacket got put away. She put on a white tank top and light blue jeans. I think she chose the button fly deliberately. We went for a walk in the park, and in the first moment of easy intimacy we’d had in weeks, linked hands, a gesture I privately liked because the interlocking fingers reminded me so much of the only bond I really cared about. We watched a street mime and we had ice cream from a vendor. A little boy with a toy plane asked Zipper-Girl about the thing on her neck and she said, oh, that’s just a boo-boo, honey. It’ll go away before long. The little boy was satisfied by this answer. He ran back to his mommy and I watched him go, feeling a wrenching pain inside me. When I turned back to Zipper-Girl her eyes were wet, and I knew that I must have flashed the wrong expression. She said you know what? I said what? She said, I’ve been trying to tell myself that I was wrong about you, you were just a little focused on one thing. But everything I’ve been wondering about is true, isn’t it? You don’t care about anything but the zipper. Not even the slightest bit. It took me a second to say, that’s not true. She said, wanna bet? How about I go to the guy who put it in tomorrow and have him take the damn thing out? It’s, like, an hour’s work, tops. I’ll be the same person afterward that I was before, except I won’t have this piece of shit on my neck. Is there any fucking chance on Earth you’d still want to be with me if I did that? Tell me I’m wrong. Come on. Tell me I’m wrong, you son of a bitch. I said, stop testing me. She said, too late, I’m testing you. I’ve decided. It’s going. What are you gonna do about it? I took too long answering. She said, fuck you. Just fuck you. And she got up and walked away. I’ve read in books on such things that when relationships go sour, some injured parties replay the mistakes they made in their heads, changing the dialogue in arguments, altering what was said to what should have been said, turning moments of petulance into moments of generosity, turning passages of disastrous blindness into moments of heart-affirming empathy. I have read that people rewrite the endings. I am not immune. On the stage of my imagination, she might have still had cause to tell me I was a sick piece of shit who she never wanted to see again, but I kept her from being able to make it stick. In my version, she never got watchful friends to stay with her and keep an eye on me while I gathered my few belongings and left. In my version, one male friend of hers didn’t say to me, tell the truth, you son of a bitch. You’re the one who took her cat, aren’t you? In my version, I denied it with persuasive shock instead of remaining silent and getting a chorus of angry voices replying that they fucking knew it all along. In my version of the story, I did not stay away for months, busying myself with other things, only to slip unseen into the back of a small concert being given by her latest band of the moment, and I did not see that while her ink had spread down both arms, the zipper was well and truly gone, not even a scar remaining. I did not see her kiss a guy in the audience, and I did not see her face light up, the way it never had at any point during the year she and her zipper had been with me. In my rewrite, she embraced the only special part of herself and had zippers installed everywhere imagination and medical reality rendered possible; one in her forehead that could be drawn open revealing skull, two on her cheeks that could be drawn aside to reveal teeth and gums, others on her arms and on her breasts and down her back and everywhere else she had never been bold enough to have zippers before. In my rewrite, we found a hood that fit her, and whenever she was at home and not dealing with my needs it was her duty to sit with her nasty face and her annoying personality packed away, while I spent hours and days toying with the feature we’d had enlarged to stretch all the way from her jaw line to her belly button. In my rewrite, she liked it, or knew that it didn’t matter whether she liked it. That, I know, would have been ideal. That would have been bliss. I leave her alone and write it off as a learning experience. This is the world I actually live in. It’s impossible to walk down the street, now, without looking for the zippers on the bodies of others. So far I haven’t seen any. It hasn’t caught on as a fad. But sooner or later I’ll find someone who knows that the zipper is the only important thing; or one sufficiently eager to please, or fool, into changing herself in any way I demand. It’s only a matter of time. In the meantime, getting ready, I’m taking classes in tailoring.

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - A Conspiracy of Ravens

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

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About the Book

THE BATTLE LINES HAVE BEEN DRAWN. THE WAR HAS BEGUN.

James Hicks has spent his entire life and career fighting on the front lines of terrorism for the clandestine intelligence organization known as The University. Hicks has learned that enemies can appear and disappear in the blink of an eye, and allegiances shift like the wind. But now, Hicks has finally discovered his true enemy: the criminal organization known as The Vanguard.

This shadowy group has operated as a deadly organization comprised weapons dealers, drug runners, and money launderers for decades, but has now decided to add regime change to their catastrophic agenda. But knowing the enemy is one thing. Being able to defeat it is another matter entirely. When Hicks uncovers a solid lead on his new adversaries, his world explodes. His home base is attacked, his operatives in the field are wiped out, and, for the first time, The University finds itself in open combat against an unknown enemy. In a battle that rages from the streets of Manhattan to the halls of power in Washington, D.C., to the dark alleys of Berlin, Hicks will have to use every resource at his disposal to defeat A Conspiracy of Ravens.

Interview with the Author

What initially got you interested in writing? 

I’ve always been a big fan of movies, even when I was a kid. My parents favored the classics, where studios churned them out like clockwork. The plots were usually engaging and so were the actors. I also come from a family of storytellers – priests and nuns, mostly – so I was introduced to the realities of the human condition early on.

  In college, my desire to tell stories of my own grew and I took my first creative writing class. I wound up graduating with a B.A. in Political Science, but that love of storytelling never left me and I’ve been blessed to go on to have several books published.

  What genres do you write in? What drew you to writing these specific genres? 

I’ve written crime fiction, mysteries, thrillers, a war novella and I’m currently working on a western series. Eventually, I’d like to try my hand at horror, too, but not yet.

  I’ve written in these various genres because each of them allows me to tell a story about some aspect of the human experience. My crime novels set in the 1930s depict desperate people at a desperate time. I write about criminals and murderers who turn out to be the heroes of the story. They might not be someone you’d like to meet in a bar or have over for the holidays, but for the purposes of reading, they’re compelling characters.

  My spy thrillers allowed me to delve into modern day paranoia and fears of excessive government intrusion into our lives. Is someone really watching us? Who’s trying to hurt us and why? Who are the people trying to stop them? In my James Hicks series, I take a different angle on the thriller genre wherein I make Hicks believable because he’s not always likable. It’s hard for me as a reader to relate to a character who is too good. That makes them predictable. A character like Hicks allows me to show the reader the shadow world in which he lives while doing what he can to protect our way of life. I never think the reader is always going to like him. I just want to keep them interested in reading him. So far, that tactic seems to work. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some readers tell me, “Man, that Hicks is a real S.O.B., isn’t he?” I take a certain pride in that.

  My new western series is about a sheriff in Montana in 1888. I think westerns always reflect the times in which they are written. In the 1950s, they portrayed rugged individualism and family values because that’s what post-war America wanted. In the 1960s and 1970s, we saw revisionist westerns that focused more on the brutality of life back then. Heroes weren’t always heroes and few people rode off into the sunset unscathed. In the 1980s, action was the order of the day until Lonesome Dove came along and showed us how beautiful a western could be. Today, and this is certainly the case with my western, my protagonist is Aaron Mackey, a sheriff who finds himself at odds with his times. His decisions aren’t always popular, but necessary. His job isn’t to be liked. It’s to protect the town he grew up in and has been elected to serve. He’s a man driven by his own code, and sometimes that code means he does the right thing. Sometimes it might not seem that way to the other characters, but Mackey doesn’t care. He reflects a lot of the rebelliousness of our current day, where we question everything and for good reason.

  How did you break into the field? 

I had always dabbled in writing since college. I pawed at a couple of books, the first being a business thriller called TENETS OF POWER. In hindsight, the book was too long and too involved to be interesting and I didn’t have any luck in finding an agent for it. But all of my hard work didn’t go to waste. I’ve since harvested that book for plotlines in other works I’ve done, particularly in my 1930s novel PROHIBITION.

  I had workshopped PROHIBITION for a few years, then in the early 2006, I began sending it out to agents. Once again, no one bit. The feedback was always the same. No one cares about period fiction anymore.

  Then, in 2008, a friend of mine encouraged me to enter the book in TruTV’s Search for the Next Great Crime Writer contest. Much to my surprise, it beat out over 200 other novels to win the prize. I was supposed to be published by Borders, but when they went out of business, I was out of luck.

  I was fortunate enough to find Ron Fortier and Rob Davis of Airship 27 who loved the book and published it. It received great reviews and caught the eye of Jason Pinter at Polis Books. A few years later, Jason republished PROHIBITION and its sequel SLOW BURN as well as my spy-thriller SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL. I’ve been with him ever since and he’s been great to work with.

    What do you want readers to take away from reading your works? 

That I’ll never give them anything less than my best. People might not like my subject, my style or my characters, but no one can ever say I mailed it in on a novel. I believe the publishing business IS a business, so if you’re buying my product, you deserve my very best. I haven’t yet tried to write the Great American Novel and I’ve never written a book that was meant to change anyone’s life. However, when people tell me they couldn’t put the book down and can’t wait for the next one, I feel like I’ve done my job. 

  What do you find most rewarding about writing? 

I find the feedback I receive from readers to be the most consistently rewarding part of writing. The feedback has been mostly positive, but it’s been negative, too. Most of those complaints came from people who didn’t like the genre or were expecting a different kind of book. A few complaints were pointed observations made by people who know the genre very well. I took those complaints to heart and kept them in mind when I worked on the next book.

  When it comes to the art of writing itself, there’s no greater endorphin rush for me than the thrill of feeling a story take off as I’m typing it. I know it might sound weird to someone who has never written a book or a story, but these characters really do take on a life of their own. I recently started writing a novel and quickly realized I had started in the middle of the book. I had to go back and tell it from the beginning. It’s more work, but I don’t look at it that way. I look at it as the story telling itself through me. Again, we’re not talking high literature here, but I want every story I tell to be the best it can be. But when you hit that scene just right or that idea pops into my head, man, there’s nothing better than that.

  What do you find most challenging about writing? 

I find the editing process to be the most challenging part about writing. It’s also the most important part of the process. Almost anyone can sit at a keyboard and bang out a story. The editing process makes you cull it down and mold it into something cohesive and compelling. After that, I have to read it again to make sure all of the seams have been covered. And again after that. After the third pass, I can’t read it anymore because it all blurs together for me. Often, by then, my mind is already straining at the bit to move on to the next work anyway, so I rely on beta readers to help ensure I haven’t left anything out or left a gaping hole in the plot.

    What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field? 

If you’re going to be a writer, you’d better be tough. You’d better be ready for rejection and you’ve got to take criticism. That’s not always easy, especially when you’ve labored over something for months or years. You develop an attachment to it and bristle at even the slightest hint that it’s not as perfect as you envision it.

  But a mentor of mine told me long ago that writing isn’t about the writer, it’s about the writer and their relationship to the reader. I might know what I mean, but if it’s not on the page, I can’t expect the reader to divine what I mean. People are entitled to their opinion and readers are right more than they’re wrong. As long as the critique is coming from an honest place, the writer must consider it.

  The other piece of advice I’d offer a new reader is to write in secret whenever possible. That sounds crazy, I know. Conspiratorial, even, like something out of one of my spy novels. But believe me when I tell you that the act of becoming a writer is very intimidating to some people. You’re attempting to do something that most people couldn’t do even if they had the courage to try. People tend to enjoy tearing down those who attempt what they cannot. The less people who know about what you’re trying to do, the better your story will be. There will be plenty of time for the critiques I mentioned above, but first, just sit down and do it and keep doing it until it’s done. When you’re ready, show it to the world. It’ll be your scariest, but most rewarding moment.

  What type of books do you enjoy reading? 

I like thrillers, mostly. I read westerns when I’m writing a western, just to make sure my spy thriller voice doesn’t bleed into that genre. It keeps me honest and keeps me engaged. I’m not worried about another author’s work bleeding into my own. In order to write, you have to read a lot because one never knows what will spark that next idea for your story.

  Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you? 

I think people would be surprised that I’m as quiet as I am. People read my work and expect me to be a larger-than-life character. I’m really not. I prefer to keep to myself and I listen a lot. Wherever I am, I overhear how people speak to each other. I listen to their concerns and watch them on their phones on their way to and from work. Observation helps keep me grounded and, as always, gives me inspiration for my next novel or short story.

    What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work? 

All of my works are available online on Amazon, BN.com and all of the usual places in both print and e-book formats. I’m also on Facebook as Terrence P. McCauley and on Twitter as @tmccauley_nyc. My website is www.terrencemccauley.com. Feel free to drop me a line or ask me a question. And if you’ve purchased one of my books, please leave a review. They help, believe me.

  About the Author

Terrence McCauley is the award-winning author of two previous James Hicks thrillers: SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL and A MURDER OF CROWS, as well as the historical crime thrillers PROHIBITION and SLOW BURN (all available from Polis Books). He is also the author of the World War I novella THE DEVIL DOGS OF BELLEAU WOOD, the proceeds of which go directly to benefit the Semper Fi Fund. His story “El Cambalache” was nominated for the Thriller Award by International Thriller Writers.

Terrence has had short stories featured in Thuglit, Spintetingler Magazine, Shotgun Honey, Big Pulp and other publications. He is a member of the New York City chapter of the Mystery Writers of America, the International Thriller Writers and the International Crime Writers Association.

A proud native of The Bronx, NY, he is currently writing his next work of fiction. Please visit his website at terrencemccauley.com or follow him at @terrencepmccauley.

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BLOG TOUR – A Conspiracy of Ravens was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir