#me and my old black biro | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

myhoneststudyblr · 3 years

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my masterpost | my studygram | ask me anything

[click images for high quality]

[transcript under the cut]

Other advice posts that may be of interest:

All About Procrastination

How To Study When You Really Don’t Want To

Common Study Mistakes

7 Strategies to Improve Concentration

How to make your notes aesthetic!

Simple additions to elevate your notes!

Disclaimer

You. don't. need. to. make. your. notes. aesthetic.

The best notes are the ones that work for you. It doesn't really matter what they look like if they are functional and help you achieve your goals! If that is no-nonsense quickly scrawled notes in an old biro, then as far as I am concerned those notes are perfect.

I am making this post because I get asked very often how to do pretty notes but aren't quite sure how. I really hope this post gives you some ideas to spice up your notes!

Organise your notes

Plan

Before starting notes, see how much you have to write so you figure out how much space you need.

Sub-headings

An easy way to separate different sections of information that you can still make pretty by using different fonts.

Dividers

Another way to separate sections that can add a bit of interest by using different styles such as dots, vines, stars, waves, or garlands.

Boxes

The best way to highlight important information! you can draw them yourself with different borders or use post it notes for colour!

Use a consistent colour scheme

How many colours?

When writing notes, too many colours can make the page seem overwhelming and disorganised. This is why I usually stick to my black pen for writing and then two other colours for headings, highlighting and other accents. The most I would go would be three additional colours, and only if I am very sure that the colours go well together!

What colours should I choose?

There are lots of different ways that you can choose colours depending on what you want for your notes:

MONOCHROMATIC - all one colour in different shades and tints

ANALOGOUS - one main colour paired with the two colours directly next to it on the colour wheel

COMPLEMENTARY - two colours directly opposite each other on the colour wheel

TRIADIC - three colours that are equally placed in lines around the colour wheel, like a triangle

Decorations

Doodles

Doodles add interest to your notes and can also be good forms of notation; for example, a lightbulb next to a key fact. You can also use diagrams.

Stickers

If you aren't confident with drawing stickers can be a good way of adding decoration and illustrations.

Washi tape

A great way to add patterns and colour to your notes. You can layer different tapes or along boxes and post-it notes.

Shadows

You can add shadows to text and boxes and are an easy way to elevate your notes because they instantly create a 3D effect.

Stationery

Some supplies you can use in your notes.

A good quality writing pen

A good pen can make all the difference so try some new ones until you find the one that works best for you!

Highlighters

Adds colour, makes key information stand out and can be used for titles. My personal favourites are Zebra Mildliners!

Colour Pens

Like highlighters, they can be used to contrast your normal writing pen and for decorations like doodles and boxes.

Practice makes perfect!

As with everything, practice is how you get better. The first set of notes you do probably won't be the best. Quite frankly, the second, third and fourth sets of notes you do probably won't be either.

But over time, you will develop your own style, discover what you like and also get better at different elements. Even now, I still find myself constantly evolving with my notes and it is so fun to try new things so don't be afraid of not being perfect immediately because, with practice, the only thing you can do is improve!

Good luck with your notes!

I really hope you found this helpful and it gives you some new ideas!

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shove-off-malfoy · 2 years

Text

Written for day 14 - ‘love letters’ @hdcandyheartsfest

Love Letters -

To Draco, every letter Harry sends him is a love letter.

21.7.1998 Sent from the Manor, on thick parchment in dark green ink.

Dear P

Har

Potter,

I am almost certain you would rather that I nor anyone else of my nature ever contact you again, but it would not feel right to go without thanking you for what you said at my trial. It was surprising and undeserved. I am endlessly grateful. My mother is safe and well now, thanks to you. Have a good life, Potter. It must sound shocking coming from me, but you of all people really deserve one. And thanks again.

D. Malfoy

25.7.1998 Sent from The Burrow, on a crumbled, coffee stained bit of paper in biro.

Malfoy,

I did what I thought you deserved. You don’t deserve Azkaban, so I testified in favour of you not being locked up. Sometimes it’s just as simple as that. As for your mother, I am glad she’s feeling better and I wish you both well.

Try to have a better life, Malfoy. See you around.

Harry

8.2.2001 Sent from Harry Potter’s office on the Fifth floor of the Ministry, on bright pink memo paper and white ink.

Memo from - Mr. H. J. Potter, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Directed to - Mr. D. L. Malfoy, Department of Lawfully Mandated Service.

Malfoy,

Heard you’re working on your Potions mastery. If true please come to my office on the fifth floor at lunch today. In urgent need of potions help. It will count towards your community service. Thanks.

(Not obligatory, don’t feel like you have to)

(But I would really appreciate it if you would.)

Harry.

8.2.2001 Sent from the break room for the Department of Lawfully Mandated Service, on the back of an old form in black ink.

Dear Potter,

(I don’t think you know how to use brackets.)

I am not allowed to send memos at the Ministry so I will contact you via owl. I am doing my potions mastery - how you know that, I have no idea. Keeping tabs on me Potter?

I would be happy I am available to help, although I’m not sure how much assistance I can provide, being essentially a civilian and convicted death eater. Do your superiors know you’re asking for my help?

I will see you 1 pm sharp.

Draco

17.4.2001 Sent from Grimmauld Place living room, corner of a piece of paper work in blue biro.

Draco,

Drinks? 6pm, The Red Lion. The whole lot will be there. And before you say anything, they’ve all invited you. You deserve to come with us, couldn’t have done it without your help after all.

(The bar is Muggle, not just aggressively Gryffindor)

Harry

18.4.2001 Sent from flat 42, North Botanic Alley on the back of a takeaway menu.

Dear Potter,

I am endlessly sorry for my behavior last night. Three years with strict limits against any substance use, and I’ve completely forgotten my limits. As it turns out I’m a disappointingly sloppy lightweight.

I can’t actually remember if I said this last night so I am going to now. Thank you for trusting my help those months ago, and letting me assist on the case. Your trust means a lot.

You have mine too.

Draco

18.4.2001 Sent from Grimmauld Place master bedroom, rough bit of paper in pencil.

Draco,

I feel the need to tell you that you did say that, and many other sappy truths while far from sober last night. It was a beautiful night, must repeat soon :)

Thank you for trusting me too.

Harry,

9.11.2001 Sent from Ron and Hermione’s living room, on Hermione’s ‘special occasion’ floral scented paper in one of her nice fountain pens, accompanied by a firm ‘how dare you use my nice stationery’

Draco,

Games night? You up for it? Just a few of us. Hermione’s left the flew open. Pop round when you’ve closed up the lab.

Harry.

9.11.2001 Sent from Remedies in Botanic Alley on a Muggle post-it.

Dear Harry,

Just closing up, see you soon.

Draco.

1.1.2003 Written at the fireplace of The Potter House, Godric’s Hollow, waiting for the floo to open.

Draco,

You can pretend you’re not home all you like I’m still going to knock. Please come see me.

An incredible pissy Harry James Potter.

3.1.2003 Sent from Harry’s bedroom, The Potter House, Godric’s Hollow on thick parchment.

Draco,

Please talk to me. It’s worse when you shut me out. It’s fine if you regret it, we can just be friends.

I’ll take anything. Anything you want to give, I’ll take it.

Harry.

4.1.2003 Sent from kitchen of The Potter House, Godric’s Hollow on the back of an old sugar packet.

Draco for fuck sake you can’t just kiss someone and then completely block them out of your life. Particularly when that someone is me. Open the fucking floo.

12.1.2003 Sent from Remedies in Botanic Alley, on the back of an order for eel flesh.

Dear Harry,

I picked up your favourite after work, just coming over now. See you soon.

Draco x

24.3.2003 Sent from alley outside Tesco on the receipt for milk.

Draco,

I’ve got milk and snake skin powder. Anything else?

Harry.

27.8.2004 Sent from the living room, home, Godric’s Hollow.

Dearest Harry,

Come, home darling. The work can wait until Monday.

I’m waiting for you.

Draco x

27.8.2004 Sent from Harry Potter’s office on the Fifth floor of the Ministry, on the back of a photo showing two wizards smiling, written in biro.

Draco,

Coming home. I love you.

Harry.

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #harry/draco #ron weasley #hermione granger #drarry fanfic #hdcandyheartsfest2022 #valentine #love letters #drarry ficlet #fluff #soft

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 3 years

Text

Mystery Writer (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Spencer finds books at a second hand bookstore that are annotated and he falls the person writing the notes.

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins server! This is for the marvellous @definitelynotkatesblog <3 I really hope you like it! I had to delete the original post because it didn't show up in the tags. This will be staying up regardless of that now.

Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

“If you need anything, just let me know!”

Spencer pressed his lips together at the person behind the till before heading deeper into the rows of second-hand books. Familiar titles, old and new, printed on spines in various states of pristine/decay, they tempted him to select and bring them home with him. The clear sections between biographies and fiction guided him deeper into the forest, deeper into finding his way out. He was hoping to adopt one such book for a day off, when he could revisit it with a fresh eye. It would be like seeing an old friend again, remembering why they were friends in the first place with a hint of that initial read through from years ago, and perhaps he would learn something new in the process.

A dull ache in his chest at the sight of The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan Doyle. But he had long since recovered from that heartbreak and he would be able to read this story without feeling that again.

Still. It had been several years since he read this book.

His nervous fingers plucked it off the shelf and the pages fell open for him. A flattened gum wrapper parted the pages like the Red Sea. Spencer lifted it out tentatively. Its creases were ironed in from its role as a temporary bookmark, an impression of scribbled black ink flattened after it was made.

Spencer’s eyes scanned over the page in search of what this gum wrapper might have been guarding.

“Women are never to be entirely trusted – not the best of them.”

In the margins was scribbled:

Product of the time, but still a prick, rude smartarse role a bit dull

Spencer found himself exhaling in light laughter. That a lack of empathy was considered “dull” by this person, when it was something he dealt with in his job almost every day. The confidence in this commentary too, this brazen critique of a much beloved fictional character was left for someone else to find.

His gaze found Watson’s opinion of Holmes’ casual sexism: “atrocious sentiment”. It was circled twice in the same black biro.

Spencer dug his thumb against the text block and flicked through the book. A waft of that book smell lifted from the paper, accompanied by the bold notes of the previous owner dotted across the text until he finally landed on the reverse of the front cover. Two letters – initials - were scratched onto it.

It was with bridled exhilaration that Spencer approached the till and held up the book with a half-smile. His hands were quick to place it down on the counter so that the shop assistant could type the price into the till. His mood was apparently palpable because they seemed just as happy as Spencer to hand him back the novel in a brown paper bag – the receipt tucked inside.

--->--->--->--->--->

“Love is an emotional thing, and whatever emotional is opposed to what is true, cold reason, which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”

What a lonely existence and also a lie. See: entire relationship w/ Dr. Watson!

Spencer smiled at this comment. Now all the other instances of a double underlining made sense. Each one produced itself in his mind as evidence that Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact love. Maybe not marry, but it would have been terribly unconventional for him to wed Doctor John Watson. The unknown author seemed to understand this. They never emphasised if this love was platonic or romantic. But the way in which they proved love existed within this character oft portrayed as emotionless, Spencer simply adored. They were a romantic reader, who still enjoyed reading about the cynic

He grew quite aware of his posture in that moment and he straightened his back. A few clicks of complaint emitted as he stretched, his head twisting from side to side. Screwing his eyes open and shut behind his glasses, he revisited your deduction.

On the dot of the “i” in “lie”, there was a sprinkle of graphite around the indent from where a pencil’s lead had snapped from the effort put into topping off this point. A sprinkle of graphite smudged where the pages pressed together.

Spencer moved on to where a sentence in black biro tried to blend in with the printed words. A memory appeared at the front of his mind: when Rossi was bewildered to learn Spencer and Dr. Alex Blake wrote the newspaper crossword in pen.

The pencil markings were like mini brainstorms, something to revisit and make a solid theory with the black biro. But the planning was never rubbed out.

Little quotes were circled. This mystery critic spent half the book roasting the characters and the other half leaving little exclamation marks and circles around phrases and words when they couldn’t think of something to say. Spencer found it sweet, picturing the thrilling unfolding of events for the reader to revisit.

His heart ached in bittersweet memory as he recalled the contents of Dr Alex Blake’s book The Route of Linguistics. It was necessary pain to create a profile of who this mystery critic was. Yes, he was profiling out of work hours. His evenings were now spent trying to picture the voice behind the notes. The sarcasm, the witty blows to the character’s and author’s ego. He almost wished that he couldn’t read so fast because he finished the book, even with its additional notations, all too quickly. But there was one bonus.

Spencer traced the pad of his fingertip over the exclamation marks describing Mary Morstan. What else might a detractor of the great Sherlock Holmes read?

--->--->--->--->--->

He had returned to the bookshop in favour of adopting another. Yet he could not find one that satisfied his unknown criteria. It was not until he found himself checking the front pages of the fifth book he had selected, that he realised he was looking for a pair of initials.

Sighing, he placed My Dear Bessie, with its empty front page, back on the shelf. The chances of finding another book containing this mystery critic were so minute. He could probably calculate them if he wanted to dedicate himself to such a disheartening statistic. He’d rather not spend his lunch break doing that, as much as he loved statistics. This once, they did not assure his safety and he remained unsupported by the fact that he could not find any other Arthur Conan Doyle books.

His desperation became most apparent when he thought that perhaps fate should just decide for him. If anything, he would come away with a random book to read through in about ten minutes on a flight back home.

He peeked around the corner of the shelves. The shop assistant at the till was busy writing something down, not paying any mind to the shop’s only customer.

“A random shot had no better odds than just picking books off one by one” is what he told himself as he closed his eyes and placed his fingers on the end of the shelf, just over the first book’s spine. In an “S” pattern, his arm moved up and down, over the books and shelves and gaps between units. His feet stepped forwards into the space he knew was clear.

Spencer stopped and opened his eyes, his finger shifting just an inch out of the way of his new book’s title.

Circe. Madeline Miller.

He tapped the top and the book fell forwards, where he caught it. Its shining dust jacket was serving its purpose, a few tears along the edges from where it had protected the hardcover. He checked the front page. A map of Aiaia in orange and brown filled it to the corners. On the next page, his heart stuttered at the sight of two initials in the same handwriting and the same biro. There was also a scribble - invisible to start with then a ball of black.

The first page with the story’s text held a scribble just above its opening line:

the power of the name

“When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.”

He could see that the first was in a blunt pencil, but the addition was a sharpened point carving into the paper. A secondary thought that was provided after completing the novel, they had added it. Spencer lifted it to his face, his eyes crossing to keep the stipple in focus. The scent of the paper and the graphite reached him easily; the note must have been made just before Circe was gifted to him. How lucky he was to find such a treasure.

The shop assistant was cutting out a new sign for “BUY ONE GET ONE HALF PRICE!”. By the time Spencer made it to them, the sign was placed upon the pile besides him. The shop assistant smoothed out a crease on the dust jacket, ineffectively but Spencer admitted the gesture. He was glad that someone who loved books as much as him got to work in a place like this.

--->--->--->--->--->

Spencer’s mind, definitely for worse, echoed the words off the tabloids around his head the split second he made eye contact with the headlines. He paced the shelves to somewhere a little quieter. When he found the chocolate aisle, he pretended to peruse. Ever half a minute or so, his gaze drifted up to the till area where the shop owner was on a phone call and clearly not paying attention to him.

It was not long before Spencer grew bored of looking at KitKats, and he pulled out One Thousand And One Nights. The book’s pages fell again to page 57. This shop’s receipt stood above them, still holding its place from the previous owner. It felt wrong to part the two.

No new people had entered this corner shop for 8 minutes. He’d even given the time at the receipt’s end a fifteen-minute margin either side. Given that this mystery critic took a break from work at the same time on the same day of the week – and that they worked during the day – he should have seen them. Maybe he had, and they were that man in the baggy hoodie who stunk of weed. Probably not. Hopefully not. Not that Spencer was judging him for his… recreational activities. He just wanted the mystery critic to be someone he could realistically spend time with.

Just then, Spencer’s phone trilled annoyingly loud. He received a glare from the shop manager and Spencer sent an awkward apologetic expression his way before answering JJ quickly.

“Spencer, we’ve got a case. We need you here ASAP.”

His response was immediate. “Ok, be there in ten.” Hanging up, Spencer dithered on the spot then grabbed a packet of Cheetos. He’d been there for nearly twenty minutes; he had to get something.

“Three dollars,” the manager said before returning to his call. But not before he rolled his eyes at Spencer. Spencer dropped the bills onto the counter and dashed out before he could be offered a receipt.

--->--->--->--->--->

An outlier in the usual length of case work had passed by in five long days. Spencer hardly ever regretted the time he put into this job. Every unsub caught was lives saved. But the absence of his mystery commentator had been niggling at the back of his busy mind and he was glad to finally reunite with them on this long flight back.

From his satchel, he recovered the copy of One Thousand And One Nights and began rereading the notes to ground himself in the story. His focus lingered on the page as if he were reading it at the average 250 words per minute. It allowed him to block out the humming of the engine.

Spencer did not take his eyes off the page as he pulled open his desk drawer and popped a piece of overpriced gum into his mouth. Half-hearted reminders bounced in his head, from when he tried smoking and chewing gum to ease his cravings. The fruit flavour was very clearly artificial and it faded within six minutes. Why his mystery critic would pick such a pathetic packet of gum to chew, he didn’t know. But hopefully the fact of its flavour disappearing fast would mean they get through the packet quicker and buy another soon. Even if today, and the days before, spent in that shop did not lean in favour of that hypothesis.

--->--->--->--->--->

The Five People You Meet In Heaven was in the Recently Donated pile. It was near the top, slid towards the edge of the container after being placed wonkily on a copy of some sports autobiography.

Within the pages was more than Spencer could have ever hoped for. Entire paragraphs were circled, quotes underlined. A squashed mini post-it note tabbed the page and a whole paragraph was scrawled on it, about Tala. An arrow pointing to the underside, Spencer lifted the flap and saw more to read, like an interactive pop-up book that he’d gotten Henry for his second birthday. Spencer closed his eyes quick and snapped the book shut. He wanted to save it for when he was sitting comfortably, not while he was rushing back to work in time for JJ to get to her lunch break on time.

The shop assistant had just clipped the lid back onto a green highlighter when Spencer drew up to their counter. With careful fingers, he placed the book upon it. There was a twitch of the assistant’s mouth; their eyes brightened. They looked like they wanted to say something, but something else held them back from making the first move. Spencer recognised it from his school days.

“It’s a good read.” He spoke after they had typed the price into the till.

“I know,” The assistant replied instantly, a relieved smile on their lips, “What part are you on?”

“I’ve already read it, but I wanted to revisit the passage at the diner.”

“Ahh, that’s a good bit. One of my favourites.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed a fraction of an inch. His gaze dropped to the nametag on the left side of their chest. Y/N, their name’s first initial. It couldn’t be.

“What did you think about the final person, Tala?”

“Oh,” The shop assistant clutched at their heart, “I was an emotional wreck before and it hit me hard just as the rest did. So bittersweet to hear her forgiveness. It took me a few times to finish reading the end, but it was all worth it.”

He couldn’t be this lucky, to get this many books from the same person and to have them standing in front of him. Spencer didn’t believe in luck.

As he reached across for his new book, he turned over the cover, “Was this yours?”

Twisting their head around to read the publication details, the assistant – Y/N - smiled sheepishly at the initials. “Yes, and I’m glad to see it go to a new home.”

Apparently luck believed in him.

“But,” Spencer felt his brows knit automatically as he looked between the book and their previous owner, “You love it. I-I’ve seen your notes.”

A hand clapped over Y/N’s mouth, “Oh God, you must have. I mean, it wasn’t the intention initially, but I thought they might be a little entertaining for anyone who picks it up to leave them in there.”

“Oh, they were! I’d love to read more of your thoughts. Hear, hear them, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Y/N checked the door to the shop, still shut, and back to Spencer. They dropped their elbows onto the countertop with their chin in their palms. “What did you wanna know?”

From his bag, Spencer procured his – their – copy of The Sign of Four and flicked through the pages. So many places to choose, but he wanted to open with what had introduced him to Y/N’s analysis.

The pair put their heads together, leaning on the counter. Spencer could smell the chewing gum on their breath. Y/N never cut him off, and he never wanted to cut them off. There were little pauses at the end of each of their turns to speak before the other picked up where they had left off. Their voices leapt from secretive whispers to passionate orations of their favourite passages, rebounding evidence and analysis off each other like a bouncy ball. Spencer finally had a voice to put to the sarcasm, the one his mind had conjured long forgotten in the wake of Y/N’s enthusiasm.

The shop’s door swung open. Spencer leapt to attention as an older woman swept in, past the two of them towards the non-fiction section. Y/N adjusted their name tag, their back straight too. The clock behind the till announced that it was now twenty minutes after the end of Spencer’s lunch break.

Running on the rush of his hobby meeting a potential friend, Spencer asked, “Can I get your number? So we can talk more, maybe swap some more books, when you’re not working?”

His luck was still by his side as Y/N wrote out their number on his receipt, written in their infamous black biro.

--->--->--->--->--->

Spencer leapt over to the door of his apartment, took a deep breath, and unlocked it. Stood behind where it had been was Y/N and they too were still wearing the uniform from work. Their nametag was still on their polo shirt, the same spot that Spencer wore his FBI tag.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked the second they made a step inside his abode.

“Tea would be great. Milk and one sugar please.”

And while he was in the kitchen, Y/N rushed over to the bookshelves, their eyes wide to take in Spencer’s collection. “Oh wow! You weren’t joking!” Their finger indicated to a hard cover copy of Mean Time by Carol Ann Duffy, “That’s one of mine. Well, yours now.”

Plucking it from the shelf, they opened it up. Spencer had written his initials beside theirs.

Spencer stuck his head out in the partition, “Ours. If we’re going to be sharing.” Y/N stood on tiptoes, teeming with delight, their hands cradling the book with all the care Spencer could hope for in a fellow reader. Joint custody of their books and their passion? What a dream.

“I just have to write a little more about the epilogue, and I’ll be with you,” Y/N took their place on his couch. A pencil began scribbling away their thoughts onto the last few pages. Their knees were their desk.

Spencer finished brewing and placed the mug in front of Y/N, who mumbled a quick thank you to him. He joined them in writing his final notes. It slowed him down a considerable amount, but he was glad to take things at a casual pace, especially considering the way that Y/N almost broke their pencil as they scrawled out their thoughts for Spencer to hear later.

“Have you thought about the next one you’d like to try?” Spencer asked tentatively. He wasn’t so sure if Y/N would want to be interrupted.

Luckily for him, Y/N paused their stream of consciousness to look back at his books, “Hmm. So much to choose from.”

Stood up, their book left in Spencer’s care. They took a deep breath, closed their eyes and used their forefinger to draw a zigzag over the spines. Spencer felt that he was almost sick with joy.

Y/N stilled their wandering hand and opened their eyes, already drawing out the selected novel, “This one.”

“And what have you chosen for me next time?”

Y/N handed over The Butterfly Lion from their bag, “Ok, I can’t wait any longer, what do you think?”

They sat back on the couch. Their legs now hung over the arm of the couch, elbows either side and face cupped in their palms. The book rested in their lap. Shifting so that he faced them completely, Spencer returned to the first page and his analysis began.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #my writing

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emberheart · 3 years

Text

Romanticisms from today

Because life is short and romanticising it makes it better (:

Bus journeys. It was raining on my bus today and I was listening to slowed childhood songs and it was a v i b e

Bringing old books to school and reading them in my study periods while I procrastinate my school work, sitting by the window and pretending there was no one else there but me

Running through the rain when my friend and I were late for the bus and there were raindrops clinging to her eyelashes and making my hair go frizzy and it didn't matter at that moment that we both had exams that morning because we were alive.

Sitting at the front in my ethics lesson, half turned around in my seat when we were talking about the afterlife and what happens after you die, thinking like philosophers from ancient Greece and looking at the same clouds as they did.

Taking an exam in my English class, palms scrubbed clean of the ink on them and writing with a cheap black biro in quick, basically illegiable handwriting, clean copies of poems in front of me and a scribbled sheet of 5-minute planning.

Buying an iced coffee on the way home from school and walking home in the rain in a checked skirt and my sister's blazer, boots splashing in puddles and listening to acoustic songs and forgetting about the train wreck of an essay I wrote because the rain sounded pretty and the coffee was on offer and nothing else mattered but right here and right now.

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thedvilsinthedetails · 4 months

Text

microfic for @wolfstarmicrofic with the prompt “passion”

word count:600

inspired by this post by @theres-an-endless-starry-sky

Remus glanced over at Sirius shyly out of the corner of his eye. James had prefect rounds that night and Peter had taken advantage of that to spend some quality time with Benjy in some broom closet somewhere which meant it was just them two in the dorm that evening.

“Moony?”

Sirius said suddenly, turning to him with wide eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Can we- um talk? I need to talk to you.”

Sirius spun his wand around in his hand as he spoke. It was a nervous habit of his that he’d picked up during O.W.L.S. Remus nodded and Sirius quickly got up and hurried over to Remus’ bed, perching himself on the end next to Remus. Remus could easily hear his heartbeat now, the way it sped up as he moved closer, now thrumming wildly in his chest.

It had started a few months ago. The morning after a full moon, Remus had woken up and glanced around the infirmary to see a boy resting on the bed opposite him, shooting him a bleary smile when he sat up.

As it turned out Moony and Padfoot had gotten a bit too rough with all the play fighting the previous night. Sirius had broken a leg. Remus had felt terrible, crawled onto the infirmary bed as he repeated it over and over, wrapping his arms around Sirius as he apologised. Sirius had said it was fine, he didn’t mind. Still Remus had felt the way his heart started racing as soon as he got close.

It’s pretty tough as is, being in love with your best friend. Turns out it’s even worse when you realise you scare the living daylights of said best friend.

Remus had hoped it would lessen and disappear, he’d spent the next months being extra nice to Sirius, braiding his hair every day, sharing his chocolate, anything to try and make it up to him. It wasn’t working though judging by the pounding he could hear in the other boy’s chest. Sirius probably hated him with a burning passion at this point after all that annoying hovering around he’d done.

He reached out a hand and (after Sirius didn’t move away for a few seconds) placed it down on Sirius’ arm in an attempt to comfort him. He cringed internally as he felt Sirius shiver in response, skin covered in goosebumps. Keep going. You’re just doing great there aren’t you. Fucking hell.

“So? You uh- wanted to talk to me?”

He’s going to say he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore. Finally realised I’m a goddamn monster. It’s ok it’s ok it’s ok.

“Yeah…Moons you wouldn’t get angry if I said something stupid right? If I did something stupid? Not like what happened in fifth year. I promise I’m never doing anything like that again I swear I-“

“Sirius.”

“Right. It’s stupid. Yeah, it’s really really stupid but it’s about how I feel. You promise you won’t get mad yeah?”

How I feel. How I feel about you. How much I hate you now.

“Sirius I wont get mad. I could never- I care about you so much.”

Sirius swallowed before turning to face Remus.

“How much?”

“So fucking much. More than you could ever know.”

He felt tears pricking in his eyes as he spoke. Sirius was ending it all, Sirius was never going to talk to him again, Sirius was-

straddling him?

Sirius was leaning in. Sirius was pressing their lips together and kissing him and wrapping his arms around Remus’ waist and holding their bodies close and- fucking hell.

Sirius was wonderful.

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jesuisgourde · 3 years

Text

gay/queer references in Peter’s journals

Again, I have probably missed stuff due to going through pretty quickly and also due to having stared at this document for so long, everything has kind of blurred together.

Sometime close to the day that Carlos & I watched 'Love And Death on Long Island' (and afterwards paraded through the tea rooms of Picadilly) we both filled in application forms and were tres excited to be invited to the same group 'interview' - twas more like an audition though. I got the part. Carlos never. This did not bring any animosity - we both know that success for either of us is magnified a million times if it is shared by us both.

from 'A Diamond Guitar' by Truman Capote "Except that they did not combine their bodies or think to do so, though such things were not unknown at the (Prison), they were as lovers. Of the seasons, spring is the most shattering: stalks thrusting through the earth's winter-stiffened crust, young leaves cracking out on old left-to-die branches, the falling asleep wind cruising through all the newborn green. And with Mr Schaeffer it was the same, a breaking up, a flexing of muscles that had hardened. It was late January. The friends were sitting on the steps of the sheep house, each with a cigarette in his hand. A moon thin and yellow as a piece of lemon rind curved above them, and under its light, threads of ground frost glistened like silver snail trails. Tico Feo had been drawn into himself - silent as a robber waiting in the shadows."

Then a meet with Bounds Green's African prince outside whitechapel tube, rugged lookies at I in military attire & to a ruptured Albion rooms tidied in hours and now lids drawn heated on the eyes. A young looking fella has a crush on me.

Jackie/Camillia/Marie/Kate/Chris/V. churchill Jackie/Evelina/Jasmine/Sachi/Dalston/Sussie Sandra/Carlene/FP/Jay/Dalston/Kraut

There sat a young black man, perhaps in his early or middle twenties. He looked for all the world like the archetypal rude boy. Clean, cheap reebok, nike, adidas variously rolled, laced & zipped about his lean, spreadeagled body that hung loosely about the waiting room chair. Gold & tattoos adorned his person, and a blank animal look was attached to his clear face. He sat before me in a row of four empty chairs, staring at polished floor or the mundane television. A balding white man minced in & all perceptions were suddenly proven to be false as they embraced and snuggled up to each other, giggling & whispering & touching each others noses.... very much in love, fingers crossed for the blood tests.

[Image: an article from Gay Times of an interview with Peter. For some reason, the portrait included alongside the article is of Carl wearing a grey and black t-shirt.] Name? Peter Doherty Age? 22 Where are you? I'm on the motorway just north of Southampton. What kind of day are you having? (Vaguely) Erm... quite misty. Something's waiting around the corner, but there are no corners on the motorway, so we'll just have to wait and see what lies ahead. Maybe something will happen tonight.... What's this we hear about you once being a rent boy? Well, when times are hard, duty calls. How long ago was it? When I was 19, about three years ago. How do we know this isn't just a Shaun Ryder-type lie? 'Cause if it was, it would make me a complete scumbag and I'm not, and I'm not interested in that kind of pantomime. It wasn't a very happy time. I didn't really enjoy it. Why did you give it up? (grimly) Well, certain people disappeared... and anyway, ultimately I found myself no longer in such a vulnerable position anymore. Dawn broke, and I realised that it was a beautiful world after all. Have you done any other dodgy jobs? All of us in the band have tried to deal, but it's not good if you like the drugs too much. You just end up using them yourself! I once was a gravedigger. I used to do it with my mate in Willesden Green cemetery. We didn't actually do the digging, a machine did that, but we used to have to fill them in. It was pretty grim work. So are you gay then? Love is love, wherever it comes from. I'm not anything, really. I am a very sexual person but... I dunno, I believe in liberty... The Marquis de Sade has a lot to answer for... Do you get a lot of gay fans? Yeah - well, there's one guy in particular. He's very shy and he follows us around. He brings in letters and cards and stuff, but he's very quiet. I think John (the bassist) is the main pulling power in the band. Are you jealous about that? Nah! I've known him too long.

You know I'm alright i dont even care i like it when they stare & stare call me queer, dear oh dear a million things & what I wear He's real hard when he's with his mates but I'll saw him again & he was too late

Dear NME I'd have thought after the Gay Times piece, the interview with Rapture fanzine & our recent gig at the Slum Club everything would be clear. No it still remains to give a big hearty fuck off to all these twisted suburban types calling me a liar. Vulnerable young men & women all over the world find themselves victims of circumstance.

she was dressed in suit & tie & lightly etched-on moustache. 'I've always wanted to kiss a bird in the back of a taxi.' she says, running her hand up the fishnet ladders of my thigh. Stepping onto the front line in Bow puddles, elevators, buzzing doors,

[Image: the original page in the book has been preserved. Two paragraphs have been boxed off with biro. They read:] “...cast Richard Burton and Rex Harrison as bickering queer barbers and then much more uncompromisingly in William Friedkin's adaptation of The Boys in the Band (1970), which introduced some of the plainer four letter words in the English language to the screen for the first time. 'Who,' asks Cliff Gorman, in his brilliant portrayal of the most effeminate of the homosexual group as they gather for a soul-searching party, 'Who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?' Other homosexual manifestations to occur in movies around this time included an elliptical but unmistakeable male fellatio scene in John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy (1969) when Jon Voight, as a broke and disillusioned Texas stud importunes in a New York cinema....”

[Image, top left: a blurry photo of John onstage, playing bass. Image, top right, sideways: a photo of the band onstage. Carl and John are on the left, sharing a mic. Peter is on the right, playing guitar and singing into his own mic. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his bottom half from the chest down is visible. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his top half from shoulders up is visible. Image, bottom left: a torn fragment of a photo. What looks like a denim-clad knee and a yellow carrier bag are visible. Image, bottom middle: a photo of someone's knee in torn jeans, taken from under a table. Image, bottom right: a torn photo of Carl in a black sleeveless shirt, posing with his fingers in his mouth.] [A paragraph from the original page of the book has been left exposed and boxed off with black biro. It reads:] “The Boys in the Band was displaced by an immeasurably more powerful portrayal of homosexual groups, Fortune and Men's Eyes (1971). Set in a Quebec prison, this disturbing, factually based drama vividly recounted the corrupted of a heterosexual convict trapped in a tough, potentially vicious homosexual society. In one horrifying scene, a weak, put-upon prisoner is gang-banged by his fellow inmates; in another, the 'hero' is blackmailed by his cellmate into accepting him as his lover for the duration...”

Like a cat on a hot tin roof Like a macho man in a roomful of poofs I have tried in my way to be free.

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Jerome... is that how it's spelt? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes it is [Written in Peter's handwriting] Can I read you something? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes please.....

I insist, new book of Albion, befuddled by drugs I may yes about 2 but I do not miss out entirely on the subtleties of the inhuman relation ships that are this the mainstay of my stay here in one bounce of a loaf. Boys are fooled into fooling with boys. [...]

More general references/some extra explanations:

“The boy looked at Johnny” is a line from Patti Smith's song “Horses,” part one of a three-part song called “Land.” In the song, a young man named Johnny is assaulted by another man in a locker room; he then mentally journeys to other fantastical lands and visions. A lot of people interpret it as being about gay sex, although some people interpret it as being about a stabbing.

Peter quotes and references Jean Genet's writing and works about Jean Genet many times. While Genet's works are nearly all about crime and prison (one of Peter's main interests and points of fascination), all of his works are very explicitly gay. The Thief's Journal is more about Genet's various lovers than it is about his criminal history. Our Lady Of The Flowers is about a drag queen and her criminal lovers, and is also extremely erotic.

(“Jerome” is Jerome Alexandre, vocalist of The Deadcuts, who was friends with Peter and Mark Keds.)

#squash transcribes books of albion #peter doherty #feel free to request compilations of other kinds too

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thegirlfulloffandoms · 3 years

Text

Boggie britgate fic

3:30 pm On Wednesday, its detention in room d12 of St Cuthbert's catholic college, London. Maths department.

Notorious Roadman Reginald Peters, better known as Rezza in the community (named after his dad's favourite rolling papers), sits in Mr Wilson's classroom, feet on the table and phone in hand. He's texting his friends about how Mr Wilson was a softie and how it's more proof that he's dodgy dave.

Then Bobby walks in, a perfect uniformed year 9 with dark curtains wanders in looking a little guilty.

' The pope visited last week,Dickhead ' Reggie says, his fingers still typing out a message, most likely one filled with more terrible spelling than Luke's pronunciation.

'Some of us have standards to upkeep you cheeky sod' is Bobby's response, not that kind Reggie expected to hear, especially from the son of the maths department head, but one that seemed to send his heart into an unexpected whirl of thudding.

'Wasteman', he mutters under his breath, looking back down at his phone smirking slightly.

'at least I can spell paedophile.' Bobby tuts sitting down beside him, much to Rezza's dislike. 'you should be in English detention for that shit spelling.'

'piss off,im dyslexic, you twat, at least my da don't pay for all my shit' Reggie scoffs as he turns towards him, a glare in his eyes, a permanent fixture of his face around most people.

He scans his eyes over the other boy. He could get along with him pretty well but, he was the son of his sworn enemy why, the fuck would he want an alliance with such-Bloody hell, Bobby, has cracking eyes doesn't he? Was that eyeliner around them?

It was like someone brought Vlad from Young Dracula to life,except he was like 14 and well,real and surprisingly even better looking.

‘Reggie,i do a goddamn paper round to pay for my shit’ Bobby huffs pulling out his exercise books and a graffiti decorated red pencil case,’anyway i pissed him off’ he grins with a strange sense of pride,who takes pride in pissing off their parents? Reggie struggles to get any positivity from his nevermind getting in trouble.

‘What the fuck did you do? Throw a paper aeroplane in the air with a rumour that he’s screwing Miss Jones?’ Reggie teases,raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms as he looks at him.

‘I broke a dining hall window’ he mutters,not looking up from his book,scribbling the date in black biro in the top corner,’with a chair’

‘You got just detention for that? Fucking hell your dad is a proper wet wipe ain’t he?’ Reggie’s glare is gone,now replaced by an impressed smirk,’HE’S NOT-’ Bobby begins to shout looking at Reggie who is now stifling a laugh,’he’s not a wet wipe,he just treats me differently because im his son,not just a random student’

‘So you’re his favourite then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,i mean you called him a nonce and that's expulsion worthy’

‘Not if the paint comes off’ Reggie winks,rocking back on his chair,obviously forgetting all the teachers warnings.

‘You’re a shit you know that Peters?’ Bobby shakes his head,turning to look at his page of scruffy looking lines,’Rezza is my name innit,im meant to be’ Reggie smirks putting on the voice for effect,feeling weirdly comfortable around Bobby,even though he was the son of his worst enemy.

‘Cut the shit,you’re not hard’ he mutters back,kicking his chair,causing it to screech back.

‘Says you,daddy’s boy’ Reggie scoffs.

‘Well yeah?! I fucked your mum’ Bobby shouts getting more heated as they continue talking,’you fuck my mam? She doesn't live with me tosser’ Reggie calls back,shifting his chair forward.

Bobby stops,his snarky nature dropping when he sees the new pain in Reggie’s eyes,roadmen have feelings too. ‘Woah,hold up,you live with your dad? That prick with the old banger of a ford car?’

‘Yeah ,my childhood was rough’ Reggie shrugs casually,looking at him,’rah stop feeling sorry for me,it’s not a big deal’ he snaps,’why didn’t you tell me? My dad could help-’

‘Yuh but he’s a nonce ain’t he?’

‘For god's sake he’s not a nonce’ Bobby sighs.

‘Alright he’s done nowt wrong,but he looks dodge’ Reggie says, poking Bobby with his finger.

‘Reggie,we were friends last year,what changed?’ Bobby asks softly,changing the subject to one Reggie hadn’t planned for.

‘No we weren’t’ Reggie turns his head away,’Reg’ Bobby continues to push.

‘I COCKED EVERYTHING UP’ Reggie shouts standing up suddenly,his chair falling back,’what made you think that?’ Bobby steps back a little worried at what could happen next.

‘You took me off your snap streaks’ Reggie mutters,’you dropped me like tories drop their kids’

‘They still pay hush money,anyway i never dropped you,i stopped doing them for everyone’ Bobby takes a step closer,taking his hand in his.

‘I got caught up in the grind Rezza,and forgot about my main man,a true king never forgets about his main man,even if he egged his dad's new car’

‘Can we peng things together again?’ Reggie looks up to him,moving in a little closer.

‘Forever innit’ Bobby smiles,pulling him in for a kiss.

A few moments later Mr Wilson walks in,even though he’s happy they’re back together,public displays of affection go against school rules,meaning an extra half hour of detention.

#britgate #roadmanreggie #Vivalabritgate #american'tgate #BritverseJATP #Boggie #julie and the mandem

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ultraclops · 3 years

Text

Day 3: Be True To Yourself

Aka me literally just infodumping about my Ocs because I love them ♡

Brought to you by Colorvision! Yep, I decided to get off my lazy butt and color traditionally today :)

First off, Tiara Depurrnaire (She/Her)! A Sweetypie cat who's partially related to the Snugglemagne family and, in my timeskip AU, Adorabat's future girlfriend. Like Adorabat, she lost her leg to a monster while wandering the King's dungeons. She aspires to be just as brave as Adorabat but lacks the gall, being content to watch and learn from the sidelines. As they both get older Tiara realizes that she is a lesbian, and develops a mutual crush on Adorabat that turns into a relationship. As she ages, Tiara' aspirations to become a hero fade, and she settles for becoming a ballet teacher. She learns to be brave in her own way and unconditionally supports her monster-slaying adventuring partner, no matter how their paths diverge.

T H E Y (Also I need to post my full adult Adorabat design sometime)

Next up is Sherbet (They/Them), a Sweetypie rabbit who makes ice cream for a living! I don't really have a backstory for them but I believe they realized they were nonbinary in their younger years (around early middle school age) and have fully embraced their identity! They don't let anything get them down and are eager to cheer up the citizens of Pure Heart Valley, one ice cream cone at a time. They're also good acquaintances with Badgerclops and Adorabat, for obvious reasons. Their eyes function similarly to Badgerclops', as they only open when they feel strong emotions.

Next (and honestly one of my favorites) is Moa Nola (Xe/Xem), an agender Oriental Shorthair cat who, surprisingly, isn't related to the Mao clan. Xe originally started off as a joke character based on the misspelling of Mao Mao's name in "I'm Mao Mao", but I eventually grew attached to xem and gave xem a full-fledged backstory. Xe comes from a family of fishermen, but after xyr father was killed in a monster attack, xe decided that xe wanted to become a legendary monster hunter. Xe created xyr cloak after xyr first successful monster fight. After being mistaken for the son of Shin Mao too many times, xe used it to xyr advantage and began going under Mao Mao's title for a while. However, after being stopped by Mao Mao himself, xe dropped the act and began looking for a new sense of purpose. Ironically, xe starts collecting antique ventriloquist dummies similar to Mr. Din Danalin.

Following up on the "based on a misspelling" theme is Rhapsody (She/They), a femme-aligned nonbinary Sweetypie vampire bat inspired by Adorabat's name being mistranslated as "doorbat" in YouTube autocaptions. She is Adorabat maternal cousin, as their mother is Sonara's sister. Rhapsody was heavily impacted by Sonara's death, but rather than becoming tough like Adorabat or overprotective like Eugene, she became more reserved out of fear that they could be next. In other words, she became a doorbat (haha funny). With the arrival of Mao Mao and Badgerclops, plus the defeat of the monster that killed their aunt, Rhapsody begins to come out of her shell and indulges in their biggest passion - music. Like Adorabat she learns to use their voice as a weapon, but hers is more of a siren's song than a sonic screech. In my timeskip AU, they leave Pure Heart Valley to become a popstar, writing songs inspired by her childhood memories and their home. It's obscured by the flag but the marking on her chest is a bleeding heart, emphasizing her passionate drive.

(Rhapsody's kid and adult forms [kinda old])

+ OCs of mine I didn't feel like making alternate drawings for:

Buzz-Buzz (Zhe/Ze/Zhey), a demigender Sweetypie bumblebee bat who protects the bees of Pure Heart Valley! Despite zer small stature, zhe is actually an adult, just naturally small. Zhe also grows herbs on the side and volunteers at the Pure Heart Valley hospital. Primarily because zhe has a crush on the head doctor there... (I did not make zer to selfship with Cuddlestein. Nope. Not at all.)

My Badgermao "fankid", Sai (They/He/It)! I say "fankid" in air quotes because they're from an AU where Badgerclops' spare arm became corrupt and gained a conscience. Their robot arm is actually their body - the rest of their body is a projection of light, similar to the gems from Steven Universe! They have masculine programming (as their AI was made using Badgerclops's DNA a la Cortana from Halo), but identify as agender and use they/he/it pronouns. Originally they began as a blank slate with no personality aside from the programmed personality Badgerclops gave them, but they eventually grow their own personality and moral compass as they analyze the Sheriff's Department's work. Just like Badgerclops, they have a passion for building robots and weapons, and can even modify themselves to fit the situation! Most of their creations are usually for fun, though.

Anf the last one I have a reference for but not the least, Karma Vesper (She/They)! This one is actually my self-insert, lol. She is a biro-ace demigirl Javanese Cream-Point Cat! Her necklace was a gift from her family, and her hood was a gift from her mentor. After her village was ambushed by criminals, she became a wandering hero, and accidentally stumbled upon Pure Heart Valley while following a report of increased monster activity. At some point during her adventures alone she realized that she was biro-ace, since she felt no sexual attraction but still felt romantic attraction. Around the time she came to Pure Heart Valley she realized that she never really felt, like, 100% a GIRL girl (if that makes sense) and began identifying as a demigirl. (Yes this is my hidden self-actualization story :>) She enjoys researching gemstones and ancient artifacts, and the Ruby Pure Heart immediately caught her attention once she laid eyes on it. While she is still a wandering hero, she has a temporary residence in Pure Heart Valley, where she stays to research the Heart's powers as well as assist the townspeople. Her and the Sheriff's Department didn't start out on the best terms since Mao was worried she was trying to replace them, but they tolerate each other now.

+ the OCs I don't have references for:

I did have a reference for these guys but idk where it is rn ;-;. Anywway, my most recent OCs and also some of my favorite OCs are Bernard and Pierre, a black bear and polar bear respectively (both use He/Him)! They are both gay and in a healthy relationship & live in a cabin in the forest together. They are just. Two old gay granddads and I love them. Anyway! They both met after an accident which caused Bernard to blow out his left knee and Pierre to lose his left hand; they had been best friends since, and boyfriends later on! Bernard is a baker while Pierre is a wood carver, although they indulge in each other's interests as well. For the most part they just stay in their cabin in the forest, but they leave to buy groceries and sell their products.

And the final OC I'm gonna talk about is Storm Mao (They/Them)! They're from an AU where Mao was born in a litter of five, like his sisters. Ever since Storm were young, they felt like weren't "normal" compared to their siblings. They didn't feel like a girl or a boy. After Mao came out as a trans boy, they began questioning themselves further. Eventually they decided to ask Contacts Sister for help, as she was among the smartest of the Mao children. Contacts explained to Storm that there are people who don't identify as a boy or a girl, and Storm realized they weren't alone. Since then, they started identifying as nonbinary and began using they/them pronouns, and their family supported their decision. Aside from them and Mao, their litter siblings are also LGBTQ+ - Mamoru (He/Him) is AroAce, Bernadette (She/Her) is bi and Zhijun (He/Him) is gay. I'd talk about the AU more in a separate post, if anyone wants me too^ ^;;

If I remember any other LGBTQ+ OCs I have, I'll reblog with them ✌

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romancandlemagazine · 3 years

Text

An Interview with Al Baker

I first came across Al Baker’s photography whilst looking through an old copy of a magazine called Flux I’d snaffled from Manchester’s world-famous second-hand wonderland, Empire Exchange.

Hidden in the magazine’s pages, between an interview with Mark E Smith and a review of a newly-released sci-fi film called The Matrix, were two black-and-white photos, snapped from the window of an ice-cream van, showing kids lined up for a bit of frozen respite from the summer heat. Reading the fairly minimal bit of text below, it turned out the photos were part of a series called ‘Ice Cream You Scream’.

I’d missed the exhibition by approximately 20 years, but thanks to the high-speed time-machine known as the internet, I managed to track him down. Here’s an interview about his fine photos, his time living in Hulme Crescents and the benefits of carrying cameras in a Kwik Save bag...

Classic ‘start of an interview’ question here, but when did you get into photography? Was there something in particular that set you off?

Like a lot of young people, I knew that I was creative but hadn’t quite found my place. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a writer or in a band. I used to doodle, copy Picasso’s in biro, so off I went to art college and tried my hand at different things. All it really taught me was that I had neither the patience, technique or talent to become a painter. Photography seemed a much easier way to make images, a more instant result. Of course, the more you get into it you realise that whether you’re any good or not does rely upon patience, technique and talent after all.

Was ‘being a photographer’ something that people did in Manchester in the early 90s? Who did you look up to back then?

Not really. It was very rare to see another person wandering around with a camera back then. Even years later when I began photographing the club scene in Manchester no-one else seemed to be doing the same thing. Not at the night clubs I went to anyway.

Now it’s very different. These days you see people with cameras everywhere. Club nights almost always have a photographer. People are far more image-conscious due to social media. Today most people are busy documenting their own nights out with their phones. Look at footage from any major gig these days and half the room is filming it. Back in the 90s no-one seemed to care about documenting anything like that. You were very unlikely to see the photos that someone might be taking the next day or, in fact, ever. People often used to ask ‘What are you taking photos for?’ with genuine surprise or distain.

In terms of photographers whom I looked up to there are so many! There are great image masters like Cartier-Bresson or Elliott Erwitt. Photographers of war and social upheaval like Don McCullin and Phillip Jones-Griffiths. I liked Alexander Rodchenko and Andre Kertez, how they broke the conventions of their day with wit and invention.

I loved the dark and dirty images of Bill Brandt, and his inspiring nude studies too. I loved the city at night recorded by Brassai. Paris in the 1930s definitely seemed to be the place to be. Diane Arbus, Jane Bown and Shirley Baker. American street photographer Gary Winogrand was a huge influence on me, as was Nick Waplington’s book ‘Living Room’.

I was also quite lucky to be living in Manchester at that time. Daniel Meadows and Martin Parr had both attended Manchester Polytechnic. Denis Thorpe had worked for the Guardian in Manchester. I saw Kevin Cummins iconic Joy Division images, Ian Tilton documenting The Stone Roses. Both were regularly in among the inky pages of the NME.

I also saw an exhibition of Clement Cooper’s photographs of the Robin Hood pub in Moss Side, which was another big influence. I was also very lucky in that my very first photography tutor was Mark Warner, who produced very beautiful images, did a lot of work for Factory Records. He shot The Durutti Column’s (1989) Vini Reilly album sleeve. He was probably the first person who ever really encouraged me.

I really like that series of photos you took from inside an ice-cream van in the late 90s. What was the story behind that?

The initial idea for that project came from my friend Steve Hillman, who is an actor. At the time he was ‘between jobs’, which is an actor’s euphemism for being unemployed, so he was working an ice-cream round to help to pay the rent. I was at his flat one night, thinking aloud about where I might go next with my camera. I’d spent quite a long time following graffiti artists work around Hulme, and had my first exhibition based around that. But it only seemed to lead to offers of more work with graffiti artists, and I wanted to do something else.

I’d done a 2nd exhibition based around portraits of my friends in Hulme. I’d flirted with some one-day projects, like Belle Vue dog track, Speakers Corner in Hyde Park. Anyway, while I was talking, not really knowing what I was going to do next, Steve simply stated ‘You should come out on the ice-cream round with me. No-one ever comes to the van without a smile on their face.’ And it just struck me as a beautiful & simple idea. So, one day we just set off. 4 or 5 rolls of film and all the free ice-cream I could eat, which I discovered wasn’t very much!

What was the logistical side of those photos? Were they taken from the same van?

They were all shot on the same day, the same van, all around Salford. It was good fun, but actually very hard work. Trying to constantly find new angles, different framing and working on a hot August day in such a small confined space. By the end of the day I felt that I had enough strong images for my next exhibition. They were much jollier images than ones I’d made before. As a result, because it had more universal appeal, I got quite a lot of good publicity out of it, and Walls gave us hundreds of free Magnum ice-creams to give away on the opening night!

These days I could think of more than a few reasons why you probably shouldn’t drive around Salford photographing other people’s children without permission haha (in fact, I’m surprised that I wasn’t hung from the nearest lamppost!) but I was much younger and far more naive back then. Besides, that was something that I’d learned from living in Hulme. You don’t ask for permission. Someone will only say ‘No’. Just crack on and do it anyway.

You also documented the last years of the Hulme Crescents. A lot of people talk about that time and place in Manchester, even now—but what was the reality of it? What was a normal weekend there like?

It was quite unlike anywhere that I’d ever lived before. It looked like a fascist dystopian nightmare, only one peopled by Rastas and anarchists. Bleak concrete interconnecting walkways. No through roads whatsoever. A fortress feel to the place. The entire estate was earmarked for demolition before I arrived. Everyone else seemed to be busy moving out. But I was already spending a lot of time there, post-Hacienda, parties, friends, lost weekends.

There were lots of young people living there. Families had mainly moved out as the heating didn’t work properly, flats were cold & damp, often infested with cockroaches. There were traces of old Irish families, the Windrush generation, interwoven with punks and drop-outs.

There was a cultural & artistic flowering among the ruins. A Certain Ratio, Dub Sex, A Guy Called Gerald, Edward Barton, Ian Brown, Dave Haslam, Mick Hucknall, Lemn Sissay, all lived there at one time. It was the original home of Factory, where all the post-punk bands played. In turn that led to Factory Records, New Order, and the Hacienda. The PSV club later hosted raves and notorious Jungle nights. It was a good time to be young.

You lived there as well as shooting it. Do you think it’s important to be a part of the thing you’re photographing, rather than just an outsider with a camera?

I don’t know that it’s important to be a part of the thing you’re photographing, ‘embedded’ is what the war photographers call it, but you definitely capture different images. Certain things that might have been shocking to an outsider were commonplace, normal & every day to me. Boring even. On the other hand, I was much less likely to be robbed walking around. That meant I could take my camera places that other people couldn’t, or maybe shouldn’t!

I used to wear my camera beneath my coat so it couldn’t be seen, and I carried my film and lenses in a Kwik Save shopping bag so as not to attract unwanted attention. I got into the habit of handing that bag over the bar at the pubs I went in. I would collect it the next day if I could remember where I’d been the night before. Bless you, saintly barmaids of old Hulme.

If you look at my images of Hulme people they’re usually reacting to me and not the camera. Either that or they’re not reacting at all. They’re ignoring the fact that I’m taking a picture. That’s what gives them that ‘fly-on-the-wall’ feeling.

This is something that I put to greater effect later when I was photographing in night clubs, skulking stage side or hiding in a DJ booth. When DJs & MCs see you week in week out at the club doing the same thing they stop posing for the camera and just get used to you being there. You become part of the furniture. And when people stop being conscious of the camera, when they ignore that you’re even present, you can step in much closer. Put simply, you get better pictures. They’re much less performative and far more honest. It’s not often people can say they like it when they’re being ignored, but for photographers it’s a gift.

Do you think somewhere the Crescents could exist now, or was it just a case of the perfect accidental recipe for that kind of creative, DIY activity?

No, I don’t think anywhere like Hulme will ever happen again. I think the city council learned that lesson a long time ago. It was a dystopian utopia for us, but it grew out of failure. When I 1st went to university they warned us never to set foot there. I said, ‘But what if you live there already?’ and there was an embarrassed silence. They really hadn’t expected a poor boy from Hulme to be in the room. Now they own half of it and it’s all student Halls of Residence.

The city centre has been regenerated, redeveloped & gentrified. We can’t afford to live there anymore, and people like me are pushed out. Hulme was a failed social housing experiment, an eyesore & an embarrassment to the people who had commissioned it. People like me moved in & we made it our own. They’re never going to allow anything like that to happen again. Every quaint old fashioned pub that closes becomes a block of flats. The footprint is too valuable to property developers. One day all we will have will be faded photographs to bear witness to a very different way of living.

Was it through the Crescents that you started shooting graffiti? 

When I first arrived in Hulme I’d just spent 3 years living with mates in a couple of houses elsewhere in the city. It suddenly struck me that that part of my life was over and I had very few photographs of that time. I’d been too busy learning photography, taking the kind of photos that every art student takes: Broken windows; abandoned buildings, and bits of burnt wood. I vowed I wouldn’t do that again. I began documenting the life that was around me.

I started with the architecture, as it was quite unlike any other place I’d ever seen. It had a desperate, faded beauty even then. The whole estate had been condemned for demolition before I arrived, but the city council had given up on the place long before that.

I started to notice graffiti pieces going up, seeing the same names repeated. It was obvious that there was a small group of writers trying out their styles on a large canvas for the 1st time. Wanting to claim this derelict space as their own Hall Of Fame. I started to document them as they sprang up. Then I noted that context was crucial, and so I began to include the soon-to-be-derelict buildings in the images also. The shapes & colours of the graffiti looked positively psychedelic beside the drab monochrome of the setting.

With your graffiti shots, you show a lot more than just the pieces. Was it an intentional thing to show the act behind it a bit?

Because it was Hulme and no-one cared, these guys weren’t working in the dead of night like most graffiti writers do in the train yards and what-have-you. They were working during the day, right out in the open. So, documenting their work, it wasn’t long before I ran into Kelzo. He really didn’t trust me at first, but I kept coming back. So, I got to know them. They started to let me know where they were going to be painting next.

In 1995 Kelzo organised the 1st SMEAR JAM event (named after a young aspiring writer who used to come down to Hulme to learn, and had died suddenly from a nut allergy). That was such good fun that another event arrived the following year, another & another. Graf writers came from London, Edinburgh, Leeds, Sheffield, and as far afield as Spain. The local community came out to support and, as usual, it turned into a party that lasted all weekend.

I got into the habit of taking 2 cameras. One loaded with B&W film to capture the event itself, and another with colour transparency to document the finished artwork.

Graffiti… hip-hop… kids getting ice cream… I suppose there’s a few different subjects there, but was there an underlying thing or theme you wanted to show with your photos? Maybe getting a bit philosophical, but they’re all quite free acts—is it about enjoying what’s there?

It was more about documenting the life I saw around me. Moving to Hulme was what led to me capturing graffiti, and graffiti led to hip-hop events. Once Hulme was demolished I moved my camera into the city centre and began photographing club nights. House and hip-hop turned into Drum’n’Bass, and then dubstep. Residents and warm-up acts have now become headliners in their own right. Manchester has always been a great city for music, and it kept me busy throughout the naughty Noughties. I’ve pretty much retired from all of that now. I’d had enough after over 15 years of it. I no longer feel compelled to document something as ephemeral as a club night anymore when half of the audience are doing it themselves anyway. Then coronavirus came & properly killed it all off. I don’t know what it’s going to be like now going forward, but it’ll be someone else’s turn to document whatever that is.

What do you think makes a good photograph? 

You need to have a good eye. You need to notice & be aware of the world around you. You always see an image before you create one. You don’t require expensive equipment. Mine never was. And you don’t need to be trained. It’s one of those areas where you really can educate yourself. A certain amount of technique and technical understanding goes a long way but, again, you can pick those things up as you go along.

There are different kinds of photography, of course, but for me it was always about capturing a moment. The Decisive Moment, as Cartier-Bresson so eloquently put it. It’s something that the camera has over the canvas. For me the camera has always been a time machine. Like an evocative love song on the radio, it can transport you back immediately to a time & place long gone. It also acts as a witness for those people who were not there. Images tell stories. And we all like to hear and tell stories.

A couple of years ago I was invited to talk at the University of Lancaster for a symposium on documentary photography, which is a tradition that I had always considered my photographs sat within. But oddly, as I gave my slide-show presentation, images that I have seen and shown many times before, and thought I knew very well, I suddenly saw in a brand-new light. I could see myself in every image. Almost like a self-portrait from which I was absent but my own shadow cast large. I realised that I haven’t been documenting anything other than my own life. 25 year old images suddenly had something new to say, something new to tell me.

Do you still take photos today? What kind of things are you into shooting these days?

I don’t really do a lot of photography these days. I teach and facilitate as part of my job now. I still do the odd event but night club photography is a much younger man’s game. I really don’t have the levels of commitment, energy or enthusiasm I once did. I feel like I’ve taken enough images. If I never took another photograph ever again, that’s OK. Maybe, perhaps, I’ll get into a different kind of image making in my twilight years … but for now I’m trying to reassess the images I made 25 years ago. People are far more interested in them now than they ever were at the time. Now they have become documents of a time and place which has gone. The graffiti and the walls that they were written on have disappeared. Many of those night clubs have closed. Time moves on. The images and the memories are all that is left.

Over all those years, how has the art of photography changed for you?

Back when I started taking photographs, where I lived in Hulme, the kind of music that I was into, the magic of a night club moment, there were very few people I knew of who were doing the same thing. Now I am aware of others who were. Almost everyone is their own photographer now. Mobile phones & social media have given a platform for anyone to make & share images of their individual lives, whether it be their friends & families, holidays, public events or more private & intimate moments. Anyone can document their own lives now, so I no longer feel that I have to. I do still love photography, it’s still my favourite form of art, but I don’t feel compelled to capture it all anymore.

I suppose I’ve pestered you with questions for a while now. Have you got any wise words to wind this up with?

If you want to become a photographer you must learn your craft. Keep doing it, and you will get better. But you must remember to always be honest. Make honest images. Listen to the voice of your own integrity. Don’t worry too much if no-one sees any value in what you do. If you’re any good people will eventually see it. It may take years, it did for me, but images of the ordinary & everyday will one day become historical, meaningful & extraordinary.

We live in a world today mediated by images, a Society of the Spectacle, but we still need photographers: People who have a good eye, an innate feel for the decisive moment; what to point the camera at and when to press the shutter. The images that you make today will be the memories of the future.

See more of Al’s photos here.

#Photography #Interview #Al Baker #Manchester #Hulme Crescents

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ladybugmeat · 3 years

Text

Allister - Summative Piece

In a text, Allister confided that he’d avoided returning to London for a fear that he’d traded in his homicidal tendencies for suicidal tendencies. And so, he never did return to London and died in Carlisle a month later. Died in mum’s bungalow with the lapdog at his feet. The Shih Tzu recovered on a bi-daily dose of Chicken Lucozade; a brown custard syringed down the animal’s gullet with the cooperation of six veterinary hands. Bella became Betsy, suffered bath, brush, and blow-dry, and went to live on a caravan park with a six-piece family in Milton Keynes. Allister was dead upon arrival. Mum described All’s body to have slunk into the shape of the armchair and his eyes to protrude like oven-roasted cherry tomatoes.

The next morning, Cait emailed over a to-do list to have Allister cremated, the roof re-guttered, and the front-garden creeper cut back. An email arrived from the Crematorium itemising Allister Bruce Thompson as a White British Male of 26 years, standing at 6ft 3in, and weighing heavy at 230 lb. The numbers were hard, finite. I did not see the wide beetle-brow or the restless positioning of his ape-ish arms. Another enclosed receipt delineated him by the garb he came in. The Long Black Checkered GUESS Shirt, slung over his Box Cut Guns’n’Roses T-Shirt, Burgundy Socks tipping from his Adidas Originals. On his wrist, my old Silver Casio watch with the lagging minute hand. For a moment, the clothes loosely assembled to form something with limbs but on touching an arm, it gave way as softly as straw.

Cait hung outside the Bikram studio assuming her usual pose, a cigarette lit beneath the umbrella. She piled in squealing and dumping a bag of smashed croissant on my lap. We returned the Jaycees suit and sat-naved up to Thunder Lane Crematorium Park. The grounds were spat with mange-like patches of pansies. The rain had evened and fell between short sheets of wind. The Crematorium complex administered the yellow mosquito buzz of tube lighting. Cait bit the shellac off her nails and traipsed behind, her track-top knotted around her waist. Aileene was a sour creature with features and a voice slight enough to impress as stiffly as milk at room temperature. The urn was pulled like shoes at Hollywood Bowl, Aileene walking three-quarters of the alphabet deep and returning with my brother, shrink-wrapped, weighing in as gently as a novelty from a Christmas cracker. The metal pull-out wheels ran and pressed silently shut. Cait and Aileene commenced in a solemn administrative mime of to me, to you. The papers returned with Cait’s rag of biro, legible as a squashed fly.

In the corridor, Cait poured more wine and looked through to the squalid space and the stripped mattress. The room had been a storage dump for our childhood hobbies. Behind where there had been cardboard high-rises cluttered with paints and flat footballs, was a small window spinning languid white shapes across the mattress when cars passed. Cait pulled a shirt from a bin-bag and hung it off her shoulders to where it stopped just above her knees.

‘He never escaped the nips and tatties. I had to get away from mum fast or you’d have been rolling me to Bikram.’

For what Cait didn’t eat, she drank. She had never held down a nine to five but flitted between multi-hyphens, or what she cooed the life of a Slashie. According to Instagram, Cait Thompson was an actor/artist/dog-walker. Tomorrow, Cait Thompson could be a face painting guinea pig farmer, I wouldn’t know.

Cait let the shirt drop and returned to her glass on the chiffonier. I grabbed a handful of newspapers and twisted them around a Wolverine figure. I wrapped the papers around All’s first fishing-rod, the whelping Garfield alarm clock, the ceramic fishing weights Cait had made for a birthday. Cait was still talking, flicking out the knife on All’s Swiss Army. I watched her fiddle around trying to get the rusted corkscrew out, her auburn knot knocking the headboard. I was always quietly taken by how hair could be so red and to only watch it redden as she aged. I took another wodge of newspapers and set them down on the mattress beside her.

‘I think Allister was happy being mum’s basement baby. No late rent fines, no poverty meals sat up at one o’clock’ worrying about a boyfriend clattering in with a loud mouth, trying to take your clothes off again.’

I snatched the knife and she sat up straight.

‘I don’t think Allister wanted to be here. I think he needed to be here. Mum was ill, I was in London, you were Bikraming.’ I closed the knife and slid it halfway on the linoleum between us.

We continued silently. Cait returned with another bottle.

‘You should stop drinking. We’re nearly done and I don’t want you spewing in the car.’ I sat beside her on the mattress and tried a smile. Cait held her drink close and stared onto the ribbons of light traversing the floor. Her hair had come loose on one side, and her expression had turned unusually coarse. She was drinking from All’s Thunderbirds mug, her hand running over the embossed Lady Penelope.

‘Here, let’s just get this done. I’ll drive you -’ I tried to prise the mug from her clamped fingers but Cait stood up and this pulled the mug from mine, to hers and into three pieces.

‘You should have spoken to him. Allister wasn’t right and you fucked off!’

The small window gave little to no light but in the near-dark, I watched the wine bloom in poppies over Cait’s white shirt.

‘You were here in Carlisle, you could have spoken to him whenever.’ My hand dripped over the mattress, my fingers still gripping the handle.

A car passed and the fractures of light flashed up the stained mattress. The wine had crept and deepened, and in the stifled light, it was almost black. Cait’s eyes were of an animal’s, caught in a forest fire.

I pulled the edge of the mattress up and onto its side. We carried it two roads down and slid it behind some bins. From the kitchen, I heard Cait spray Detoll and scrub at All’s floor. When she returned her hair was wild and her cheeks ablaze.

‘Wash your hands’ I told her.

#shortstory #story #prompt #mine #creativewriting #writing #writes #creatives #creative writing #creative #write #writers #writer

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lu-undy · 4 years

Text

Chapter 4 - SBT

Here it is!

Mundy was in his camper van, in the middle of the desert. It was now the evening and he lit a fire to keep himself warm and be able to see his surroundings better. He needed to think.

The tall man had put a carpet on the orange and dusty floor and was sitting on it, sipping on a beer.

Am I doing the right thing…?

And the answer to his question came naturally.

O'course I am. Saving these alligators is a right thing, but is it the right thing for me?

He pondered. In the grand scheme of things, who cared about them? No one. Yes, they were the last of their kind but they were well known and had nothing special. No colourful skin, no cute face, nothing that would make the public want to protect them. They were very standard alligators, if such phrasing made sense.

And that precisely meant that the only person left to care about them was Mundy. He was the only one who was able to as well. No one else knew how to track animals better than him, may they be on land or in the hands of a human being.

Given the circumstances, he knew that he would surely have to pry them off the hands of whoever had them. There was no use going to the authorities. The person who had them had taken them by force and outside of the limits of the law, which could mean different things.

First, it might be a gang of poachers. Furthermore, they had done the job in two times. They had first caught two and then came back for more. But why? Why would they not just go ahead and take them all in one go?

Nothing made sense.

"Pfff…"

Mundy put out the fire and went to his van. He slid in his bed and laid on his back, looking through the ceiling window. The stars scintillated silently. He blinked in the dark, his eyebrows frowned without even realising it. The decision was hard to make.

He nonetheless managed to get a good night of rest.

The next day, the Australian drove to a café and stopped there for breakfast. He was sitting on the terrace and his brain was still rolling like a hamster in a wheel.

He took a sip of the black coffee and the hot, bitter wave cleared him from the inside. Mundy looked at the people come and go and pondered about the absurdity of his decision. All these people passing by had no idea that the Earth could have just lost an entire species, a whole population. They were just going to work or having a stroll, carefree.

The future of an entire species was on the shoulders of one man, the one sat at that terrace, sipping on his coffee. For sure, he did not look like he had such a heavy responsibility. His clothes were old. The red of his shirt started to wash away, his brown hat was obviously worn-out and his trousers showed the years they had gone through. He looked at his feet. His boots could do with a bit of polish...

Mundy pushed his yellow-tinted glasses up his nose and sighed.

He looked like the last man who should be asked to make that decision and yet, there he was. He drank more of his coffee.

"Bugger…"

"Everything's alright?" A waitress came to ask him.

"Uh, yeah, it's fine, thanks."

"Anything else you'd like with your coffee?"

"Uhm… Nah, I don't think so."

The waitress nodded but didn't move away. Mundy raised his eyes to her.

"You alroight?" He asked.

"Yeah, I was just wonderin' uh… That van there, is it yours?"

Mundy followed the direction she was pointing at with his eyes.

"Yeah, she's mine."

"It must be so nice to have a campervan like that. You just drive and sleep wherever the road leads you…" She sighed.

"Yeah, it's true. It's a good life. She's always taken me where I needed to go. Not always where I wanted, but always where I needed."

"You like it a lot, eh?"

"I do, yeah. Best companion ever."

"Is she your only companion?" She asked.

Mundy raised his head to her and leaned back on his seat, to let his legs flow in front of him.

"Well, as of late, yeah, although she's seen a few people come and go."

The waitress put her tray down on the table and splayed her hands left and right from it, a malicious smirk on her glossy lips.

"D'you think she could see a waitress coming soon…?"

The Australian's eyebrows rose slowly. He knew his whole vagabond attitude had quite the effect on some people. They usually fantasised him as an adventurer, a wild spirit, someone who somehow wasn't tied by bills and obligations, a truly free man.

"Well, she isn't the one who decides, eh, I do." His eyes went down to the waitress' cleavage which, given the position she was in now, was displayed as an invitation to the Aussie.

"How can I convince you then…?" She half-whispered.

"I'll see." He mysteriously answered and her smile widened.

"Alright, I'll let you enjoy your coffee. Let me know if you need anything else, from the menu or not." She winked and walked away, leaving Mundy enjoy his coffee at the table.

He drank more of it and along with the bitterness came the burden in his head again.

The alligators.

Mundy pondered for a while longer before he went to the counter.

"D'you have a phone I could use here?"

"Yeah, on your right over there."

"Oh, thanks mate."

He went to it and searched his pockets for some change. He put his coins in the payphone and tapped the number that he knew by heart.

"Yeah, Eddy? It's me. Yeah, no, calm down, listen." He took a deep breath. "Call Johnson. Tell him I'm comin' and get yerself there as well. Nah, c'mon, calm down, nothing's decided yet. Roight, see ya there."

He hung up and spun on his heels to exit when a lady stepped in front of him.

"Leavin' already?" She asked. It was the waitress from earlier.

"Yeah, got some work to do."

"Wait just a second…" She took a napkin from the nearest table and a biro from her pocket. She quickly scribbled something and folded the napkin before sliding it in his shirt's front pocket on his chest. She lightly tapped it and smiled. "There you go, just in case you'd need another coffee at some point…?"

He nodded to her.

"Thanks."

-- Johnson's place --

"So, have you made up your mind?" The old man said, lighting up a cigar.

"Yeah."

Both Eddy and Johnson had their eyes riveted on the Aussie.

"So?" Eddy asked.

"I need to take a better look at the enclosure."

"Goddamn it…" Johnson sighed. He was impatient. "Fine, follow me…"

They walked there and entered before the old man put his hands on his hips.

"What do you need exactly?"

"You, out of the enclosure." He said pushing his aviator glasses up his nose and pointing for Johnson to get away from him.

"W-what?" The rich man protested but Mundy ignored him completely.

"Eddy, here's the keys, go get me the map from the glove box and come back. When you do, don't come down in the enclosure, stay outside."

"Hahaha!" The short man clapped his hands enthusiastically. "We're back in business, baby!"

"No we're not. I need to know more before I make up my mind."

Mundy looked at Johnson and Eddy.

"What are you two still doin' here?! Chop, chop!"

Both went away, one running excitedly to the van and the other walking slowly and shaking his head. They left the tall man alone. Mundy had always worked that way. He had thought to get someone young to teach them but he didn't have the patience, and it was a very dangerous job. He didn't want anyone else to carry the burden that he had taken upon himself for so many years. Eddy had always encouraged him to find an apprentice, but found his grumpy friend would always firmly yet politely decline.

Yes, it would have been nice to train someone else to track down poachers as well as Mundy could. Australia was beautiful, with a lot of unique species, which fascinated the scientists. Unfortunately, that also attracted a lot of unwanted attention as the main principle of economics goes: the more rare something is, the higher the price.

Mundy took a closer look at the scene. There were some footprints in the mud, but they were never full ones. The Australian crouched and let his eyes dart left and right. There were countless trails that spoke for how the alligators were dragged on the floor. They seemed pretty neat, no sign of resistance from the animals.

"Hm… They must have drugged them and then dragged them away… So they fought a few ones, ended up slashin' them but drugged the rest."

He looked around to see if he could find more clues.

"Hey! M! I've got your map!" Eddy shouted from outside the enclosure.

"Alroight."

Mundy joined him and opened it flat.

"We're in the bloody middle of nowhere. They could have gone anywhere! But loaded with twenty-odd 'gators, they must have had either a truck or multiple cars. Let's look around for tracks. The ground's very dry but the soil is a very thin powder. They might have left some…"

"Alright! Oh man, I can't believe you're back in business, pal!"

Mundy rolled his eyes. They started their search and after a few minutes, Eddy's voice split the desert.

"M! Over here!"

The tall man went to join him and stopped sharp.

"Bloody hell, well that's somethin' new…"

He crouched down and looked around him. It wasn't the tracks of one or two cars, it was closer to ten…!

"They are pick-up trucks'. Those ain't cars tracks." Eddy added.

"They had a lot of them, you don't need that many, especially if you drugged most of the 'gators…"

"They drugged them you think?" Eddy asked.

"Yeah. If they took twenty but the blood there is only from two or three, I'm assumin' they put the rest to sleep."

"Why kill them if they could drug them?"

"Not sure…" Mundy answered. He looked around and something caught his eye. He crouched down and took it in his hand.

"What's that?" Eddy asked.

"N-nothing important, it just fell off my pocket." Mundy lied. "Anyway, I need to get back to Johnson."

The Australian walked back to the old man.

"So? Are you finally gonna fix your goddamn mess?"

Mundy rolled his eyes.

"I'll get back to town. I won't learn more here."

"So you're taking the job?" Johnson insisted.

"I didn't come back here for nothin'." Mundy answered and turned to walk back to his van.

"Alright, I'll come with ya!" Eddy quipped but the Australian turned to face him.

"Thanks for your help mate, but I need to continue alone. Can't have you around."

"Oh c'mon, I've helped!"

Mundy sighed as he walked back to his van.

"Yeah, you did yer part but I work alone."

"M, look, I can be real silent and stuff, I won't bother ya."

The Australian looked down at his friend and raised an eyebrow.

"You? Silent?"

"Yeah!"

"Nah. Also I'm better off alone, nothin' against you mate."

Eddy sighed as they arrived at the van.

"Alright, can you at least gimme a lift back to town?"

"Roight. Jump in, but don't get used to it. I don't drive people around."

"No problem!"

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy #SBT

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