#originalshorts

[yamujiburo]

This has been playing nonstop in my head it had to be done

[legichrzan]

can i remind yall of this please

[3rddimension]

Shourtney shenanigan is at it again! Now in the form of YouTube Short.

[thoughts-n-paper]

When people speak of fairies, they often think of the wise fairy Godmother or the tiny passionate Tinkerbell, but let me tell you the truth, fairies can be as vicious as any wolf you might encounter in the woods. Take my mother, for example, I am about to fail a class and might not be able to graduate but here she is shouting at the principal, questioning his competency and making things worse. To be honest, I should have known this would happen. Ever since I was a toddler, my mother was ready to fight the Alaskan giants if she felt that they insulted me, although that seems a lot better than calling the man, an imbecile elf.

I had never been good at school, I was not born to do this. I cannot do magic, cannot fly. I do comparatively good at empathy, but that is probably due to my human side. All my teachers earlier were very understanding in cutting me some slack, but the new guy doesn't want to bend the rules and my mom just doesn't understand that.

As we entered the house from a tiresome argument with no conclusion, I watched my mom sink in her bed as she tried to push her tears back to space behind her eyes. On the side table there stood three photographs, one of her with her husband on her wedding day, one of her holding her baby and one of me and her on my first day of school. The one with her baby was the only one facing towards her pillow so that it is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. I was never jealous of him, but I did feel that my mother's life would have been easier if she never interchanged us.

I wound up the music box, placed it beside her and tiptoed to my room as the lullabies of her ancestors brought her calm.

I often wondered what the other me would be doing right now, my brother from another mother and raised by my own. And just in case, miles away he wondered that too, I started keeping a journal where I would write everything that happened on the day. I would walk him through every road that I mapped, what conversations mother and I had and what kind of jokes she laughed at. Just in case if he ever plans to return, he would never have to feel out of place because he had me to guide him, and just in case if I ever went back, I think I would have the same.

A knock broke my nap. As I looked outside the tiny round window, I could make out the prettiest face I had ever seen. We were in the same class but it was incomprehensible that she would be standing outside my window. And then it hit me, I looked her in the eyes and said firmly, "You don't fool me."

"Not fair. I need to practice my deception spells." saying that, the figure in front of me transformed into my childhood friend, Jaadu. One of the rules of bending spells, if the target of the trick sees through the rouge, the trickster has to come clean.

"It was good. If not for my trust in my status as a loser, you would have convinced me."

"Ah! I should study the target more. Will keep that in mind. Are you coming?"

Jaadu and I always went to the edge of the forest in the evenings. With the sun coming down and night beginning to rise, you can watch the shadows of all the travellers passing by. Some of them would sit and have their meal or set up camp, completely unaware that we are hiding behind the tree mere steps away, watching them. But the most exciting moment is when you see someone go from one realm to another. Sometimes you can see their shadow change shape or colour or sometimes nothing changes, it is always a surprise how the inter-realm travel reacts.

Jaadu enjoys it because it is something he might never do, he was to be part of the administration, like the fairies of his family before him. This was his way to vicariously travel through these evening rituals.

For me, it was the time I had felt closest to my mother. Although her husband was a traveller, she only planned one journey in her life. The one to save her baby.

In a way I had already travelled from one realm to another, I was just unaware of the magnitude of it. I sometimes think of going back, maybe visit my birth parents, might even bring my mother's son back. She would be delighted beyond belief, and maybe then, she wouldn't regret taking him. But I would always push the thought back, too afraid of the unknown.

The next few weeks were spent retaking and retaking the test until I was cleared to graduate school. There are three categories of fairies, one that is naturally gifted in all arts, whether it is music, the science of medicinal plants or chants and jinxes, they are fluent in all. Then there is the average category, the ones that work hard and learn and the last are the week students, ones who work even harder. And then there is me, the human among magical beings. I am the only one around like me, earlier there used to be a lot of us but with the danger of exposure and the spiritual fabric between realms weakening, it is just me. Potions are easy and I am good with plants and animals but I can't cast spells, at least not the high-level ones. So, it took a lot of convincing the new principal to test me only on the spells that I can do, but I finally succeeded.

Later that night, my mother organized a celebration for me, every house within a mile was invited, distant relatives came too. Some families brought a dish of their choice, some helped clean up space and some brought with them the sweetest water of different streams. But with all the gifts and praises, come the whispers too, how I was not one of them, what an achievement the real son would have been. When I was younger, my mother would often cast a filtration spell on my ears so that I wouldn't hear what they said about me but as I grew older, the spell weakened. She never herself told me the story, would always insist that I was hers just born with different abilities or as I see it, no abilities.

From what I could gather, my mother was with the child when her husband died. The grief was too much for her and the baby and so he was born with defects. A shaman told her that the milk of a human could cure him and so she left him in the first crib she could find and took me from mine as her own.

"Oh my son, come sit with me." my great-grandmother called me."How are you feeling? You are a big fairy now?"

"I am not a fairy Gre-ma." I sighed as I sat beside her.

"Oh, it doesn't matter what elements bind you. Tell me, Elven, how, do you think, is your mother?"

"She seems fine. I think she is alright."

"She is strong, but separation and loneliness often mould us into something much fragile. She has lights of sorrow surrounding her, you must make her happy. Bring her joy before the black lights swallow her."

After the celebration ended, I kept thinking about the words my Gre-ma said to me. She was the most powerful empath in the town, nobody could dare take her words lightly, especially if she said something like that. This was serious, I had to do something to cure my mother.

The next day, when I and Jaadu were sitting in the woods, relaxing as the shadows disappeared around us, I told him what Gre-ma had asked me to do. "Getting a good position in the council would cure all the sorrows of my mother." Jaadu joked.

"I am afraid, that doesn't work for mine."

"I know! My point is, only you know what will make her happy."

I thought about it for a while and by the next morning, I had an idea of what to do. I made up an overnight camping trip with some friends from school, which in retrospect, how mother agreed or believed any of that is beyond me. I checked in my bag to confirm I had the fairy dust with me that Gre-ma had given me the other night, without it, I would not be able to cross over. The plan was simple, follow the map she used years earlier and just knock on the door. Jaadu came to see me off, he wanted to see how my shadow will react.

I, on the other hand, just felt a slight current run through me, and on the next step, everything changed.

It took me at least five minutes of coughing to get used to the air around me. The map was magical, which meant that it would alter according to the destination desired and the time and space which surrounded it. But there still was no magic that can help me introduce myself to my birth parents or tell me how I am supposed to walk when each step is followed by a loud noise and a beast flying past me in a blink of an eye. The first thing I noticed was humans were tall, back in woodland, I was the tallest there, here I barely come up to the shoulders of some of these giants. And they all had different feet, different colours, shapes and textures. And walking for a few feet made me understand why. After walking a small distance, my feet were coloured black, they were damp and a new pink coloured flower had found a way between my toes and was now stuck to my skin. But ignoring it all, I marched ahead.

A few yards away stood the blue gate I had dreaded all through the journey, a million thoughts ran through my mind with each step till I lifted my arm to knock.

I looked around the house as I waited for them to make sense of everything that I had just finished telling them. Surprisingly, it was not that different from my house. it was filled with photographs except for the giant black frame in the middle of the room, which stood empty. Lamps were hanging from the walls, but there was probably some human magic that made it not look like fire. There weren't as many windows, or plants, outside or inside. We all sat on cloud-like cushions with brown milk in front of me.

When I introduced myself, I showed them my infancy photograph which my mother had taken with her. Then I told them about fairies and woodlands. I told them about magic and music, potions and pirouette. And then I told them about my mother, my fairy mother.

"So, you are ours?"

I nodded.

"And, you were kidnapped?"

"Exchanged!" I nodded

."And you live among fairies?"

I nodded.

"And, our son was a fairy?"

I began to nod and then stopped midway, "was?"

"He died ten years ago. Road accident." said the human mother and started sobbing.

My father stood up and came towards me with open arms, "We want to believe you, but we can't, at least not without tests I hope that is alright with you."

"Oh, I can't stay. I just came to take my mother's son back to meet her. I really should go now."

"NO!" my human mother shouted and holding my shoulders requested me to stay.

"I suppose I could stay for another day."

"Wonderful!" the mother smiled and ran to the kitchen mumbling recipes to herself. "She is going to make his favourite food," Father said to me. His eyes followed me suspiciously as I sat back down in my spot.

"Hey Dorothy, Can you do me-." A stranger walked into the house and stopped mid-sentence to stare back at me. "Family member?" she said while pointing at me.

"How can you tell?" mother came out of the kitchen.

"Well, he looks so much like Steve."

"Doesn't he?"

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still have to run tests."

"What do you mean, Steve?"

"Yes, what do you mean, Steve?"

"Uhm, I am just saying..."

"Wait, but who is he?"

"Oh! It's a miracle from Jesus. My son has returned."

"Jesus! Dorothy, honey."

"Your son, the one whose funeral I helped organize."

"No, you see, he was exchanged, Uhm kidnapped."

"Jesus! Dorothy!"

"And now he is back, back at home."

Finally, silence fell. I looked up and all three were staring at me. "Hello," I said in a low voice. "I come from the woodlands. My mother who is a fairy..."

"Well, he is still processing his trauma." Father interrupted me. "Don't worry, we will have him checked shortly." Saying that he led me upstairs to a closed-door with the picture of a masked man on the door.

"This is your room. I will call you when food is prepared."

I had just turned back to stop him, he shut the door to my face. I tried to open it but it seemed locked from outside. I sat down on the small bed, trying to process whatever happened in the last few minutes. And then I remembered the word funeral being uttered. Their son's funeral.

My mother's son. The one I came to take back with me.

I had to get out immediately.

I stood in front of the door and chanted a simple admission spell. I tried to open the door again but it stayed locked. I tried the spell again, but it was all in vain. Casting spells in a new environment is always difficult, even for skilled casters. You have to be able to borrow magic from your surroundings. Often before any major spell, fairies perform cleansing and calming rituals to make the elements around them aware of their intentions, and once the fairies and every particle around them are in agreement can they cast the spells successfully. I did not know anything about those rituals, nor have I ever performed magic in an unaccustomed environment. Being human and bad at magic did not help either.

I sat back on the bed and waited for the door to open from outside. I looked around the room, there stood various balls of different colours all around the room, on a shelf placed in the corner, there were several miniatures beasts like the ones I encountered on my way. On the walls, there were drawings of different humans in various attires and figurines made of cotton and stone of different animals. I lied down and my eyes sparkled as on the roof I could see the sun and the moon and all the stars that the roof could fit, it was the only thing that reminded me of home. I could look at it for hours like I did back in the woodland, I smiled at the memories, glad that I could find at least one familiar thing.

A few hours later, the father came rushing in and closed the door behind him.

"Hey, buddy! There are a few people who want to meet with you. They are super nice and very friendly. They will ask you some questions. You don't have to worry, just nod when I answer those okay?" It was a question he did not wait for an answer to. I was held from my arms and pushed into the front room. There stood the two women from earlier, a man with an unusually shaped head and another woman with a toy in her hands. They all had their mouths in a curve and their teeth were exposed, I think they were trying to smile. The father sat me down and placed himself beside me.

The woman nodded and pushed the toy towards me.

"Hello, I hope you don't mind introducing yourself once again. Your father had already told me about you."

"Uh...my name is Elven."

"His name is Simon. He thinks his name is Elven and he was kidnapped by fairies. He is still recovering from the incident." The father interjected.

"Okay." The woman looked at the man and then back towards us. "Can you elaborate on the fairies that abducted you?"

I looked at the father he gestured me to go ahead. "I wasn't abducted, I was exchanged. My mother, my fairy mother gave birth to a weakling which could only be saved by human milk."

"We believe that the kidnapper left her disabled child with us in hopes to raise a healthier child, obviously for her benefit." The father looked towards the woman, and they both nodded. Like they agreed to not believe anything I said.

"Do you think drugs were involved?" The man asked the father.

"Well, listening to the absurdity, I am certain that the woman herself took drugs and gave my son some too. That seems to be the only explanation for his conviction."

They kept saying the word "Drugs", I didn't know what it meant, but I could conclude that it was bad. And if they think my mother gave them to me, they would never let me go back to her.

"Look," I stood up, "I should go, my mother would be worried."

"I think that should be enough for today, I will answer the rest of the questions." The father said as he directed the mother to take me.

"Oh, just a picture of the family would be great." The woman stopped me and the mother.

All three of us stood side by side as the man took out a small metal from his pocket and a light flashed towards us. I couldn't see for a while but I could feel being steered somewhere.

I was sitting on the tiny bed again, while my human mother was sobbing with her head in my lap. I looked up at the painted night sky and dreamed of the real one.

The next day I woke up to the sound of a crowd of humans in front of the house. A lot of them were holding the same toy as the day before, some had big boxes on their shoulders and behind them was a long queue of the white beasts. The father came in with a gentle smile and said, "Son, how are you? Breakfast is ready. And you remember yesterday, the people in the front have the same questions. Whenever you are ready, we will talk to them. Is that alright?"

I could simply nod. It was very clear that I did not have any choice in that.

The mother came in afterwards and asked me to take a bath, but when I asked for the stream nearby, she started crying again. The father came in and showed me to another room where twisting on a knob I could make it rain inside. He laid down a drying cloth, top and bottom covers and coverings for my feet. It was a strange feeling to not have my feet touch the earth. For fairies, it the only consistent relationship between them and the ground. Although it did feel better to not have my feet be dirty or cold. For breakfast the only thing that looked familiar was fruit, so I picked a red apple and bit into that, while the father and mother stood in front of the black frame, only this time it had a man talking in it.

"We have something like that in woodland too, motion paintings. It is a very complex spell though. My mother's uncle is famous as the most proficient in a 1000 step radius."

They both looked at me and the mother ran out of the room looking like she was about to burst into tears again.

"Hey, why don't we stop talking about woodland in front of mom." He gave me that non-smile again.

The whole day was just sitting in front of strangers and nod as the father told lies. And every time I tried to stop him or correct him, it was blamed on trauma, another word they kept on repeating. According to them, I had a trauma because of drugs and my mother was a criminal and she should be locked up. I did not most of the words in that sentence. They asked me to do magic to prove my story but when I failed, they simply smiled. When I first showed them my journal, they scanned through it within minutes and gave it back to the father. Mid-way through the day, I gave up. I might have been naïve in the human ways but I knew what a lost battle looked like.

They kept asking to take a picture, after a few I gathered they were just still drawings of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I would often catch someone pointing at me and chuckling with his or her friend. The mother spent most of the time crying and repeating that she was just glad to have her son back and she loved the other one too just like her own. In between taking pictures and answering questions, some would come up to me or the father and offer their condolences.

Everything resembled the kind of community I had left in woodland, but that was all it was, a resemblance, a mirror image. People offered help and sympathy but always from a distance. Some neighbours brought their children in hopes I could make friends with them but whenever I tried to talk to them, they pushed me out of the circle and talked amongst themselves, mostly in gibberish I might add.

I missed my mother, I missed Jaadu and Gre-ma. I missed the smell of freshly bloomed flowers in the morning and the lullabies of the moon as it sang us to sleep. Out here all I could smell was something burning, constantly. The food was like eating mould and every variant of the juice I was offered did not taste like its name. I wanted to see the real night sky and not the fake colours on the roof.

By midnight, the father and mother had fallen in deep sleep. And that was when I slipped out, fairies were of course famous for being light feet and my mother had taught me a few tricks early on. I decided to leave my journal with them, in case they ever wanted to visit. Although they would have another day of asking and answering and crying over my departure, I did not feel bad. I realized they were not my parents and this was not my world, my only link was my brother. He was supposed to be my guide, and without him, I had no purpose but to get lost.

I stood at the gates in the woods and waited for the sun to go up and night to fall. And when the moment came, as I stepped through the fairy dust, into the realm of my home, I could make out a figure that I was much too familiar with. And as I inhaled the blossoms, I could see Jaadu smiling at me. And I smiled back.

[doctorb-connor]

So a while back in health class we had a project where we had to make something to point out the dangers of a certain drug. My group had chosen to do our project on LSD. We had originally planned to make an animated short for our project but seen as we had a small amount of time to finish the project (there was no way in hecc I was storyboarding, making the animatic, and animating something within a week) we had decided to cut the short and instead make a small comic. I soon plan to make the short in full at some point. But this is a drawing based on our comic LSD Leo. #digitalart #drawing #digitalillustration #digitaldrawing #digitalartist #originalart #originalcharacter #originalshort #animation #animated https://www.instagram.com/p/B8mbrB0FWoy/?igshid=gnywikbyxak

[digitalxjester]

Alrighty! As many of you know I’m currently in film school, and we’re now working on or final films! I’ll be production designer on a short called ‘Roses’ To find out more about this short film check out the link on this post! And to support us please share the link under #Rosesshortfilm and #Growingdarker! ° ° ° ° https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/roses-short-film/x/20619458#/

[gravesdiggers]

ashleyruneckles on Instagram:

On this day last year I was in the back of a Prius drenched from the rain machine singing some of Odyssey’s greatest hits with this old fart @_rupertgraves And we did a bit of filming (with a pretty awesome crew) #Security #BHTS #OriginalShort #HazeFilms 

[Post from last year]

[peterbarkouras-blog]

My 🎬 #shortfilmpick is: “CODE 8” directed by Jeff Chan @jeffc and written by Chan and Chris Paré @chrispare14 Starring Robbie Amell, @robbieamell Stephen Amell @stephenamell and Sung Kang @sungkangsta , the film being expanded into a #feature length project and has started #filming this June 2017 with a release in early #2019 . . ▫️ Fellas I love your point of view on #superhero #powers The #shortfilm is set in a world where 4% of the population is born with some type of #supernatural ability, but instead of being #billionaires or #superheroes , most “specials” face #discrimination and live in poverty. The story follows a man (Robbie Amell, #TheFlash ) struggling to pay for his mother’s medical treatment. Forced to work as a day laborer, he is recruited by a criminal Stephen Amell ( #theArrow ) who teaches him how to use his powers to pull off a #series of crimes. Sung Kang (the Fast and the Furious franchise), who also was in the #originalshort , returns to play the relentless #cop who pursues them. . ▫️ While releasing the short, the Amells simultaneously started an #Indiegogo campaign in order to fund the full-length #feature With their target being $200,000 the film was funded less than 48 hours, and continues to grow, having exceeded $1,500,000 in a month. Love the awesome concept I’m certainly interested in seeing where this goes. . ▫️To see the full short www.code8.com or on YouTube

[yamujiburo]

Hello I hope you dont mind me asking this but Im trying to find this one animatic you made of Delia, James and Jessie having an interview together with the polycule Pokémon? I can't find it and I love it so much!

hahahaha i gotchuuu

[3rddimension]

Another banger. Also I'm pretty sure that's Court's Fiat when Shayne is in the car. Not sure if the hand is Court's tho.

[trentanimation]

A true passion project that I had the pleasure of directing with my good friend @sharktooth72 alongside all the amazingly talented artists @disneyanimation . Of course, an #olaf short isn’t complete without the incredible talent, humor and generosity of @joshgad 🥰☃️❤️ More to come, streaming @disneyplus October 23rd!!! #onceuponasnowman #disney #disneyanimation #animation #disneyplus #shortfilm #film #originalshort #movie #olaffrozen #elsa #disneyworld #disneyland #disneyolaf #snowman #magic #love #lol #funny #joshgad #letitgo #animated #poster #movieposter https://www.instagram.com/p/CE6wQ3ajzN2/?igshid=thyqop9wz27b

[thoughts-n-paper]

Ranidaphobia

She was unable to move, terror-struck, as she stared at its eyes and at the same time, tried so terribly to avoid it. She could feel the raindrops sliding down its smooth skin as if they were crawling down her neck. She stood still as its throat expanded and in response, her lungs contracted as it produced that awful loud sound. Horrified in anticipation, she closed her eyes shut. When she opened them after a while, she was back in her purple walled bedroom, away from the dense forest she was standing in a few seconds ago, safe from any devil that might have been about to jump her. Ever since she started working on the new project, she had been having this nightmare every night, but right now was not the time to get to the bottom of this development. A glance at the clock and she jumped out of the bed and rushed to the bathroom. She always kept at least half an hour aside for her pre-shower rituals and another hour for after. It wasn't a lot of steps, rather more about spending enough time for each step. She had twenty types of cleansers and scrubbers and at least thirty different lip scrubbers, a part of her face she was the most conscious about. From a young age, she had been very careful about her skin, she did not just want good skin, she wanted a clean skin, even if it meant being late for work. As soon as she sat on her desk, Simon jumped on her, "You're late. Missed the morning meeting. And Alex wants to see you. ASAP. "He said smugly.

"Thank you, Simon." He never liked her, probably because he wanted the membership she was awarded. Alex was not a great mentor or even the best person to work under, but he knew how to woo the clients and sell the bare minimum for the maximum cost. The recent project bagged by him, incidentally by chatting up with the marketing head at a bar, was a children's toy brand trying to venture into children's snacks.

"Hi Alex. Sorry about this morning. I was just not feeling well."

"Oh, don't bother about it. The package design is finalized, this is the mascot they want."

He said passing her a sheet of paper without looking, it always looked like he had rehearsed it, placed the paper at precise steps, a file in his hands that is just a prop and then as soon as she took the sheet to examine, he walked up to stand behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I am counting on you. You do a good job on this and your position might not be so temporary. ”She looked up to him and smiled.

This was his M.O. Being in his team, your only job is to refine the lines around his vague ideas and designs so he can later present it as his own and collect all the praise from the clients. It is demeaning, you do not grow intellectually, but it is a great way to make contacts in the high places and if the apprentice is quick enough, might catch some skills of the trade. She only looked at Alex’s sample after coming back to her table and the blood stopped flowing in her veins. She was petrified. She could suddenly feel her breakfast wanting to escape her body and she rushed to the bathroom.

She had been staring at the blank white paper for the past two hours. The sheet with the prototype was turned around, but the eyes on that hideous creature still haunted her. She has had a particular hatred towards frogs since her childhood, so much that she could not even bear to look at the rough caricature of one that Alex drew.

It sort of started when she was ten, this hatred and disgust. It had rained heavily the day before and while walking home she was cornered by a few of the older girls that were just hanging around in a nearby park. It started as basic entertainment for them, pointing out faults in her face, ridiculing her hair and clothes, she was used to that. But then one of the girls noticed a big croaking frog and decided it would be fun to play a fairy tale. She remembers running home that day, all the way trying to rub out the slime from her lips and face, struggling to hold her bag because her hands were too dirty to hold anything. She did not even dare to wipe the tears off her face. And the girls were running behind her shouting that she was so ugly, the prince would rather stay as a frog.

She pushed the memory deep down, took a long breath and then the sheet of paper in her hand. It was a simple cartoon of a frog in a top hat and dinner jacket, a very generic idea of an animal caricature and now it was her job to make it remarkable. That night she scrubbed her lips for an extra fifteen minutes to remove the smell of the puke, still, it kept waking her up every two hours.

The next day was just an extension to her ongoing nightmare, she threw up thrice that day and spent most of her day washing up. On the way home, at her wit's end, she decided to buy an extra-strong chemical peel mask for her lips.

It was the third day since this horrendous task had entered her life, she was tired from not sleeping, circles around her eyes and extremely chapped lips. It was also the day of submission of the first draft. She sat on her desk, took a look at her drawings and rushed to the toilet. The new peel did help this time, for she finally sat down with satisfaction. She had tried to back down from this project, although it would have been career suicide, she just couldn't go through with this one.

"No." That's all Alex said before returning to his lunch.

She asked again.

"No." And that was it.

After lunch, she stepped into Alex's office and handed him the designs. He took it from her and then strangely started staring at her. "You have got a bit of your lunch on your face, better clean it up next time you face someone. It's very off-putting. "She immediately turned around mortified and rushed out of the cabin. She took it and smelt it, and suddenly that wretched smell was back. She made a mental note to buy some more masks. And then she made another note to buy some anti-nausea tablets when she saw the review mail from Alex.

Two weeks in and she was still struggling. The scrubbing and peeling which started from her lips had now extended to her hands and face. The constant rubbing of sanitizer didn't help either. Her skin was dry and peeling off, she hadn't slept at all because every time she closed her eyes, there would be a frog in top hat smiling at her. And then there was all the puking, the color of which had now turned from yellow to red. There would be instances where frogs would start jumping up on her table or would sometimes emerge from the papers scattered and start dancing in front of her, but blinking strongly and rapidly would make them disappear one by one.

She was playing a game every day, get spooked and you lose, and she wasn't going to lose, not after she fought so hard to be in Alex's good books.

She stared at her falling face in the mirror and reached for the moisturizer, she took a little bit and placed little droplets randomly on her face and was immediately disgusted by it. It had become a ritual of sorts, wake up form a superficial sleep, struggling to face her reflection and barely able to touch her skin, she would still be driven to peel off every hanging skin scrape. Well hopefully it would all end soon, it was the day they present the final draft to the client and if all goes well, she will never be forced to look at a frog again.

“You look awful. Jesus, at least put some lipstick on.” She could see the repulsion in Alex’s eyes as soon as she walked in. Which was not too different from what she saw in the mirror herself. But, two hours of sitting in a room filled with pictures of different cartoon frogs, shutting her teeth so that the vomit doesn’t feel invited to burst out and tying her hands with an invisible metal wire so she doesn’t start to scratch the itch she had been feeling on her lips, she made it through the ordeal. They shook hands, smiled and headed off to a celebratory dinner. It was a group of five from the client’s side and then three people from their team excluding Alex. She may have had the worst months of her life but she had a feeling it was going to be worth it.

They all sat around a round table and were just waiting for dinner when one of the brand representatives stood up to make a toast.

“We would like to thank all of you. We had tried a lot of different agencies, even rolled in a few bad ones into production, but we think that our friend here has got what we need. So, we would like to offer you your next endeavor, our new drink.” And he pulled out a plastic bottle in the shape of the ugliest frog. “Now, I know the packaging is rubbish, which is why we need you. But, I ensure you the drink itself is delicious.” She thought she couldn’t move when he pulled out the bottle but she only realized how much easier it would have been to move before than when he started pouring the drinks. Everyone was expected to take one glass in their hands and drink to the toast. And Alex’s expressions weren’t subtle when she refused to pick one up.

“Just one last time,” She thought to herself. “One last time.”

They had five different toasts, all from the same alarmingly grinning frog-shaped plastic waste, and she drank each one of them repeating to herself those three words. She was only able to excuse herself once everyone started digging in their respective dinners. She rushed to one of the sinks while clutching to her bag. Ever since she started on the drawing, she had always kept all her supplies in her handbag. She pulled out her toothbrush and immediately started cleaning her tongue, simultaneously trying to make herself throw up. It didn't help, although she did manage to throw up, when she opened her eyes to look down, all she could see was little slimy snail-like creatures but without the shell, floating in the yellow and red fluid. She quickly opened up the sink tap and started cleaning it with the liquid soap they had on the side. She took a little bit in her palms and drank it to rinse her mouth, when she spat, two of those creatures fell from her mouth. She did it again with just water and this time more fell out. She repeated this for a while, each time hoping for a different result, so the next time she took a pump of the soap and rinsed her mouth with it, this time one came out. She rinsed her mouth with water the next time and a few spat out, so she used soap again. Now she started feeling something in her stomach, something which was moving around, shifting her organs, collecting them in a basket, so she decided to lie down on the floor and close her eyes.

She was looking up at one of those big tanks that they have in factories, then she was climbing the staircase beside it, trying to peek what was inside and once she reached on the top, she could see a thousand frogs shrieking and drowning in an orange liquid. She bent down and took a deep sip from it. As soon as she opened her eyes, she had to throw up again. This time they were alive, moving around, trying to reach back to her. As if her insides were their well, their home and her blood was the only thing that nurtured them. She stared at the bottle of the liquid soap, in the sink and back at the bottle. She finally reached for it.

Her body was found by a waitress who was sent in for check-in by one of her colleagues. There was white foam around her mouth and yellow puke in every basin. The waitress quit her job the next day.

[naqaashi]

Monster

“Why have you kept me locked away?”

She brushes off the boy’s concern as though it is dust on the lapels of a favourite jacket. It is evident she is not going to answer; the question, in her eyes, is simply not worthy of that dignity any more.

He is less a boy and more a man, though she thinks of him as a boy still – all the household does. He is reasonably tall despite the little exercise she allows him, and he is pale and slender and resentful. He is rarely so expressive. Her presence has trained him not to show any emotion on his face, as somewhere in the past sixteen years he has learnt that the more he resembles a corpse, the less she wants to visit him. That is a good thing, always. The last time she visited, she took away his sole companion, a little calico kitten that had strayed into the house.

 Of course, she does not do these things to be unkind, she has explained that to him. She had left a replacement for the kitten – a tall, stern man who called himself Jameson and never smiled. The boy could have told her that he preferred the kitten to that forbidding scar-faced thing she called his “bodyguard.” They both had known that he was in fact the latest and best in a long line of jailers. But the boy also knows that in her own place, the woman has been quite fair. He can simply not be allowed near anything small and weak – anything he might hurt.

 He has a history of hurting things he shouldn’t be hurting – she maintains.

 That is a suffix that he has only lately started to apply. In the past, it is less a saying of hers and more a fact that he has accepted without question. After all, he knows that at least two of the things she says, are true. One, at the age of four, he killed his brother’s dog. Next, at the age of six, he killed his brother.

 His brother was her favourite son. It is no wonder that she has kept him locked away ever since. He accepts that fact unhesitatingly. He frowns and tilts his head, realising just what he has asked her. The motion causes his hair to fall over his eyes, criss-crossing over his glasses. He tries again.

 “Why did I kill him?”

 That is simpler and more direct. That is also the last question he should have asked – he does not realise until after.

 She looks at him sideways, loath to face him and his heinous question completely. “Because,” she says and her voice is remarkably calm, “you were evil. You always have been psychopathic. But it was less clear then. It was a terrible thing that you did…isn’t that enough to know?”

 He has no answer to that and somehow he thinks that she is not looking for one either. She has never been cruel to him, and words like these do not come his way often. He believes that is why they still have the power to hurt him. The silence that follows is awkward, there is only one way to end it, and so she leaves. He lets her go without protest. The gardener will be here soon – he does not want her to know about the gardener. If she finds out, she will take him away too.

 ~*~

 There’s whistling outside. He twists his face into a smile – it’s not quite natural yet though he’s been practising – and moves to the door. “I’m going,” he announces just before stepping out. It is a formality – Jameson is right there and his eyes are in full working order – but the boy persists in this little ceremony every time. He considers it a courtesy, a sort of incomplete thanks to his jailer. No one else has permitted him this sort of unthinkable freedom. Oh, he has never been barred from the grounds.  But he has never, never been allowed to have a friend.

 “Unthinkable freedom,” he mumbles to himself when the door has shut behind him. That is the right word, that is exactly what this is. He is not allowed friends because of what he might do to them, and here he is, indulging himself so shamefully. He can almost hear her voice in his head, pointing out all the terrible consequences this could have, probably will have someday. But to his surprise, he does not care about it anymore.

 “Rusty doesn’t care,” he informs her voice.

 “And what don’t I care ‘bout?” a laughing, sunny voice asks him.

 “About dying at my hands.” He is cool with Rusty. He can’t help it. Fond as he is of the other boy, he is too well-trained in the dangers of associating, getting intimate with anyone.

 Rusty just laughs. Always laughing, this boy, he thinks with mingled irritation and thankfulness. “I practised smiling,” he says shyly, and produces one for effect.

 Rusty stares. “Do that some more and I will start to think you’ve got some dubious ideas in that head of yours.” Rusty likes big words when they’re completely out of place.

 The boy can’t help it. He laughs, properly.

 “That’s better,” says Rusty, pleased. “I’d hate to waste my talents on a failing enterprise.”

 They stand there in the sunshine, grinning at each other like a pair of idiots, before the boy realises that they are being watched. It is only Jameson – the man might be a soft-hearted fool under his grim exterior, but he is not completely stupid or careless. The boy understands the reason for such vigilance, he is even a little grateful for it. It will stop him, he thinks, if he ever tries to hurt Rusty. If such a thing should happen, if he looks like he’ll do to Rusty what he did to his brother, Jameson will be watching, and he will come at once to save Rusty.

 However, just now the boy wants some privacy. There is question lurking in Rusty’s face, in his open brown eyes. The boy motions towards the woodshed. “I’ll help you carry the manure.” They heft a bag each and make their way through the shrubbery. As they walk, he talks about the visit. As he talks he steals glances at his companion’s sun-browned face and the unusual seriousness it carries. That very expression reassures him and keeps him going – if he had thought that this was only a curiosity to Rusty, he could not have said a word, no matter the provocation. When he finishes, they are both thinking quietly.

 “What aren’t you telling me?” Rusty asks suddenly.

 The boy hesitates. It was such a little thing, and besides, she is almost always like that. But Rusty’s gaze is boring into him, and after some deliberation, he decides to give it up. “Her voice was remarkably calm…”

 “For someone who’s lost her son,” finishes Rusty softly.

 The boy doesn’t say it out loud, but that is exactly what he has been thinking too.

 ~*~

 She stands there, looking at him out of reproachful blue eyes. Her fair hair is lighter than it was a year ago, there are tight folds of skin around her mouth, but none at the corners of her eyes. It strikes the boy that she must smile even less than he does. He wants to feel guilt and remorse, but all he can feel is rage – proper anger as he has never felt before in all his memories, and yet it is as familiar to him as his skin, as his confinement, as Rusty. He is furiously angry with her for the first time. She is silent and sorrowful and remarkably calm, and she will not answer his simple question.

 “Why did I kill my brother?”

 Instead, she counters it with one of her own – “Why is it so important for you to know, isn’t it enough that you have already done it?”

 He has tried to explain in many different ways. He has told her that he must know the reason for his sin if he is to repent it decently, he has asked her to tell him out of simple mercy, and he has explained that he is just curious.

 In all this time, she has remained absolutely calm, a fortress he cannot breach, and his anger grows day after day, till even Rusty admits he cannot help contain it any longer.

 ~*~

 “It’s time I left.”

 The boy says nothing.

 “You knew it,” says Rusty, and his voice is accusatory and hurt. It is that pain that reaches through to the boy’s heart and makes him turn around to face his friend. The summer that turned into seasons is over, and it is time for Rusty to leave. The boy stares into the other’s face, as familiar as his own after this long year, and knows he will never forget it. This laughing, happy face has sustained him through long months of nothing but unanswered questions, nothing but Jameson’s increasingly pitying looks that sit badly on the jailer’s weathered skin.

 Yes, he wants to say, I know you cannot be mine forever. He is feeling a madness creep upon him, he wants to hurt Rusty, he wants to inflict pain and bathe in the regret of causing it. “Goodbye,” he says, muted by the encroaching whistle of the train. That is all he is going to say, he resolves.

 “You will hear from me,” Rusty promises him, brown eyes dim and flat, just like his own. Looking at them, the boy feels satisfied, knowing that they share the pain of separation.

 He knows somehow that he will never see Rusty again, thus he is able to turn around and close the door on that dull, aching face forever.

 ~*~

 Soft hands – soft skin. Soft lips, soft, pretty face. Evil should be uglier than this, he thinks. But evil is soft, soft and sweet and quite ignorant.

 “It’ll feel good, stop struggling!”

 He obeys – he cannot obey a minute longer. The reassurance is hollow as an earthen pot, he knows there will be no feeling good, nothing nice at the end of this experience. His brother’s face swims above him, soft-cheeked and brilliant-eyed, loving, earnest, horribly determined. “It will feel good!” he insists, and pushes, and pushes, and pushes, trying to prove his point. He has been trying for a long time now, but he always fails.

 Then comes the moment that will define the boy’s life. He strains, he chooses to believe that his brother is lying, and the tearing pain is the only reality he has. Half-consciously, his arm lashes out, his leg knee catches on his brother’s relentless hips. They are fighting, but he is fuelled by something more inhuman than anger or pain, he is denial personified in that instant. There is only one way to make his brother understand a refusal, and so he straddles that soft-skinned, writhing body, and he digs his thumbs into his brother’s bright, pleading eyes. His thumbs are buried in bright leaking blood and pus and shreds of nervous tissue, and he is laughing like a mad creature, tears sliding down his cheeks when the door slams open and their mother stands aghast, unable to pull him off his brother, unable to even scream or ask why.

 The boy chooses to think of himself as a young man now. He remembers, though he cannot pinpoint just what caused him to delve so deeply into the past. Perhaps it was Rusty, telling him what he was about to do – Rusty on that frenetic journey to the north to an old servant’s cottage, hell-bent on digging the truth out of someone. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that Rusty would go to such lengths to find the truth for him that woke him up at last.

 The young man decides that neither matter is of significance. He has the truth now, and with it he has something to do. No one else can do it.

 ~*~

 Skin is soft. It has nothing to do with age. Skin is smooth and silken and yielding, if it is cared for well enough. He presses his fingertips into the softness below him. It is slick with sweat and they slide down to where a pulse hammers against the thin barrier between blood and blood, like a moth’s wings. He savours the palpitations for a moment, but then he realises that he must loosen his grip or she will die.

 “Are you all right?” he asks, taut with worry. She cannot die – his purpose will not be fulfilled if he kills her now.

 She rasps something at him through dry, cracked lips and raw, swollen larynx. It sounds like a question; he grasps it only because one of the words in it has become familiar to him.

 He wonders if she is worthy of an answer. Do you deserve that dignity or not, his eyes ask her silently. His glasses have been knocked askew in their struggle – his flat brown eyes glare at her with the warning of a dying sun.

 But then he remembers, he would not be here at all if not for her. That is a fact both literal and figurative and he likes what it means. His knees are pinning her down firmly, his fingers tighten for a moment as he speaks.

 “Because you knew everything.”

 His fingers flex against the vertebrae of her neck and they snap. He is not worried about what he has done – he knows, thankfully, that this time he will not forget why.