baptistnbootlegger

[sleepyc63]

candycane posting (my brain is rotting)

[emeraldhazeart]

📓 Your turn! 💜

Thank you for asking 💚

Put "📓" or some other version of a book emoji into my inbox and I'll explain the plot of a fanfiction that I haven't written but daydream about.

OK, so I've got quite a few ideas bouncing around inside my brain, but I've already got too many WIPs right now to start a new one.

That said, one of the ideas that has been rattling around inside my noggin for years now is a take on Underfell after the monsters reach the Surface.

Under the cut because I wrote more than I expected 😅

The monsters are free from the Underground, at last. But things immediately go wrong.

Just like the monsters, the humans in Underfell are a lot less trusting and a lot more aggressive. So, the moment a whole population of monsters emerges from Mt Ebott, the humans turn on them.

Frisk is "rescued" from the Evil Monsters™️ and taken away to a de-programming facility where the humans try to free them from the monsters' "brainwashing".

Meanwhile, the monsters are rounded up, locked up in a sort of anti-immigration facility and treated harshly. They're all worried sick about Frisk and their loved ones, but they're Fells so they show it by aggression and distrust.

Eventually, without Frisk there to be the go-between, tensions boil over, a new war breaks out between monsters and humans, and the monsters break out of the facility and form a resistance movement. Their first task is to rescue Frisk.

Meanwhile, Frisk has been working on their end to get back to the monsters.

The idea for the story was very much inspired by the song Never Going Back by The Score:

I've literally only written one paragraph for this story, but here it is if you're interested:

Frisk didn't cry when they were seized. Despite everything they'd been through, they hadn't shed a tear throughout the entire Underground. In all honesty, they doubted they even could anymore. Their reservoir had been cried dry long before they met any of the monsters.

[tears0fsatan]

Could you also do an angst/comfort oneshot with "Please don't scare me like that again. I can take alot of things, but not loosing you." And "Just get the fuck over here and let me hold you." For bottom Mammon? I modified the last quote hope you don't mind!

✦ ⊹ ˚˖ warnings... gn!reader [no pronouns used], relationship isn't specified, maybe a lil ooc [esp. towards the end but oh well], would u consider a summoning to be kidnapping, kinda sappy lololol

 :¨·.·¨ ♥︎  a.n... MY DARLINGS, MY SWEETS, MY ANGELS, REJOICE FOR I HAVE RETURNED momentarily!!!!! thank u for bein patient with me i'll do my best to sprinkle in a post here n there heh anw!! ofc i don't mind love! thank u for sending in so many submissions omg i feel so loved ;'D

the sound of your laughter could be heard bouncing off the walls of devildom's plaza, followed by the sound of the avatar of greed's yelling. you wiped away the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes, taking in shaky deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself.

"it's not funny! i don' get why yer laughin so hard, i'm tellin ya, i nearly died!" despite his words, there was a large smile on mammon's face. he looked at you with an empty glare, but all it did was send you into another fit of laughter.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, it's just," you couldn't stop the giggles that bubbled out of you, "it's so funny how you thought it was a good idea to scam a high priestess."

"it wasn't funny! them witches embedded all sorta magic in their weapons after that! it was so bad that i couldn't show my face in the human world for a century! plus it wasn't a scam, it was a one-sided beneficial agreement!" mammon defended himself, though he too couldn't help but let a few chuckles slip at the absurdity of the story.

he crossed his arms in front of his chest while grumbling simultaneously, "ain't my fault the dumb bastard didn't realise." you sighed at his comment, though the ends of your lips curled up in amusement.

"good thing they didn't get you or else we wouldn't be here right now." you joked, pulling him closer to you so you could rub his head. the demon yelped and tried to escape your grasp while muttering 'hands off my noggin' under his breath, though it was obvious he enjoyed the action as he put no strength behind his attempt.

everything was going well, so well that the two of you didn't notice the magic circle that appeared below mammon's feet and the sparks that began to cover his legs. there was no noise to indicate what was happening, and the two of you didn't realise until the demon just... vanished out of thin air.

you blinked in surprise at the quick flash of light followed by mammon's sudden disappearance. your hand that had been wrapped around his shoulder limply fell down to your side. your eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion and your feet were stuck in place.

"ma-mammon?" you hesitantly called out, your eyes roamed the plaza to try and spot him. the thought of it being a joke slowly started to dissipate the longer he was gone, and a heavy weight began nestling itself within your chest.

"mammon?!" your voice holds more urgency this time, your head frantically looks around in hopes you'd spot his discernible white hair in the crowd.

you don't.

you ran around the plaza, turning over every rock you saw but no matter where you looked, he just wasn't there. the sound of your heart beating wildly rang in your ears and your vision gradually blurred to the point you could hardly make out anything through the tears, yet you still couldn't tear your mind away from the missing avatar of greed.

you tried calming yourself, taking in deep breaths in hopes it would, at the very least, help you think rationally. you shakily unlocked your DDD to try and contact him, only to no avail. it doesn't help your growing anxiety in the slightest, but it does give you time to organise your thoughts.

your thumb shakily hovered over lucifer's contact, unsure of whether to inform the oldest demon lord of what's occurred. you try to recall if any of the brothers have mentioned something like this happening, and your mind can't help but wander to the conversation you two were having before mammon poofed out of thin air.

the only reasonable explanation you could think was is a summoning, given as there was no prior warning to his abrupt disappearance. your thoughts begin to divulge into a different sort of worry with your new found knowledge, mind scrambling at the things they could be doing to him while you were stuck frozen in place.

the knowledge that you are essentially powerless in this situation leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. with a heavy mind, you make your way back to the house of lamentation.

the walk back home and the moments leading up to you burying yourself in his bed were a blur, you hadn't realised just how much time had passed by as none of the brothers came to bother you. on top of that, your DDD had been silent too, there was no sign that mammon had even received your messages.

the occasional sniffle from the lump underneath the pile of blankets was the only indication of life in mammon's cold and dark room. you weren't sure how much time had passed since the incident, not that you wanted to know anyways.

a sudden creak from the doorway has jerked you out of your reverie, your head whips toward the direction of the noise and the tears well up before you can control yourself.

the light from the hallway illuminates mammon's silhouette and you can barely make out his disheveled appearance. a sob wrecks out of your throat and you scramble off his bed. some pillows and a portion of his duvet is on the ground but you don't notice, attention solely focused on the figure leaning on the door frame.

your movements were clumsy and your limbs felt heavy after not moving for ages, but you found yourself standing in front of him soon enough.

mammon avoided your gaze, his eyes, which you noted were unusually nervous, darted around the room. he had a complicated look on his face, as if he was feeling a myriad of emotions and couldn't control them.

a shaky breath made its way past your lips as you took in the sight of him. the demon flinched at your reaction, eyes quickly glancing at you before looking around the room.

the silence constricted around your throat, which made it hard to swallow. your mouth felt dry and your thoughts were jumbled, making it difficult for you to find the right thing to say.

it was clear that mammon felt the same, so you chose to blurt out the next thing that came to mind.

"fuck- just, please- just get the fuck over here and let me hold you." you somehow managed to croak out, your throat felt as if it was closing up but you paid it no mind. the demon flinched at the roughness of your voice but slowly trudged toward you. his eyes are cast downwards, focused solely on the ground and his feather light steps.

his steps started out slow and hesitant, before he rushed into your open arms. he buried his face into the crook of your neck and your hands tightly interlocked behind his back.

you could hear him take a deep breath and his hands gripped the back of your clothes tighter than before. the tears dripped down your face before you could make a move to stop it, though by the way mammon's fists clenched around the material of your top, you assumed that he wasn't as bothered by it as you had imagined.

"please, don't- don't scare me like that again. i can take a lot of things, but not losing you." your voice wavered, displaying your desperation to mammon without him having to see your face. the demon's eyes welled up at the sincerity behind your words and he couldn't stop the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

"i know you're a powerful demon lord 'nd what not, sniffle, but i'm still gonna worry about you." you subconsciously tried to pull him impossibly closer, to which the demon didn't bother to try and fight against, he needed this as much as you did.

a muffled "'m sorry." could be heard from where mammon had his face buried in the crook of your neck, with his forehead resting against your shoulder. the material of your top grew increasingly damp, but you weren't in any place to call him out for it.

you squeezed the demon in your arms ever so slightly, "it wasn't your fault." your tone was sharp and curt, despite your shaky voice from earlier, leaving no room for mammon to refute your words.

the two of you stood at the empty doorway for a moment, simply taking the time to bask in one another's much needed presence. with him in your arms, you felt the knots in your mind slowly untangled themselves and left you feeling relieved.

of course, you still had a lot to discuss with the avatar of greed but that could wait until he was ready. although his appearance was considerably shabbier compared to how well kept he usually looked, he wasn't injured. even while holding him, you had taken the initiative to inspect now that you were closer to him.

"why don't we go lay down? i'm sure you're tired, darling." you softly muttered, not wanting to disturb the peace. you could feel his head moving up and down against your shoulder, though he made no move to lift his head.

your hands tenderly cupped his cheeks, pulling his face away from where he had hid himself. your thumbs wiped the tears that continued to run down his cheeks and all you could offer him was a small, bitter smile.

"we can deal with it tomorrow. for now, i really just want to keep you in my arms." mammon let out a watery chuckle, his sorrowful expression from earlier was nowhere to be found.

© 2022 TEARS0FSATAN. please don’t repost, modify or translate my works anywhere!

[ponds-of-ink]

Some Miscellaneous FNAF + Don Bluth “Project” Headcanons (Part 1?)

Because this idea has been bouncing around in my noggin, here’s my attempt at thinking like a writer in the 90’s. Keep in mind, this is just me spitballing the ideas that have been swirling in my noggin for days now.

*If Don Bluth is anything to go by, fantastical stuff is a must. Sure, Sci-Fi’s a genre that’s been done in that style. But, if some of the lineup’s anything to go by, then it might lean more into the ‘90s Fantasy genre.

*So, I’m thinking like Narnia but with teleport machines that William and Henry built. Like, you slip into some hidden corner of on of their houses and it’s there. This… mirror-looking portal.

*Henry originally made this with the intention to play out potential Fredbear and Friends scenarios like a Star Trek-like Holo-Deck. But, unfortunately, William requested one for Evan so the little guy could get used to the animatronics indirectly. Evan and Charlie both got lost and um… Yeah, they’re stuck.

*Speaking of those kids, Evan went in first but got captured. Charlie was sent by William to get Evan back, but she became this project’s version of The Puppet. Needless to say, Henry wasn’t happy and William (understandably here) panicked. This was not part of the plan.

*Btw, the Nightmares weren’t originally in the system, but William might’ve accidentally “created” them while setting the machine up. Nightmare Bear probably is both the leader of that group and maaaaybe the over-arching Big Bad. Maybe.

*Anyway, let’s switch to somebody you might actually be curious about: Michael. Well… How he appears in this thing differs from story to story. At first, he’s the fox-masked teen we know and loathe/love. Next, after returning to the real world for a bit, he’s practically an adult. And then, after a tangle with Circus Baby/Elizabeth and her crew, he actually becomes Rockstar Foxy but with a stitched-up gash down his stomach. Idk why exactly on that last one at the moment, but I think it’s because his “avatar” of sorts had to be reconstructed.

*(Oh, yeah. I probably should’ve brought this up sooner. There’s time skips between each hypothetical… episode? Made-for-TV movie specials?… Whatever you wanna chalk this up to. Now, granted, it’s just time skips in the Holo-World and not in Real Life. Be weird to explain thirty-year irl time skips here.)

*Point is: Michael is our Main Man for, at least three of these after the FNAF 4 “pitch pilot”. Though I mentioned Nightmare as the overarching Big Bad, he’ll just be biding his time while the other Main Villains take the spotlight. He can wait for his grand finale.

*So, who are the villains we do see? Welp, we first have William as Spring-Bonnie. TL;DR on his deal is that he sent five random kids through the machine to test the waters, got trapped there himself as his own character, and kinda went stir-crazy after those kids locked him up somewhere. The only thing keeping him from not losing his marbles are his constant song and dance rehearsals… Which, in turn, render him completely unable to talk for the FNAF 3 section.

*Circus Baby/Elizabeth (and her gang). William, during the test run days, accidentally left the machine on one day. Liz stumbled across it while in the newfound Circus Baby’s mode, peeked in, then got scooped into it. She suffered the same fate as the five kids and quickly transformed into Circus Baby herself. Long story short, she’s been running a circus in Nightmare’s own backyard for quite a bit now. You can call her the ringleader of it, since she pretty much is.

*The overall main goals are (1) Freeing the Missing Kids/Afton and Emily Families, (2) Defeating Nightmare, and (3) Making Amends. [Maybe not in that order, but okay.]

*Oh, and the Shadow Animatronics? Henchmen for the Nightmares during this saga. Shadow Bonnie is a Dr. Frankenstein type while Shadow Freddy is a Spy for King Nightmare himself… Well, maybe on Shadow Freddy.

That’s all I’ve got so far. Sorry if this is a little stream-of-conscious-ish and rambling. I have so many ideas and too little brain cells to spill them all out in an orderly manner.

[katoninetailswrites]

maybe some director's commentary for the wizard's nephew?

I was going to beg you to be a bit more specific, because the amount of commentary I am capable of giving for TWN might just be longer than the entirety of the fic. Both written and the unwritten. And there’s a LOT of both! When I say I’ve been bouncing this story around my noggin for 9 years now, I am very much not exaggerating. If you give me a blank slate, you are going to get a whole bible back.

Here’s three parts, to keep me in line: The Concept, The Original, and The Actual Story

1. The Concept: The Wizards Nephew, before it was called that, was planned around the theory that Harry, Snape and Voldemort were the reincarnation of three brothers that was floating around certain circles around... A decade ago. Jesus I’m old. Anyway, this is no longer the theory going on in the story, obviously, or I wouldn’t be telling it, but that’s how it started. I noticed that they were actually old enough to be Harry’s father and grandfather, and Dumbledore a great-grandfather, and that they all had miserable childhoods. So I though: who breaks the generational curse? Harry? What if it was broken sooner? What if Snape put aside his bitterness for just long enough to set out on a different course?

And that’s how TWN started. I was barely a teenager at the time, and hardly capable of writing what I was daydreaming about, so the story took around 8 years to develop into what I’ve started writing, once I’ve felt I had progressed enough as a writer. Currently, the outline is longer than all the HP fics I’ve written on AO3 combined, and a mess. Seriously, I am still writing out plotholes. One of the reasons it’s taking so damn long.

2.The Original: Originally, beyond the ‘Snape adopts Harry’ bit, the plot was going to be vastly different. I was a depressed teenager, and my writing reflected that. There may or may not be a whole abandoned account on FF with a lot of badly written angst out there. For example, Alyssa was written to replace a half-blood orphan boy named Richard (because of the 'every Tom, Dick and Harry' joke), who was mostly in there to make everyone suffer. As I shifted away from writing penny-dreadful tragedies, I considered dropping it entirely, but I still liked a lot of the story and the characters I created. I wrote down the parts I liked and shuffled them around canon until I thought I was onto something, then built around that. And the mortar holding this whole mess together is a thousand other people who have passed through Tumblr in its golden age and left an incredible amount of ideas that I ended up incorporating.

To give you an illustration of just how many iterations this story has gone through: Dick had to be removed, that was clear, but I still needed someone to fill his role. Preferably without the emotional baggage he carried. And a muggle, for the later plot lines. Alyssa, originally called Alexia (meaning peace lily, because symbolism), was only supposed to appear as an adult, way down the line when she was introduced as Dudley’s wife, and while she had an important bit to play she was a relatively minor character. Pretty different from what she ended up as, huh?

3. The Actual Story: Somewhere in between overhauling the plot and dealing with depression, I discovered Discworld by Terry Pratchett. Now, I could never hope to be as good as Sir Terry Pratchett, but a lot of the profound lessons he wrote into his comedies punched me in the gut so hard I can still quote them verbatim. So I thought, ‘you made this because you wanted to make things better. Now you know what ‘better’ looks like. Might as well try that’. Again, I sure as hell am not Terry Pratchett, but I can still do my best with what I learned.

So now TWN features Severus trying to rebuild his life after tearing it all to the ground, repaying his debts, letting go of guilt and learning what it’s like to be happy and healthy. And also what it takes to defend it.

Anyway, TWN is actually going to be two-part. The first part, which we are around the middle of, is the Severus’ POV. The next one is going to be someone else, but still deal with similar lessons. The way I’m going, I’m probably going to be lucky if I manage to finish it before I get grey hairs. Wish me luck!

If you want more directors commentary, feel free to ask! If you are willing to risk the info dump.

[m0r1bund]

recommended reading: 'Who can tell your stories?'

Something that's been at the forefront of my mind recently is the matter of inspiration. Specifically-- seeking inspiration, stories, and aesthetics from other cultures, and the matter of appreciation vs. appropriation.

I've been thinking in particular about the relational nature of stories, one's responsibilities to them as a storyteller, and when one should and shouldn't tell a story. I think this is something folks flinch at-- the idea that there are times when you shouldn't realize the darling story (or illustration, or design, or piece of music, etc) bouncing around in your noggin.

I am not a stranger to this feeling, either. It's no secret my work is founded heavily in the Southwest and the people who live here. I make art about the desert because I want people to care for it and fight for it. To be terribly honest, I want to scream out sometimes... This isn't just an “aesthetic” to me, another source of inspiration to be extracted for creative gain or to profit off of. I live here, and so do many of the people closest to me.

But there are a lot of stories I haven't told because I realized, while writing them, they simply weren't mine to tell. (You might have been reading one-- I promise I'm chipping away at the Ghost River revisions, slowly but surely.)

I think this is important for every creative to interrogate... Hey, what is that impulse to go to the stories / art / cultural property of other people for “inspiration”? What is the relationship here? Is it one of collaboration? Mutual growth? Promotion? Give and take? Or one of extraction and profiteering? (Understand my meaning-- profit need not be monetary to create harm.) There is a long history in the western arts and sciences of misuse and abuse of the works of indigenous peoples and other marginalized groups, linked intimately with physical harms.

Anyway. The actual point of this rambling thought is that there's a wonderful post on the American Indians in Children's Literature blog titled “An oft-posed question: "Who can tell your stories?"” that I find myself coming back to lately. I really, really think everyone should read it! So, here is me sharing it and urging you to do that. It's short and sweet and well worth your time, I promise.

[darkkitsuneprincess]

A THANK YOU and an Update...

So first, WOW. This blog is closing in on 100 followers [something I totally did not expect AT ALL]. Thank you all for being so amazingly awesome!

There are definitely new fics cooking. I’m about half-way through the Shingen Kitchen Smut™ piece, and that massive Mitsuhide opus (TITLE: The Serpent’s Bride) I mentioned earlier is fully outlined and will be TWENTY FREAKING CHAPTERS when it’s all said and done. It has, like, a real plot and everything! I’m on Chapter 15 now. It won’t be long, kids. There’s also some really cracky Masamune stuff bouncing around in my head that I’ve started and erased four times because it just suuuuuuucks. It’s really not as funny on paper as it is in my noggin, so I’m working on that too.

So the REASON all of this is coming so slowly is because (1) I’m one of those newly-working-from-home-and-surviving-homeschool-hell moms, (2) I’m having serious issues with my anxiety and depression while coming to terms with the world being on fire, and (3) I currently have five novels in two different series under contract and my publisher is ready to come to my house and set me on fire (from a safe distance, of course. Flamethrowers are absolutely an option...)  because I’m so-freaking-far outside my deadlines. Yes, fanfic is a total distraction from marketable work, but you guys really have no idea how much getting back into it has helped clear the pipes. The words are flowing so much better in every aspect of my writing life.

A big part of that is due entirely to y’all. Seriously. The comments from all of you on my silly little stories have made all the difference in my twisted up world. There’s definite imposter syndrome going on in this brain and to know how many people appreciate what i’m doing--to know that I’ve brought joy to even one person during this time--means so, so, so much to me.

So again, thank you all. You’re amazing and I feel so lucky to have you in my life.

[arcanalogue]

The Tower + The Force of Impact

This week is a sort of special anniversary for me. Exactly five years ago, I fell through the fire escape outside a friend’s apartment and broke three ribs. It was a serious injury, the bones were “grossly displaced” (I was morbidly delighted to learn this term), and the healing was very slow. And friends, as some of you may remember, the timing absolutely could not have been worse. 

You see, just a month beforehand I’d moved out of the apartment I’d shared with my partner of over a decade. Not sure of my next steps, I packed everything into a storage unit, like so:

The unit was located in this fascinating old historical building, an old glue factory which had been converted into public storage. I’d ridden my bike past it so many times, I took a perverse pleasure in finally having an excuse to go inside, rent a tiny piece of it:

From there I embarked on a month of traveling across the country, mainly to get a leg up financially by not having to pay rent. It didn’t work! And when I returned to the city, I kept everything in storage while I took shelter in a temporary room I could scarcely afford. I decided to keep it monastically empty, like so:

Not even a bed to sleep in, because beds are FURNITURE, and furniture is not only EXPENSIVE, but signifies a symbolic COMMITMENT to the way things are going to be for a while. 

I was determined to avoid defining my new reality that haphazardly, This, I imagined, was my one big chance to find the path forward, into THE FUTURE.  I wanted to remain staggeringly open-minded, which would require the utmost clarity and simplicity. Starting anew with only the basics, I would hone my sensitivities and let them guide me to what was truly important. 

And thus, the only piece of luggage I brought to the temporary room was the suitcase containing all of my ritual equipment, like so:

But then, within a week of setting up in the new space, came the fall. And with the injury came the kind of pain and fear that you simply can’t retreat from. I couldn’t rest, couldn’t think. I could barely commute to my storage space, let alone haul anything back from it. I didn’t have any goddamned money. Overnight, that spartan living space appeared quite different to me: it was devoid of comfort, and of possibilities. I was just a person with nothing, trapped in the borderlands, and my surroundings reflected that. 

You almost had to laugh. Except I couldn’t, it hurt my bones.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but that winter ended up drop-kicking me into the deepest depression since my early twenties. There’s a special component of failure that age imparts to illness: fifteen years of growth, of important milestones and observations, but suddenly none of that is useful, or even accessible. Poof, gone.

And that carefully-packed suitcase full of ceremonial tchotchkes? It might as well have been filled with sand.  

I made a lot of terrible decisions that winter, but can’t bring myself to regret them. I also made a lot of okay-ish decisions, and even some pretty good ones, all considered. A drowning person will grab onto anything that floats. At one point I spent about $200 of the money I didn’t have on new clothes: red socks, red pants, red sweaters, red everything. My gothic black-and-gray wardrobe suddenly felt like it was killing me, pulling me down. I needed to draw power from an external source, and color seemed to help.

That was the winter I began using the Salvador Dali tarot deck – I’d actually purchased it just hours before falling from that fire escape. 

One of the few joys during those long months was discovering that these cards finally made sense to me, seemed to come alive in my hands. When I’d first explored them fifteen years earlier, Dali’s abstract impressions of the arcana had been too advanced for me; now the deck had practical use.   

The colors in these cards inspired me to start painting again, and when I couldn’t think of anything to practice on, I’d just copy illustrations from the deck. It didn’t feel like I was making art, just crudely using water to push the paint around, constraining my focus to subjects that brought the kind of comfort and illumination that expired opioids barely scratched at. 

The winter passed, and then the spring, and I managed to pull it all together just in time to lose it again, in the fall. Another heartbreak, concurrent with another physical injury, and many of the same conditions: another temporary room with no bed, my best things in storage, nothing in particular on the horizon suggesting that significant change was possible. Again. Again.

One of the ugliest parts of all this was knowing how much worse it could get, how many people have it much harder every single day. Some end up living their entire lives that way. Having risen out of such conditions earlier in life, I’d always been sympathetic to those who were still trapped; now, even sliding backward into hell, it felt uncharitable to complain too noisily.

However... and this is a pretty big however... I hate the idea of failure so passionately. It’s offensive to me on a profound level. Having climbed out of the depths of complete isolation and a shitty, abusive childhood, having catapulted myself across the country and gradually proved (to me, if no one else) how frightfully attainable so many dreams can be... 

All that effort, and for what? To just implode and lay there dying in a nest of red socks? 

From the first day I put my things in storage inside the historic Miller building, I wanted to climb it. Not the outside, silly. I wanted to find out how high one could actually ascend into that great big noggin perched on top. Considering how much of NYC building stewardship seems to resolve around making things LESS INTERESTING, I assumed it would be completely inaccessible.

I was wrong, friends. There was a staircase in the middle of the building that went up, up, all the way up! Due to a fair amount of recent construction on that wide plane of roof halfway up, they hadn’t bothered to block anything off. And from that midpoint, the stairs just kept going up. How far?

Finding out would be tricky, because I couldn’t afford to get caught and risk having my rental agreement canceled. And then once I broke my ribs, urban exploration was off the agenda for quite some time. 

But at some point in 2015, I actually went back and climbed it several times, went all the way up. 

On the plus side, there seemed to be no security cameras in the stairwell... but also, above the roof level there was no electricity, and the wooden stairs from that point upward hadn’t been inspected in... gosh, maybe fifty years?

Don’t worry, I was as “careful” as one could possibly be, even if there seemed to be nothing left to lose.

In that middle section of the building, three stories worth of crumbling wooden staircases climbed in total darkness brought one to the final threshold: a ladder leading to that uppermost chamber, the steps thin enough to bounce slightly underfoot.

It seems ungrateful to describe what I found up there “anticlimactic.” What did I expect, skulls hanging by the eye-sockets from chains? It was simply musty and derelict and mostly undisturbed. A bit of light came in from cracks between the boards, reminding me that I was at least a hundred feet above street level.

I had wanted to find some kind of ultimate truth up there in the darkness, even if it scared me all the way to death. So, the excitement of setting foot in a space that had remained unoccupied for so many years seemed like a mere consolation prize. I’d been bracing myself to be shattered, torn all the way apart. 

Why was it almost a disappointment to survive, to ease myself back down the rickety ladder, descend those crumbling staircases through the guts of the Miller building, and scamper out onto the sidewalk no worse for wear, no one the wiser, completely unwarned and unscathed? To face the daylight again, no end to this journey in sight?

That’s how I feel sometimes about all the wonders that have come into my life since then, five years onward. The residual gloom isn’t dark enough to be horrifying, and the illumination is never quite bright enough to dispel the shadows. 

I prayed to find this kind of equilibrium, and worked my way toward it so painstakingly; it’s such tedious work, if only because the extremes can be so attractive. The motion of flying back and forth between them is so exhilarating, the impact of a high-speed collision so marvelously unambiguous.

But if it’s truth you seek, the tedious work is literally all there is. Here’s a quote cadged from the last chapter of that book I’ve been studying again lately, Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey into Christian Hermeticism:

“He who aspires to authentic spiritual experiences never confounds the intensity of the experience undergone with the truth that is revealed — or is not revealed — through it, i.e. does not regard the force of impact of an inner experience as a criterion of its authenticity and truth. For an illusion stemming from the sphere of mirages can bowl you over, whilst a true revelation from above can take place in the guise of a scarcely perceptible inner whispering.”

Ah, but some of us have to learn everything the hard way. 

Five years onward, I’m still the same person, would probably make all these decisions the same way. The only difference is that I can finally hear the whispering, a steady stream of it, and doubt I’ll ever again confuse the intensity of an experience with its “authenticity,” whatever that is. And the more urgently I’m tempted to do so, the more I have to question what it is I really hope to find out there, in the vastness of the future.

There’s a notorious phenomenon described as “failing up,” wherein some people manage to succeed in spite of their obvious shortcomings, spared certain consequences due to certain privileges such as wealth, gender, racial identity, etc.

But I want you to know, friends, that despite certain inescapable factors, there’s hope for any of us. Down can become up quite suddenly, and up can let you down. You can get flattened by a feather, or trip over a shoelace and end up on the roof.

You just have to stay alive long enough to see what happens next. And then for five minutes after that. 

And then, gradually, five minutes at a time, this becomes five years. That’s about all I can really say about it from experience.

Wait, that’s not true: thank you, all of you, for helping me span those years and find my footing up and down the ladder. 

Here’s hoping that we’re still brushing past each other in the dark in another five years, on our way to... somewhere, anywhere, but slowly, and according to scarcely perceptible whispers. 

[sodalite-fulll]

Okay I really liked your answer for the last ask so here I go again: what's an oc idea you scrapped, if there's any, why did you and how would you redo it?

Oh geez, an oc I scrapped huh? Um… That’s gonna be hard to start lol.

It’s more ideas that I’ve scrapped, really. I have a lot of cool concepts but they don’t go anywhere so I shelve them until I know what to do with them. Some ideas include

-an apocalyptic wasteland where everyone is named after a specific attribute (a gunslinger named Pistolwhip, a thief named Pickpocket, a marital artist named Kickflip) and everyone is looking for a fabled land untouched by radiation

-a high school romance between a goody two shoes and a sweet punk, who is also accompanied by his punk band friends. Oh and a killer alien crash-lands in the woods outside the stoner friends house. Ya know, typical high school stuff. (I might rework the alien from this story, it’s design was fucking awesome)

-A fantasy world in which an unwitting alchemist’s apprentice becomes the assistant (and eventual apprentice) of the most feared wizard in the land, who happens to be a huge goofus who has a crush on the lady who sells him overpriced potions

-a private I in a small town discovers that the local priest is a serial killer but no one believes him because he was wrong exactly one time. Also the priest is in love with him and won’t ever kill him, but also won’t leave him alone… (this one isn’t shelved, it just doesn’t have a plot other than what I described. I do draw the characters every once and a while, I just don’t post em’)

And many, many others. I’d be willing to flesh them out more at some point, but for now they just bounce around in my noggin

[twoheadedcas]

hi :) i loooove ur writing sm so i wanted to ask: do u have any tips/advice for ppl who r just starting to write fanfics n stuff? like personally for me getting that wordcount up is a struggle™ even when i have. many ideas in the noggin :,) so yeah !! hope u have a good day ur one of my favourite spn authors 💞💗💞💗💞💗💞💗💗

WAH ok first of all thank u sm this ask made my day <3 i agree abt wordcount sometimes i swear i’ve written like 2k and i check the doc and there’s like. 3 sentences lmao.. idk if any of this advice is actually GOOD but um. here are some writing things that are helpful/important to me: 

- don’t worry abt whether ur ideas are linear or not! literally every single one of my fics were written with the scenes out of order; sometimes i’ll have everything done except for a big middle chunk, or i’ll figure out most of the story except how i want it to start, and i just save those parts for later lol! just write whatever is coming to u rn and work on the empty spaces when u feel inspired

- don’t be afraid to write a shit ton of dialogue and then fill in the sensory/descriptive details of the conversation later. sometimes god speaks and u just have to write the words down and come up with the meat of the scene later 

- if u have a lot of ideas it’s okay to work on multiple fics at once!! when i first started writing i very much shied away from having more than two projects going on at a time but rn i literally have 8 tabs of different docs open on my laptop. it’s okay to bounce around between stories and sometimes i think it actually helps me to take a break from one fic, work on one with way different vibes, then come back to the fic w fresher eyes 

- this sounds rly basic but pay attention to ur character’s voices and also be mindful of the narrator’s voice! dialogue is obviously indicative of character but descriptions and imagery are important too; i’ve definitely found myself writing lines w references or metaphors that didn’t actually the fit the character’s pov and had to change them, or written dialogue where i reread later and realize that it doesn’t rly sound like the character who is supposed to be saying it

sorry that was probably way more than u wanted lol but yeah! again thank u for the ask and for reading my fics it means the world to me <3 also. if u want to talk more or anything literally just message me i would love to talk to u!!! i’m always down to make new spnblr friends :D 

[lovinlikeloki]

The Lone Wolf

Masterlist // 06

Warnings: Swearing, angst, cliffhanger

Word Count: 3.7k

As I follow Bucky down the winding halls of the Wakandan Palace it finally begins to sink in that I’m leaving. I’m saying goodbye to all of this, to this place that took me in, to these people who stayed at each other’s sides, to my sister. That’s the one that pains me the most, saying goodbye to my sister for the second time, saying goodbye to my sister for an indefinite amount of time.

“You gonna be okay?” Bucky asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah I think I will be,” I reply, unsurely.

“You’re strong kid, stronger than you think. You’ll get through this, trust me,” he assures me, and though we aren’t close I believe him.

“...Thank you, Bucky.”

And then the silence returns, but my existential thoughts don’t. We walk the halls to the team and I have a more confident expression, hell I even have a slight bounce in my step.

We reach the room where everyone is and we all begin finalising our plans, we leave tomorrow. Scott and Clint are going to their families, they’ll negotiate and fight for their right to stay with them, and hopefully now that terms are better or something, Tony will fight for them too. Natasha is adamant on going her own separate way but is nothing less than cryptic on where exactly that is. Bucky is staying here, to be cryogenically frozen until Shuri can find a way to get HYDRA out of his noggin. Wanda is going her own way as well, although she’s being more specific, saying she’ll be in eastern Europe, possible going to be near home for a bit, both hers and mine.

Sam and Steve are going to go somewhere in Europe also, keeping it strictly to countries they’ve never been and to people they’ve never met. And that leaves me, I feel almost like a traitor not only going to Tony but getting to stay in the country they all call ‘home’ when they can’t. We agree to keep in contact, at least a text every two weeks of your general area and your status. Phone calls are okay as long as you ditch the phone the second you hang up, we’re on burners for a while.

After we finish I walk over to Wanda, she smiles.

“Are you ready for this, malen’kie?” she asks.

(Smalls)

“Not quite, but what choice do I have, dríocht?” I reply.

(Magic)

“Well, volk, you better go to sleep, get some rest, we leave early tomorrow morning.”

(Wolf)

“I- Wanda, it’s like 6:30pm. How much sleep do you think I need?”

“You forget that I sleep next to you,” Wanda sighs, “I’ve seen your tossing and turning. I’ve been there when you awake. You don’t sleep much and I want you well rested.”

“Well I could just-“

“I am not having a caffeine hyper chihuahua on that jet, now go, sleep,” she interrupts me, shooing me out of the room with a smile on her face.

“Fine, fine, but I hope you’re ready for when I wake up at half three in the morning,” I warn.

“Yeah, yeah Fian, whatever you say,” she replies light heartedly and I go to our bedroom.

I get out my bag and begin packing. I fold all of my clothes as small as I can make them before putting them in my bag. I take all my accessories and add them in too, but not without admiring my iron amulet for a moment or two, and then sighing because it won’t see the light of day for another while.

I make sure my brass knuckles are still in the pocket I left them and make sure I’ve still got my money in my wallet. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do with sterling but it’ll be worth something to someone, I figure. After I’m done with that I sit next to my bed and sigh. I guess this is it, I’m really going to bed at, I check the clock, at seven thirty-four in the evening, like a child.

I kneel at the side of my bed, my hands together on the bed, fingers interlocked and I begin to pray, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, and if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take,” I then recite a quote from the Bible, “May the Lord watch between you and me when we are out of each other’s sight.”

It’s from Genesis 31:49 and it’s one of the few passages from scripture that I have memorised. I know it because I’ve always prayed it as a way to hope that Wanda is safe, and it’s from the old testament, meaning that it’s part of Wanda’s holy book too.

After I’m done I slip into bed and try to sleep. It takes a while due to the early time and the anxieties I have for tomorrow but finally the white ceiling of the room fades to a dark nothingness.

At one point I do awaken slightly as Wanda slips into the bed, but she simply slips an arm around me and I drift back out of consciousness.

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

Just as I predicted, I awake at the absurdly early time of 4:30am. I yawn as quietly as I can before slipping out of bed. I stand up and stretch my arms above my head, then I rock my head from side to side, cracking my neck. Then I sit on the floor, one leg out straight and the other bent so that my foot is as close to my hip as possible. I lean over, putting my hand on the outstretched foot and stretch until I feel the slight burn of my muscles. I do that for a couple of minutes before switching and doing the same to my other leg.

After being all stretched out I decide to check my phone, I go through my notifications, starting with Snapchat, opening snaps, and sending streaks. I open the few chats I got and they’re just asking where I am, unable to think of a believable half-truth I just leave them on open. Then I check people’s stories, but since it’s early on a Monday morning it’s just people looking for answers on homework or what exactly they had to do for course work.

Then I scroll through tumblr for a bit, liking and reblogging things every now and then. Then, when I got a notification that someone liked one of my posts, a sense of dread filled me. I know that I’ve made way too many posts on the topic to try to delete them all, that and they’ve been reblogged quite a bit. So in that spirit I decide to make a mini-PSA.

Then I start to get hungry and decide to make my way to the kitchens. I’ve been here long enough that I don’t get lost anymore, but as I’m alone, and it’s dark, and I’m the only one up I feel a little nervous. I’m scared that someone will wake up, or think I’m an intruder, or something.

I sneak as quietly as I can, standing by the walls, not to look like a spy but because it’s where the floorboards are strongest. I then sneak into the room and open a cupboard, I’m not usually one to eat a lot in the morning, especially when I wake up because, like, who just wakes up and eats? That and I want to spend time with the others at breakfast, it’ll be our last meal together.

I pick out some blueberries and put them in a bowl, it’s not much but it’ll hold me over until real breakfast. I sit at the kitchen island, in the dark nibbling on the food when someone flips on the light switch.

I jump and put my hand on my heart, “Lord, you scared me!”

“Sorry Fianna,” Clint apologises, “I didn’t realise anyone else would be awake.”

“Wanda made me go to sleep early, she should know I get exactly eight hours sleep. What about you? Why are you awake at...” I trail off, throwing a berry in my mouth and checking the clock, “Half five in the morning?”

Clint smiles, making his way to the cupboards, “The kids, they usually have me awake around this time. And if not then Nathaniel does.”

“Nathaniel, he’s the little’un, aye?”

“He’s the baby, yeah, he’s almost a year old. How about you, do you have any siblings?” he questions, picking out an apple.

“Aw aye, I have Tommy, he’s wee brother, well I say wee. He’s eleven, and he doesn’t let me forget it. Him, and I count Wanda as my big sister.”

“Oh of course, she’s mentioned you a few times,” he takes a bite, “The puppy dog.”

I scrunch my nose, “You’ve seen that I’m more than a puppy, I’ve got claws, I’ve got fangs.”

“Not to Wanda, to her you’re her little sister. Someone she needs to protect, no matter how capable you are.”

I nod, “She wants to protect me, but she’ll do crazy things to do that.”

“We all do crazy things for family. Sure look at me,” he raises his arms at his sides, “I come back from retirement because the second I leave they all fall apart.”

“So what, you’re the crazy glue that holds the team together?” I ask before taking a second to think, “No, yeah that checks out. You guys are weird.”

“Yeah, yeah we are kinda weird,” Clint agrees, “I mean we’re basically superheroes.”

I shake my head, “Yous are really weird. Seriously, the original team was a super soldier turned icicle who was thawed, a rich bitch in a tin can, an ex-russian assassin, a nerd who can turn into a beast, and Katniss Everdeen. Also Thor, a literal god who’s from space. I mean if you really think about it we’re all from space... but if you don’t really think about it, it helps.”

Clint laughs, “You’re one quirky kid, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

We’re eating breakfast and Scott won’t stop cracking jokes. I think maybe it’s because he’s nervous or maybe because it’s the only time he’ll be able to tell his Avengers jokes to the actual Avengers. Some of them are cringy but I have to say that some of them are pretty funny.

“Okay, okay, what do you get when you pass Captain America and the Hulk?” Scott asks.

The others groan slightly but I bite, “I don’t know Scott, what do you get?”

“A Star Spangled Banner,” he says doing jazz hands and I snort.

“That- that was bad, that was a bad joke half-pint,” I tell him, shaking my head.

“Oh yeah?” Scott replies, “Then you go, you give me a good Avengers joke!”

“Yeah?” I look at him incredulously, “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he confirms.

“Okay,” I say, thinking for a second, “Hey Steve, before I think of this I have an off-topic question to ask.”

“Go ahead,” he replies.

“Do you know what tumblr is? Or how to use it?”

“No, I have no idea what it is, why?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“No reason, but uh, I wouldn’t look it up. For your own sanity of course,” I say before turning to Scott, “Okay, so I heard that Thor’s brother escaped, he was barely noticed, really subtle.”

“Yeah?” Scott looks at me confused.

“Yeah, he was pretty low-key,” I grin and he laughs, as do some of the others.

“Okay that, that was funny,” he chuckles.

“I know it was,” I say jokingly.

“of course Loki was the focus point,” Wanda rolls her eyes from across the table.

“What do you mean, Wanda?” Steve asks.

“This one,” Wanda points a finger at me, “Has always be fond of the god... and his girl.”

Everyone looks at me in shock and I know I have to defend myself, “Okay look, I’ve always liked the mythology on the trickster, how was I supposed to know that he was real? And don’t get me started on Helena, the lore, and legends behind her? They are insane! Besides, that wasn’t Loki, not deep down. And with what I know about Helena it’s not surprising she followed him, hell she probably knew what was up.”

These statements make everyone’s eyes stay glued on me, now slightly wider. I knew a lot about the pair, Loki Laufeyson and Helena Maddidottir, I did a project on them at school. We had to do something on mythology from a different culture and the couple sounded cool so I did research on them.

“What is she talking about? What are you talking about?” Natasha was the first to ask, blonde hair swishing as she looked to Wanda and then me again.

“I- did no one read up on the gods they’ve been working with? In all mythology Loki is known for his emerald eyes, it’s a distinct trait of his so when he tore up half of New York with eyes of cobalt blue I knew it wasn’t him, he wasn’t all there, not really,” I explain as if it’s obvious.

The three of the original Avengers are exchanging looks, clearly lost on how they missed this. People always paint Loki as the bad guy, if they just took a closer look they would see a little clearer. It’s not always about the big picture, sometimes it’s the little picture, the small things that make everything make sense.

“How did we...” Clint trails off. “My eyes were literally the same blue! Was he brainwashed too?”

“How were we supposed to know?” Steve defends, “We never met him before!”

“Thor did! Thro grew up with him! He should’ve realised immediately!” Natasha straight up run Thor over with the bus.

“Oh yeah. Blame the guy who’s not here to defend himself,” Scott pipes in, clearly up for stirring the pot as we exchange a smile.

“They’re literally brothers!” Clint almost yells.

“Adopted,” I butt in, enjoying the controlled chaos I’ve created.

“How did a fourteen year old girl-“ I cut Natasha off.

“I’m sixteen,” I correct, sipping my drink.

“Irrelevant! How did a teenage girl realise this before us? Any of us?”

I smirk, having not even began on the Shadow Walker’s lore. Wanda looks at me, slightly disapprovingly and I grin back. After a few seconds she begrudgingly smiles back, it’s good to see her smile again, I’ve missed it, I will miss it. Slowly the bickering of Captain Crunch, now-blonde Kim Possible and Clint Spy the Arrow Guy fades from my hearing and I just focus on Wanda. Wanda and her smile. It looks so much like his, and that one I will never see again.

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

We’re on the Royal Talon jet flying out to get everyone dropped off. We’re just in the air at the minute, talking and I guess just procrastinating saying our goodbyes.

Right now I’m talking to Scott, we’re talking about family mostly, about Cassie and Tommy. Cassie is a few years younger than Tommy, but I think that they’d get along.

“Wait, she has a dog?” I ask, “How cute! And Athena is an adorable name.”

Scott laughs, “No, no, Ant-thnena is a maximised bullet ant. It happened by accident when I fought with Darren Cross, but Cassie got attached so I decided against changing it back.”

“An- An ant?” I laugh incredulously, “God and I thought my life was weird.”

“What about Tommy?”

“Tommy doesn’t have any pets, if you asked him though he would probably say he had Lu. That’s uh, that’s what I call the wolf instincts and voice I get when I shift.”

“Ah, I see. So he loves you and your powers just as much as Cassie loves mine?”

“Oh definitely, he... he loves my powers, even with how he found out about them. I mean he was a little scared but as soon as he remembered it’s me he calmed right down,” I tell him, frowning a little near the end.

“You gonna miss him?”

“Like hell. I haven’t been able to see him much for a year now, and this isn’t going to make it any better. He doesn’t even know that’s the worst part.”

“He doesn’t know?” he raises an eyebrow.

“No, he thinks it’s just for a few weeks, he doesn’t know that I might never come back, I mean who’s to say that Stark won’t just boot me out? Who’s to say that he won’t call the feds the second he sees me? I mean, heh, who’s to say I won’t end up killing him when I see him?”

“Listen, I know you hate him, I know that I don’t know the extent of why, but that’s none of my business. But Fianna, he will help you, he’ll help you kid, and you need to accept that help.”

“I want to, I really do, but I don’t know if I can get over it, I don’t know if I can just forgive and forget,” I say stubbornly.

“You don’t need to forgive and forget. Honestly I hate that phrase, it’s stupid, if everyone forgave and forgot then a lot of people would stay in toxic relationships and with abusive families. I think what you really need to do is forgive and remember, it helps you to learn from your mistakes and not fall for things again.”

I think on that sentiment for a minute, “That’s- that’s very wise, Scott. You know you usually seem pretty goofy and a little dopey, but you’re actually a quite sage person, thank you.”

“Thank you Fianna, that’s really kind of you to say,” he smiles to me.

“I’m always honest Scott, it’s part of my code. Along with ‘stand your ground’. So I think I will, I’ll forgive him but I’m still holding that man responsible,” I nod.

He nods and stands up, moving to talk, and I assume fanboy over, Steve while he still can. I scroll through my phone, looking at all of the new contacts I’ve made for everyone. They wanted me to know that I’m not alone, that I can reach out to them whenever I want or need, they’re burner phones for now.

I look around at the faces on the jet, everyone here is losing something the second their feet touch the ground. Clint and Scott, they lose their freedom. Steve and Natasha, they lose people who were like family to them. Wanda and I, we lose each other.

We’re pretty close to New York when Wanda comes over to me. She doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to me and hugs me, pulling my head into her chest and is hug back. We stay like this for a while, her kissing my hair every now and then, whispering in my ear in Sokovian. And every now and then I whisper back in Irish.

I pull back, she holds my arms and she kisses me on the forehead. “Te iubesc, soră mică. Te iubesc atât de mult, e în regulă. totul va fi bine, crede-mă, lupule.”

(I love you, Little sister. I love you so much, it’s okay. Everything will be fine, trust me, wolf.)

“Is grá liom thú, deirifir. Is grá liom thú le mo chroí iomlan. Ní bheith gach rud I gceart, ach ní bheith se comh olc sin. Creidim thú, cáileach,” I say back, slipping into my native tongue just as she did.

(I love you, sister. I love you with my whole heart. Everything won’t be okay, but it won’t be too bad. I believe you, witch.)

Natasha walks over to us and nods to Wanda, she wants to talk to me, talk me through how I’m going to approach this contact of hers. Wanda nods back and moves back to her seat and Natasha takes hers next to me.

She hands me a card, “That is his name there, he knows me as Nadia but I’m pretty sure he knows the real me. Now do you remember the other name of his I told you?”

“I remember, that’s a quirky guy you are friends with,” I smirk.

“Yeah, well, there’s friends and then there’s someone who I found in a dumpster who made me swear not to tell anyone,” she laughs before pointing to the card again, “Now this is the address you need to go to.”

“You sure he’ll help me?” I ask.

“Well between his soft spot for kids, the favor he owes me and his Catholic guilt? I’m sure he’ll get you holed up somewhere,” she smirks.

“Thanks Natasha, it means a lot.”

“Always. Now I know that it’s gonna be hard, leaving your sister, hell I did the same thing about a week ago, but you’ll get through this, I promise.”

“You have a sister?” I ask, having no idea about this before.

“I do, her name is Yelena, we kinda made a mess in Budapest... and a Russian prison... and Russia in general, the few days you were in the Raft I was tearing up the Red Room,” she tells me with a sad smile.

“I’d love to meet her someday.”

“I’m sure she’d love to meet you too. You’d get along, cause a little chaos for sure. I know that’s what you were doing earlier, you were right, but you were just up for some mischief,” she gives me a knowing look and I grin.

“At the very least he would be proud of me,” I laugh.

“He would, he really would.”

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

Now that I’m in the city I make my way to west midtown Manhattan. It seems like a nice neighbourhood that I’m in, the kids I’ve passed seem nice. I saw a church, it’s nice to know there’s somewhere for me to pray.

I see the plaque on the door of the building and know I’m in the right place, I look back down at the business card Natasha gave me before walking through the door. I go up the stairs and see the writing on the window of the door.

I push the door open and a peppy blonde sitting at a desk looks up from whatever paperwork she’s doing.

“Hi, welcome to Nelson and Murdock, I’m Karen. Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc IV: Megamart of Darkness (2)

Chapter 2: They Paved Paradise…

           Honestly, I didn’t know what I expected paradise to be. Back in those days, the word made me think of one of two things: sitting under a blanket all day with my video games or those scented candles Mom always got for the bathroom.

A dinky little stock pond filled so high with trout their fins were breaking the surface was the last thing I would have thought of.

           Dinky or not, though, if I just sat there it was going to be my grave, and I acted accordingly: by kicking and screaming until I got what I wanted. Like the puppy dog eyes, I figured that if they worked on my parents, they’d work on these waddly little buggers. But natural selection must have been kind to those bird brains, because they did not relent in the slightest! It was like all the sympathy had been bred out of them over generations, and the rest was squashed by some rigorous training program. Heck, they seemed to work even faster after hearing me pout.

           There was a sudden feeling of lightness as they launched my climber into the air, followed by a splash as it slapped smack dab in the middle of the pond, my body still facing skyward. The sun was shining brightly that day; right in my eyes like it was taunting me.

           Then I began to sink. It was slow at first, like quicksand (I figure it was because of all the trout buoying me) but before long the sun was blotted out by a fifteen mile cloud of shimmering fish scales. By the time I’d sunk ten feet, it might as well have been night. My screaming got real bad after that, seeing how I couldn’t die and was probably going to spend the rest of eternity with my lungs caved in. And honest, I had no idea exactly how this equaled redemption. All I could do was let my last few bubbles of oxygen bounce right out of my mouth to the surface.

“Be calm, child.”

I didn’t know whose voice I heard, but it was like a loud, low gong going off in my noggin. Would have asked who was making it, if the source wasn’t already ten steps ahead.

“I’m simply here to help, and for any duress you may have experienced, I apologize. My followers can be quite… zealous, shall we say. Live action roleplaying is not a sport for those soft of spirit.”

Just like that, the trout started fleeing to the edge of the pond, letting enough sun in for me to see the bottom. I instantly wished they hadn’t. Because right in the direction I was heading came a dark walking tsunami of a beast with eyes like embers and teeth like steak knives.

I shut my eyes as the water started rushing around me.

                                                            .   .   .

When I finally got the courage to unseal my peepers, I realized it had all been a dream. Or had it? I was still at the stock pond, only I was on the grass next to it. Most importantly, I was free! Releif didn’t last long, though. Right next to me I could see the cat climber, ripped to shreds.

“Are you awake?”

The Voice!

I turned my head back and forth, trying to see where the voice had come from. It was night out, the only light coming from a rickety old streetlamp hanging over the pond. I would have wondered about the design choices that made the owners of Paradise decide to put a lamp there of all places, but frankly, I was more startled by the voice. There was something ancient, primal about it. Not in the pretentious way the Elves spoke, but something like rumbling thunder. Or an earthquake.

“Pardon me, but I asked, are you awake?”

Whoever was talking to me, they spoke in the dinosaur tongue. And not the street slang version I’d spoken in Hell. The real stuff.  Think listening to someone talk in an Italian accent, then hearing a real Italian. Like that.

So there I was, sitting in a little island of light, surrounded by darkness, listening to a faceless voice with only a few moths for company. It was a scene straight out of those stranger danger videos they made us watch back in 1st grade, right before little Georgie got dragged into the sewers by some faceless evil for believing a sewer might have delicious lollipops. Of course, besides the creeping dread of never finding out what exactly did happen to little Georgie, I couldn’t remember a single piece of advice from that stupid film, other than run, which clearly wasn’t an option given how dark it was.

Instead, I curled up like a snail on the grass. It was my only defense.

“I do not wish to harm you, Watterson Tostig. I only want to talk.”

A pair of eyes glowed like fire in the darkness, followed by the sound of wet feet on grass, coming closer, closer…

I screamed. It honked back.

Then there was… gasping? Wheezing?

“Sweet Osiris, child, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

           Barely heard it, though, as it was still dark and I was still scared and I was hollering my head off. Kept at it, too, for a good ten seconds before I was aware I was still alive, so whoever was talking to me must have some sense of mercy. All slow-like, with that creeping sense of dread you get at a good horror film, I opened my eyes.

           A goose. The thing I’d been scared of this whole time was a freakin’ GOOSE! Or at least the basic shape of one. Instead of the brown body and white belly of the other geese, this guy had a grey body with a black and white streak on the wing. Neck was different, too. Grey, not black, with a pink bill and a reddish brown mask over the eyes. Oh, and their tongue was covered in spikes.  

The sight of that made me scream again.

The bird sighed, calming my nerves a tad. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that if he wanted to eat me, he’d have done so by now.

“Indeed, child. But I am no mere waterfowl: please, call me Bokrug.”

“Well, uh, thanks for saving me, Bokrug.” Most of my fear evaporated, replaced with relief I wasn’t going to be eaten alive.

“Many thanks to you as well, child, for most who have gazed upon my wretched form abscond into the night. Yet you have stayed. Would you, by chance, like to talk?”

Now imagine you’re a kid who had a goose walk up to him in the middle of the night, claiming to have saved your life. What would you do?

Long story short, I was there with Bokrug until sunrise.

We talked about… well I don’t remember this part too clear. Keep in mind I was still a ten year old who, at the time, was half asleep from exhaustion. Just that Bokrug had a lot of questions about how the world has changed in the last sixty years (apparently Elves gave him more ‘sacrifices’ than he’d ever need, but not one of the pretentious buggers could be bothered to pitch him a newspaper every once in a while).

“Once more, I would like to apologize for the behaviors of my… followers.” He sigh-honked the last part. “They have this odd habit of always sacrificing enemies to me, despite me being a pescitarian.”

“Pesci- What?”

“I eat fish.”

“Oh.”

“Watterson, I am truly grateful for your company, but before you continue on your journey back to the wretched Camp Sham (which I am sure is a long and arduous quest) there is a favor I would like to ask of you. You see, I cannot leave this pond, as I am a spirit bound to my bones. Bones residing at the bottom of this very stock pond.”

I imagined how pruned Bokrug’s feathers must have been after sixty years trapped in that dinky little fishing hole. It was not a pretty sight.

“But it was not always this way. Once, we Wood Elves lived in Paradise, usurped by a most befouled evil. My brethren shall explain in greater detail. Their skills of exposition far exceed my own. And there will be apologies, of course.”

Sure enough, I could see the little punks with their shopping carts hiding in the woods, beaks opened in shock as I made small talk with their God.

“Hey Bokrug?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not from here, are you? ‘Cause I’ve seen a lot of geese, but one with a little bandit mask over their eyes.”

“That, my child, is a story that began long ago, in a mystical land called Africa-“

“On second thought, nevermind. If it’s’ anything like the Africa stories Mom tells me, it’ll just make me feel bad about not finishing my broccoli.”

Bokrug let out a disgruntled snort as his white-cheeked worshippers waddled out from their hiding spots in the trees.

[chels]

Take in the good

Sometimes I forget that brains are like bodies. You have to put in good stuff to get good stuff out. This weekend, I made a conscious effort to put some good in the ol’ noggin and little bits of everything are all bouncing around in there together now. 

I learned the chords on the uke for that song from Charlotte’s Web, the one about Mother Earth and Father Time. It’s been stuck in my head for days now. The lyrics just pop up in the middle of a thought and I wonder what it is my subconscious is trying to get me to pay attention to.

//How very special are we, for just a moment to be//

I read that Steve Martin play I wrote about the other day, the one about Einstein and Picasso meeting in a bar in Paris. It’s called Picasso at the Lapine Agile and I have had passages from it dancing through my head all day. I can’t stop thinking about a line Picasso says, something about how he’s not drawing from the past or even the present. But how he puts his pencil to the page and the future comes through. It sounds grandiose and a little silly at first, but maybe that’s what we’re all doing. Putting pen to paper and predicting the next moment. 

//part of life’s eternal rhyme//

Today, I walked down to Harvard to see Lisa sing with her chorus and an orchestra. The concert was based around the theme of Dona Nobis Pacem. For those of you non-Latin speakers (I, too, had to look it up), it means grant us peace. It’s a plea to God, traditionally. But it felt like something we were all saying to one another for an hour or so. We sat on wooden pews set upon wooden floors and listened to the voices rise up the wood-paneled walls of the theater. It was a warm sound, the kind that lingers around you. The conductor spoke before the concert, saying that they were going to perform music written almost a century ago, and in some way, we would be reaching into the past and finding solace in those notes today. And I couldn’t help but think of Picasso in the play and wonder if people a hundred years from now would find the same solace in that same place from the music just barely being written right now in pencil scratches on a page.

//How very special are we, to have on our family tree//

After drinks and dinner with pals, I went to see Lion. That movie slammed into me like wild horse. I felt knocked over by it. It was the acting and the directing and all that stuff that makes a movie great. But it was also just the story. The idea of trying to find family and home, even when you have a family and a home that you love. That sense of urgency in trying to touch something you lost long ago, some feeling of comfort and calm. Knowing there’s something you can’t know until you see it for yourself. It all felt so impossibly relatable. Impossible, because how do I see myself in a story about an Indian orphan adopted by Australian parents? But then, we’re all connected in so many ways.

//Mother Earth and Father Time//

On my walk to the concert this afternoon, I was listening to the Smartypants podcast, where Rowan Ricardo Phillips read his poem, “Halo.” I listened to it again on the walk home because a line in it just kept pinging around in my brain. Something about how after you read it, a poem moves on. But your head is left with a halo.

Tonight, I feel like that. I’ve got a dying-spider-song, wacky-art-meets-science-play, searching-for-a-homeland-movie, quiet-little-poem halo around me.   

[naomi-l-tiessen-blog]

Tips on Finding Inspiration to Write

Helllloooooo everybody ~

Happy Thursday Blogday!

So, you've finally done it. You’ve broken through the writing hiatus. You've admitted defeat, and know in your heart of hearts that it's time to brush off the dust on your novel baby and write again. So……now what?

I’m not all that fond of musicals, but one exception is Moulin Rouge. I LOVE that movie. Ewan McGregor can serenade me anytime. Alright, eassssy there, Scarlette, focus. I promise this weird little story has a point. One of my favorite parts of the movie is when Christian, one of the main protagonists, moves to Paris to fulfill his dream of writing about love. Only, hold up *record scratches to a halt*…Christian doesn’t know a thing about love. In the words of the Great Swedish Chef: Vurt Da Furk.

Christian has a passion for love, is motivated beyond all belief to write about it, has 100% gumption to write, but he lacks inspiration. Awkward.

The same thing often happens to writers. They have a passion for writing, and are incredibly motivated up the ying-yang to write, but sometimes, as much as we don’t want to admit it, the inspiration well runs a little dry.

If you thought you were the only one that experienced this, don’t worry, you aren’t. Get off your pedestal…you aren’t special (despite what yo mama says…oh snap!).

Everyone goes through this from time to time. And that’s totally fine.

“But Scarlette, you wrote about motivation just a couple weeks ago! Isn’t motivation and inspiration the same thing?”

First of all, great question! Second of all, how dare you even think that?? Just kidding. But in all seriousness, they aren’t the same thing. Motivation is the act of psyching yourself up. Chest-pounding, head-banging, screaming profanities until your lungs ache…that sort of stuff. It’s getting pumped up to do something maybe you don’t want to do, but know you need to. Whether it’s for finishing your manuscript, getting published, or for the greater good of mankind, motivation is all about finding the strength to get from point A to point B. Sometimes it’s positive, and sometimes it’s negative. Inspiration is passion-driven, coming from within. It’s about being tuned in with your inner self, being in alignment with whatever makes you “tick”. Often, when you are inspired, you can feel it in your bones, and you set out on your own path to seek fulfillment. Inspiration might not always be obviously productive, but generally the end result is positive on account of self-discovery and true, natural growth. Think of it this way: inspiration is the engine, and motivation is the vehicle. Each has their own individual purpose, but together, they become a force to be reckoned with. Inspiration and motivation often go hand in hand, and help feed one another.

Ok, lesson over. Class dismissed.

Just kidding, you still need to finish reading my blog.

Here are 10 tips on sparking your inspiration for your writing journey! Now, these are just 10 tips in a sea of millions and millions of ideas. These ones are some of my favorites that I find work best for me. Some of these might mesh well with your writer’s soul, and some of them might not. And that’s ok! There are plenty more ideas where these came from.

1) Music. What are you listening to? Is it clashing with the scene you are writing? Maybe rocking out to Celine Dione's "My Heart Will Go On," is not the best material to be listening to when you are writing an epic battle sequence featuring a shit ton of blood and gore. Personally, I can't listen to lyrical music (brain stops working, and silly Scarlette starts writing down the lyrics instead), so I opt for orchestral goodness. Anything from Lord of the Rings scores, to video game soundtracks and remixes, to dubstep. The thing about these types of playlists is they have a wide range of genres to fit into the mood you are trying to write. Switch it up!  

2) Carry around a little notebook and pen so you can jot down anything that is potential writing material. You never know when inspiration will strike, and Life seems to know when you are un-prepared, the sneaky bastard. How many times has this happened to you: you are walking along and suddenly a string of dialogue trickles through your unsuspecting mind. Or you see someone who has an uncanny resemblance to a character in your novel, but has a couple traits you didn’t think to include. Or you are sitting in a coffee shop and overhear a conversation that would fit in oh-so perfectly with that scene you’ve been stuck on for aggggeeeessss. Seriously, inspiration and ideas are literally all around you, just begging for you to take notice. So you, brimming with excitement, reach for the notebook you could’ve sworn you put in your bag the other day. Only it’s not there, because you are a writer and have way too many notebooks to possibly keep track of. In a mad panic, you look for something, anything to write on, but it’s too late; just like that, the moment is gone. Has this happened to me? Never! *goes and cries quietly in the corner*.

3) Try looking at your manuscript from a different angle. No, I don’t mean flipping it upside down (unless that works for you?). And no, I don’t mean pulling a Big Hero 6 and having someone hold YOU upside down, either (…unless THAT works for you?). What I mean is, if staring at your manuscript waiting for inspiration to strike simply isn’t working, try something else. For me, if I know exactly what I want my characters to say, but I’m stuck on when they say it, I’ll make dialogue my priority. I’ll write out every.single.thing I want my characters to say in bullet form, and once it’s all out of my head and safely on my computer screen, I’ll work on filling in the blanks. Sometimes it’s hard thinking about everything at once (dialogue, setting, tags, emotions, etc), so freeing up some space in your noggin helps the ideas flow a bit easier. Side-note, this also helps me figure out whether my dialogue is helping properly propel (say that ten times fast) my story forward, or if it’s just a waste of space. Bonus!  

4) Change it up. Go outside, get some fresh air. Get the blood flowing. Now, I’m not always a physically-active person, but going for a little walk is a great way to blow off steam, help the frustration fizzle out, and allow new ideas to present themselves. And if exercise (or leaving your house) isn’t exactly your cup of tea, maybe try something else. Stop staring at your computer screen and maybe start writing longhand for a bit. Take a break to do a writing prompt instead. Go on the internet and look at pictures for character and setting inspiration. Read inspirational quotes from other authors (seriously, my saving grace). Host an emergency dance party. Try something different!

5) Have a writing buddy? Maybe bounce ideas off each other. Once my friend and I were playing a game of Scrabble before initiating our writing date, and for every word we created, we had to tell an elaborate story about said word, as well as how it corresponded to any word it was attached to. By the end of it, we had concocted completely ridiculous stories. But this really helped us tap into our creative sides, helped the brain juices (shit balls…how does this saying keeping making it into my blog?!) start flowing (…disgusting). You can also use your writing buddy to be your soundboard for ideas you aren’t 100% sure about. If you don’t have a writing buddy, have no fear! Have you ever thought really hard about something, and it seems damn-near genius, perfect, Nobel Prize worthy in your sweet little naïve head? Then you open your mouth, and nothing but garbage comes out? And as you are talking, you see your audience’s face fall with confusion, and all you can think is, “oh God. No. Please stop. Just stop talking. YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!” And it’s at this point that you realize that it sounded SO much better in your head? Ok, well, to save you the embarrassment, I’ll tell you right now that you don’t always need an audience. Unless you have a fur-baby. I’d like to think that they count as audience members. But sometimes all you need is a quiet room, some walking space to pace around, and maybe a squishy stress ball to wring your pent-up aggression into. And when you are good and ready, talk to the walls. The act of talking out loud, even if it’s just to yourself, will help you hear the mistakes and holes in your ideas, or help create new ideas altogether. If this still doesn’t work, try recording yourself, wait for a chunk of time, and listen to the recording (while trying not to cringe on how weird you sound).  

6) Be a stereotypical writer. People watch, eavesdrop, watch the world blaze forward with you on the sidelines, like a ninja in the shadows. Or a really creepy stalker. I like the ninja reference better, so we are going to stick with that one. Watch TV and movies. Listen carefully to the dialogue, how the characters react, how the scenes are set up. Read books and graphic novels. Look at the character’s facial expressions and figure out how you’d describe what emotion they are portraying in your own work.  Use all this to help feed your creativity and spark your thoughts until they are running wild with ideas.

7) Find something that feeds your creativity monster. For some, it might be the smell of coffee, or meditating, or doodling. For me, I daydream a lot; I let scenes from my story play out in my head like a movie. I watch my characters react, listen to them talk, add quirks that make them more human, personable. Find some sort of habit or hobby that tends to help the ideas naturally flow easier without you having to force them out of hiding. BUT, with that said, obviously have limitations. Don’t watch an entire Doctor Who or Supernatural season in the name of science and inspiration. No. Bad. Don’t do that.

8) Start a writer's journal to mark your progress. It’s nice to see how far you’ve come! From budding ideas, to plot building, to character developing, outlining, chapter sequences, and world building. All that fun stuff is incredibly handy to keep track of. I often find that if I’m stuck in a rut, I like to read over my old materials and review my journals. It helps remind me of the ideas I might’ve put on the back burner, and re-kindle my excitement on current projects when I see how far my hard work has gotten me. And worst-case-scenario, it’s always good for a laugh at yourself. I have no idea what 16-year-old Scarlette was thinking in some of those earlier entries.  

9) Sleep on it. No, seriously. Have you ever noticed that you can spend hours gritting your teeth and pulling out your hair while trying to think of something that is on the tip of your tongue, you can nearly put your finger on it, but it’s just out of reach? And finally, after wasting hours and getting nowhere, frustrated and fed up, you go to bed. And right when you are about to fall asleep, in that weird, limbo state between awake and asleep, that certain something pops into your head with ease. Know why? It’s because your subconscious is relaxing. You aren’t distracted by life around you, thus allowing your subconscious to come forward, unfiltered and uninhibited, free from cognitive obstacles of the day. Granted, this can happen during the day as well (it’s happened to me when I’m waiting to board a bus, or standing in line at a grocery store), but it isn’t as regular, as common sense often kicks in before your subconscious has a chance to make an appearance. Having said that, don’t beat yourself up about spending hours upon hours thinking hard and coming up empty-handed; often all that thinking helps drive the ideas forward, making it easier for your subconscious to present them later on.  

10) Simply write. You can't just sit around waiting for your Muse to stroll through the door; you can't rely on that flaky bitch. You might end up waiting a couple hours, which can then turn to days, months, years, etc. It's not a safe tactic, unless you are totally cool with your book being done in 10 years. It's up to you and you alone to get the words onto the paper. Worry about editing later. Just focus and breaking through that block and finding the inspiration behind it.

And that’s it! There are tons of ways to get inspired out there if you know where to look. The world is bursting with ideas just waiting to get plucked by our eager writer minds. These are just a few options, but they are still quite handy! What are some ways that you get inspired to write?

With that said, I post new blogs every Thursday, and if there is anything you’d like me to discuss, feel free to message me on here, or tweet me @ScarletteStone

Until next time, 

Happy Writing!

[itsworn]

The “Fuel Coupe” is back for more action at Drag Week 2017

FUEL and Far Between

Drag Week’s One and Only Nitro Burner is Back for More

At Byron Dragway’s Melt Down Drags, Brian Kohlmann’s trailer/hot rod laboratory seems to be a pretty popular destination. Passersby are immediately drawn in by his ’31 Chrysler coupe’s brilliant green paint, radical stance, and chromed out, blown Hemi riding between the rails up front. When the sunlight hits the Chrysler’s panels just right, this uber hot rod’s Tractor Beam engages, and pulls unwitting onlookers in for a closer look.

Brian Kohlmann’s over-the-top Fuel Coupe is a trailblazing stunner, able to guzzle both gas and nitro, and custom built for the sole purpose of tearing up Hot Rod’s Drag Week.

There is shock, awe, gasps of delight, and comments such as “stunning” from the dropped jaws of the newly obsessed observers. No doubt Brian went for that extreme Fuel Altered mid ‘60s look that so many of us just ogle over, but the amazing thing is that these typical spectators only know the half of it. They see the “sedate” part of this two-headed Hemi monster. It’s what lies below the surface that Brian’s real genius has taken over and cunningly created a Jekkyl/Hyde mannered marvel of engineering for the ages.

Yes my friends, underneath its gassed-up outer street car persona lies much more than you would expect. Sure the mighty supercharged 392 Hemi is the king of drag strip mills, and this particular one’s got that potent elephant sized punch up front. That would be enough for some guys, but we found out it’s not enough chemistry for a mad-scientist in training like Brian.

Brian had a few prerequisites for this build. First off, it had to be a Mopar. Secondly, it had to be an early ‘30s coupe body. Last but not least, it had to have a blown Hemi. The addition of the nitro was just the natural progression as things evolved with this particular hot rod.

Style Points- This rare ’31 Chrysler started as a complete car, but that didn’t stop Brian from turning it into a street terrorizing hot rod. Along with its numerous race add-ons, the top was chopped 2.5 inches to get that old school look he was after. Check out the fully louvered rear deck as well.

Roadkilled

A few years back, Brian built up this neat ’31 into a top performing street/strip car. Fabricated on its original frame and basted in a hot orange hue, the Hemi powered ride showed up at several top races, including 2015’s Roadkill Nights. After realizing that the potent hot rod needed some updating on several fronts, Brian took the time to reflect on the weak points of his ride while recovering from a pretty good blow to the noggin. Once the fog cleared, he knew exactly how this car was going to be reborn. He and good friend Roger “Radar” Lechtenberg had talked about doing a nitro car for the street for the past two years, and there was a partial plan in place. He just needed to put it into effect.

His idea was to first structurally bring this ride up to NHRA specs. Brian got to work immediately, and along with Chassis Service out of Waukegan, Illinois, they designed a chromoly double rail tube frame that would not only look the part of a ‘60’s Fuel Altered racecar (complete with all the necessary trimmings), but was also built to meet the NHRA’s strict safety requirements. Once the completely reengineered chassis was ready, the stage was set to do what has never been done before.

Brian could have made his Fuel Coupe faster just by picking a more modern, air-piercing design to start with. No way, not for him. He wanted to recreate the wild Fuel Coupes of the ‘60s that infested his mind as a young hot-rodder. He definitely hit the mark with this striking ’31 Chrysler.

Claim to Frame – When Brian rebuilt the Chrysler, he updated the car’s complete chassis. Gone was the stock frame, and in came this chromoly structure, direct from Chassis Service in Waukegan, Illinois. Brian told them what he needed, and the shop delivered in spades. It was built to meet the NHRA’s strict Spec 25-1 requirements, which certified the Chrysler to run safely down to 6.0 e.t.s.

Fuel, Good Man!

Brian had raced at Hot Rod’s Drag Week in years prior, and wanted to bring something to the table that hadn’t been entered at the event previously. He knew if he could pull it off, the Chrysler would not only be a speedy spectacle out on the 1,320-foot warpath, but it would also give him an edge that the other racers didn’t have. And that edge he desired was the use of “fuel” out on the Drag Weeks selected dragstrips; nitromethane fuel that is.

Of course the main and most intimidating rule of Drag Week is the fact that race cars have to hit the road and make the trip between venues, racking up a thousand miles over the course of the week. This is what separates the streetable racers from the hordes of typical, trailered, “track only” cars (as seen on reality TV). That particular point is what makes this event one of the most competitive and awe inspiring weeks of the race season. So here was his dilemma; how do you build a nitro burnin’ Hemi that can hit low 1/4 e.t.s on the track, and then run several hundred miles on the open road to the next raceway?

Split Personality

Brian’s idea to make this work seemed pretty straightforward at first thought, though its simplicity was a mirage. Its intricate design and build had to be conquered by some major brainstorming; treading a path that perhaps no one in a flame retardant suit had traveled before. It was obvious to him that his Chrysler would have to be built to run gas on the street between events, while having the capacity to run nitro at the track. Brian decided a “dual-fuel” and “dual ignition” engine would be required.

There was no written text on the matter, no websites giving step-by-step instructions, and no YouTube “how to” videos showing the process of making a Hemi burn both gas and fuel with little turn around in the pits. Brian was going to have to blaze this trail himself.

Since he’d campaigned a blown nitro altered-wheelbase car prior to this undertaking, Brian had the experience under his belt of both building fuel based engines and driving them to victory on the track, but building an engine that could burn both nitro and gas, that’s a different story. Still, it’s a tale that Brian had the wherewithal to write. He just needed to sharpen his pencil and do his homework. He once again called on good friend and nitro expert Roger to help out. It was good to have another madman to bounce his crazy, unproven ideas off of.

Nitrosity

Nitromethane, or CH3NO2 to you chemistry buffs, is an interesting fuel to say the least. Just the whisper of its name implies danger and instability, and it has a long history of causing both havoc and destruction on an almost biblical scale. You have to be prepared for not only its best moments, but also its worst. Technically speaking it’s a liquid that is very stable on its own, but heat it or compress it and things can get pretty hairy.

Mad Scientist – Brian Kohlmann uses a hydrometer to check the mixture of Nitro and alcohol in the Moon tank. This instrument measures the specific gravity of the fuel blend. That number is then checked on a chart to get an exact Nitro percentage in the mixture. This is vital because if your mix is off, no doubt possible major engine damage will occur.

With Drag Week 2016 a less than a year away, Brian forged ahead with his dual-fuel –plan, started with his original block, and added some interesting pieces. First he took an off-the-shelf, four-port, upright Hillborn EFI casting and modified it to run EFI for gas and mechanical injection for the nitro. The cam is set for optimal nitro performance, though the minimal compromise here is still suitable for the gas/street set up. Two unique ignition systems are used. The electronic distributor for gasoline/street use is in the original location at the rear of the Hemi, wired into an F.A.S.T XFi-2 control box. The magneto that provides the spark for the nitro sits on a dual drive system up front, which can be disengaged rather quickly when not in use.

The dual drive is a pretty neat device that is run directly off the cam. It also runs the fuel pump for the nitro, which gravity feeds to the pump via the Moon tank up front. The gas tank is in the trunk, along with the radiator and fan set up for cooling this beast. Relocating the cooling system cleaned up the front end and added to the look of a true 60’s Fuel Altered vehicle. An air shifted three-speed Lenco with a Bruno converter drive transfers the power to a Dana 60 rear packed with 3.73 gears. A torsion bar front suspension, built in the style of mid-60’s Fuel Altered and funny cars, adds to the period perfect look. Vintage polished ultra-rare American Racing magnesium wheels are straight out of the 60’s and capture the look to a tee.

Jumbo Sized – This particular Hemi has been powering the Chrysler since the owner first hot-rodded the stock coupe and made it into a ¼-mile terror. It’s actually a 354 block punched and stroked to 392ci. It now has two separate fuel/ignition systems, so it can run gas and Nitro with little turnover in the pits.

Rail Job – The dual fuel system is made possible by the modification of this stock four-port Hillborn casting.

Dual-Drive – One of the most interesting aspects of Brian’s Hemi is this unique dual drive system up front. It’s run directly off the cam and powers the Nitro part of this engines set up. This piece powers both a magneto for spark and an Enderle fuel pump to feed Nitro from the Moon tank. Brian also built it so it can be disengaged when not in use, to avoid unnecessary wear when the Chrysler runs on gas.

Highway Star

Brian finished assembly, and immediately rushed his way to Drag Week 2016. After months of work, the Chrysler performed to his early expectations, figuring in the fact that there was zero time to test. The first time the Chrysler was under its own power was the day it was loaded up on the trailer for the event’s first stop in Columbus. By the end of the week, the combination came together and worked as he had planned, and Brian got it down the track like a nitro Hemi ride was intended to do.

“It was a huge milestone just to have the car drivable in a year”, states Brian. “Overall it was a huge success. There were several unproven ideas that we needed to see if they even worked. Switching from gas to Nitro and back, or even not knowing if the radiator in the trunk would keep the car cool,” he continued. It all worked, it just needed some refining after a baseline was established.

Since the end of Drag Week 2016 the hot rod has had some upgrades. Brian’s positive all the wrongs have been righted, and the Fuel Coupe is ready to take on the field at Drag Week 2017. After some more testing and more seat time for Brian, he is confident that this year, the Chrysler will hit its mark during Hot Rod’s signature event. “There are easier ways to build a fast race car, but we are determined to see this through. Running a 7.50 average for the week would be something that my co-pilot Mark Janack and I would be proud of…that’s faster than these cars ran back in the day”, says Brian. We have a feeling that this year’s Drag Week is going to be a memorable five days of racing. Stay tuned-in to the action at www.hotrod.com.

“Nothing says we are here to go stupid fast like a BLOWN NITRO HEMI”.

“Drag week last year showed that our ideas were not crazy and the car could actually work as planned”.

 “Running a blown street hemi requires special parts. Running it on Nitro requires Nitro specific parts. Since no one runs a Nitro engine on the street that means I had to make the parts or adapt race parts to work”.

Hot Heads Research and Racing

www.hothemiheads.com

(336) 352-4866

Chassis Service

(847) 336-2305

www.facebook.com/pages/Chassis-Service/134587166593449

Byron Dragway

www.byrondragway.com

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[lawrencegarte]

i have so many fun story ideas bouncing around in my noggin but i’m too lazy to actually put the effort into writing them... Sad