#working with crumbs i did my best to write/draw river i have no idea how to write him

[z-shalltear]

River 🩵

River my second beloved is from @unsentmemory

Extra:

🩵🎀

It was a faintly chilly evening, though he didn't do more than give the ground a cursory scan before pinching the bridge of his nose as his head throbbed. Having to do the loads of paperwork to get discharged from the hospital without proper vision was exhausting. Being hospitalized was exhausting. His eyes trailed along the blurry winding stairs in the lobby and he silently swore at his landlord for never fixing the elevator.

"Are you sure I can't carry you up?" Even without his glasses and an overgrown fringe obscuring his vision he could see River pouting and holding his arms out expectantly. As if he would easily accept the offer. Shalls winced.

River, his supposed boyfriend of three years, that he'd forgotten about after the crash. When he first came to, River was by his side, gently holding onto his hand. Though, he looked heartbroken having to pull away once seeing Shalls’ uncomfortable expression. Suffering from amnesia brought its own head ache, literally, but he still felt guilt for completely forgetting about his long-time boyfriend. He tucks his phone into his pocket, his gaze lingering at his empty clear phone case, as if it was missing something.

Shaking his head, he tugs on the plastic gloves he stole from the hospital. A sick, stifling feeling in his chest as he considers River's open arms. Despite being unable to make out River’s expression with his blurred vision, he could tell he was disappointed by his refusal with the way his shoulders sagged and arms dropped to his sides. Relying on body language seemed his best bet so far with understanding others.

His friends were initially skeptical about the lack of evidence about the supposed relationship and he admittedly was as well. Though his dislike for taking photos of himself didn't help in that matter. River excitedly showed some candid shots he had taken of Shalls, many far away while he wasn't looking, and one while he was curled up sleeping as River’s hand held his. Although still mildly confused, it did ease his discomfort somewhat.

The blue head of hair coming into view reminded Shalls he hadn't responded properly.

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, looking up at the looming set of uneven stairs. Even with his glasses he could vaguely remember having to watch his step, he wasn't looking forward to seeing (ha) how it would go with his shitty vision.

He sighs. “Just come here and walk next to me.” River bounds over happily, itching to hold their hand though refraining.

Shalls grips River's jacket carefully. That seemed to be the only thing he could tolerate at the moment.

The two make their way up towards Shalls’ apartment. Shalls felt as if he was walking into the unknown as he was led along by the stranger next to him he had to put his trust in.

[aldreaoakley]

THE NIGHTINGALE: ODA NOBUNAGA

(There’s a poem that students in Japan learn to remember the three unifiers of Japan from the Sengoku Era that gave me this idea along with a line from Nobunaga’s story. Basically the poem says that Ieyasu will wait for the bird to sing while Hideyoshi will make it. Nobunaga has the more frightening response of killing the poor thing. This story has a man who wants a specific bird to sing for him. That is the part that got my wheels turning. Our nightingale won’t die but will be extra special.)

Once upon a time there lives a daiyamo by the name of Oda Nobunaga. Nobunaga is not the type of daiyamo anyone will want to disobey. Because if he wants something now, that unfortunate person in charge of it better do it right and quick the first time. If all the requirements aren’t met then it’s an immediate trip to the Sanzu river bank to Hell. One day a rumor reaches the Devil King of the Sixth Hell’s ear. A rumor about a bird with the most beautiful singing voice. Gripping his sake cup to near smithereens, Nobunaga turns to his page. “Ranmaru, seek this bird for me at once,” he hisses. “At once,” Ranmaru nods obediently. While watching the speeding figure, Nobunaga hears his court members whispering and muttering. His grip tightens, forcing the cup to shatter everywhere. Rapid fire orders echo around him but Nobunaga can care less. If that bird doesn’t sing for him, he’ll find pleasure in slicing it to ribbons. A loud “NOBUNAGA-SAMA” shakes his attention back to a terrified Ranmaru. “This better be important,” he snarls at the boy. He watches as Ranmaru gestures for a maid to come forward. While a servant wipes the sake from his face, Nobunaga listens as the maid explains about the truth behind the rumors. The bird is actually a female nightingale spirit who sings mostly in his gardens. “However she loves to sing near the largest pine in the garden,” the maid adds. “I see her when I go to visit my family.” Nobunaga didn’t waste time ordering for the nightingale to be found and taken to the audience chamber. As he watches the servants scramble with the head chamberlain ordering the finest lanterns to be used for the performance. Standing, Nobunaga watches as others mill and scamper around to get everything ready. An hour later, Nobunaga seats himself in the audience chambers waiting for the maid to come back with the nightingale. A knock comes and the doors slide open to reveal them together. Nobunaga notices the bird hesitating a bit before the maid nudges her. The nightingale chirps softly then flies past the perch set in the center and changes shape. Nobunaga ignores the soft shocked voices as a young woman clad in simplistic brown kimono with buff and white feather embroidery emerges. He observes the nightingale hairpin when she bows politely to him. He looks back at the cool inky eyes when she asks: “Shall I sing for you my lord?” with his own scarlet. “Do it,” he demands. Accepting the graceful nod as a sign that she agrees to his order, he observes her transition back into her small form. Fluttering, she lands on the perch. A beautiful note soon rings out from her throat. The same repeats comes with the string of melodious pitches. Unwillingly, a tear slips from Nobunaga’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one. Throughout the performance, the entire audience let silent tears streak their faces. At the end of the song, Nobunaga stands. “Nightingale, you are staying with us.” ~*~ Months pass by and Nobunaga cannot keep a scowl off his face. From the second he declares her to be a permanent resident, the poor bird sings for anyone but him. The worst however is an automaton nightingale from the west. Standing from his office, he goes to the room where the automaton is with the nightingale. He opens it to see that Ranmaru and the maid, whom he appoint to be the caretaker, is looking sad. It doesn’t take him long to figure out why. The breathing nightingale is showing heavy signs of exhaustion while the other stares blankly with its soulless eyes. “I’ll be taking her with me,” he speaks, startling the two. “Yes Nobunaga-sama,” they both nod. As they step to the side, the maid holds a tiny pouch to him. He accepts it then turns to the nightingale. “Come here,” he orders. A tiny bow before she flits over to land rather cutely on his arm. “On my shoulder,” he corrects sternly. She hops up until mid-shoulder and settles in. Once he is sure she is there, away from both ticklish spots, he strides to the garden. He continues until he reaches the tallest and largest pine. Sitting, he opens the pouch and sprinkles the crushed seeds and crumbs to the ground. Watching her eat while chirping happily, Nobunaga somehow feels a sense of confidence. “You are free to leave,” he solemnly speaks. “Why m’lord,” she sings sweetly. “You aren’t happy here. And it won’t be long before someone chases you out. That metal automaton is earning more praises than you. So leave.” A slight rustle of feathers to kimono as she bows in the most politest form then back to feathers again. While she soars away, Nobunaga wonders if he really managed to get his message to her. Danger lurks everywhere for him and he didn’t want to see her hurt. The most important is that she remains away from him. He still recalls seeing her hopping away from him after a scuffle. The blood staining his face, hands and armor, Nobunaga cannot suppress the sorrow flowing through him at the memory. Her plumage that day wasn’t elegant or beautiful. It was dimmer and made her look smaller. “I don’t ever want to see her like that… again,” he mouths wistfully to himself. The once quiet garden slowly blooms with bird song but for Nobunaga, he can’t bring himself to draw his tānto. No. He actually can’t. ~*~ One day, Nobunaga’s nickname as the Devil King burns brighter than ever. Many whisper upon an action that frighten even loyal Ranmaru. Nobunaga storms into the nightingale’s former residence and slice not just the furniture but also the brittle automaton. The said thing is now being stomped by Nobunaga in his private chambers. The mechanical wheels and near audible whirls didn’t faithfully replicate his long gone singer. Slumping to the floor, he cradles his head sighing. Nothing he can do now can bring back the nightingale as many liked the now scrap heap version better. A sudden pain runs through him, forcing him to collapse. He faintly hears Hideyoshi and Ranmaru doing their best to help him before he passes out. A few hours later, Nobunaga learns that what happened to him wasn’t something that the doctors can fix and he has only four days left to live. The crushing judgement gives birth to only one regret that Nobunaga had but he sends everyone out. He didn’t want them to hear his regret. ~*~ The next night, Nobunaga wakes to metal across his neck. He blinks to see a Shinigami’s blade resting there like it actually belongs. As it swings up, Nobunaga keeps his eyes open until… “WAIT! You can’t have his soul yet,” warbles a familiar chirp. Fluttering his lashes, Nobunaga bolts upright to see on the balcony is his nightingale. Her human form stands defiantly as she stares down the supernatural being. “I am afraid it is his time to leave,” the Shinigami hisses. When the blade moves again… “Then let’s make a deal,” she counters, stirring sparks of admiration in Nobunaga’s chest. “For every movement of your katana, I’ll sing one song.” “Done,” the supernatural agrees as the weapon slips a millimeter. Nobunaga stifles a smile as he hears her song about a flowering sakura tree, forcing the Shinigami to stop and pay for his action. The pattern happens a few more times before a rasp signals the sword being put away. “You win,” the being sighs mournfully. “Because your songs remind me of the gardens in Hell…” “Take my nightingale soul,” she offers. Nobunaga can tell from the stance that the Shinigami wasn’t expecting this. To be honest, neither was he. “I can’t be with Lord Nobunaga as a bird forever and the heavens won’t grant me a human form,” she explains. A swift subtle shink whooshes and a small spirit nightingale lands on the Shinigami’s shoulder. A nod of appreciation is the last that Nobunaga sees of it before he dashes out of his futon. He didn’t need his singing fireball hitting her head.

EPILOGUE Nobunaga smiles while setting another scroll down. His now wife is in the same room, singing beautifully as their baby son sleeps in his futon while sewing. Two years has passed since that day where she did that exchange. Two years since making her his bride. Two years passing by to create this miracle in their room. It didn’t seem that long to Nobunaga but with Hideyoshi’s persistent protectiveness, two years was torture in order to calm the dancing monkey. With a pleased sigh, Nobunaga resumes the next bit of work while writing orders. There was no way in heaven or hell he’s going to leave his wife alone! In synchronous rhythm to her voice, his brush moves with equal grace. Brushstrokes forming kanji and katana melding along the dulcet tones morphs into a lullaby that soothes even the crankiest of demons.

A/N: Time to clear the fish tank with my knowledge of Japanese beliefs and mythology. Shintoism is a religion that believes many things on the planet has a spirit. That works since spirits can assume human or another form due to their powers. Shinigami was the only being I can use to replicate how Death appears to the Chinese emperor in the story. I had to research a tree that stands for power and strength which leads to the pine tree that I picked for the nightingale to sing from. Nightingales are beautiful singers and both genders have similar coloration. It was an easier option to make the nightingale female. Four is a terrible number in Asian culture overall. Say four the wrong way in any language, it means death. What’s the total of two and four? It’s six~ A reference to Nobunaga’s nickname~ I also used elements from the Behind the Myth ES for him. Remember what I mentioned in the beginning note and the riddle Sasuke wanted to see if it was accurate? Nobunaga said himself that he would originally kill the bird but he now won’t thanks to the chatelaine. He will let it sing of their love. And that’s what I did. The nightingale turns into his wife so she can sing of their eternal love. As for the gardens of hell… not all hells are depicted as nightmarish zones with punishments raining down on the wicked sent there. Some hells have nice gardens or elements that make them appear more beautiful to their owners. In the original story, Death gave up on getting the emperor because the nightingale’s songs remind him of his garden. And because she’s a spirit, it means she won’t age but she wants to age alongside Nobunaga in this story. @deathbyikemen for her warlords as fathers post. most helpful thing since i don’t want to stick with history for this story.

Has anyone figured out what Nobunaga’s regret was? imnottelling

[acaseforpencils]

Joana Avillez.

Bio: I have been doing illustration full-time since 2012. It's what I always wanted to do (see image below) but somewhere along the way I got distracted, or it was drummed out of me. I was always drawing and ended up at RISD where I studied painting. I remember sophomore year being told my paintings (which were extremely bad) were very "illustrative" and understanding that was not a compliment. I began making things I never would have even imagined being able to make: big things, tactile things. RISD was incredible and if I had been studying illustration then, I don't think I would have learned everything I did about ideas and materials and intention. 

 After art school I knew I didn't want to make things for walls or galleries and I honestly never had. I always knew the page was what I loved and everything to do with that — comics, writing, humor, drawing, satire, books, magazines, newspapers.  Essentially, what I make now is what I did when I was eight.

I don't do traditional gag cartoons, although I once tried for about two months. I was truly terrible at it.  It really is a unique genius I don't possess but admire. However, returning eagerly to rejection each week taught me to take things a lot less personally. I have been so lucky to work with Emma Allen doing illustrated Daily Shouts pieces; it's one of the few places in the world that feels like a home for what I consider my ideal work: a drawn and written hybrid used to induce varying shades of laughter.

My first one was this piece, chronicling the arduousness of seasonal transition, inspired by mom, one of my top muses.

 Besides The New Yorker, I've worked for a variety of places, The New York Times, New York Magazine, Zeit Magazine, apartamento...

Tools of choice:  I am very into simple-processes and working in a way that produces the most direct brain-to-hand-to-page drawing.  I feel about this the way I do Lucinda Williams' music: like she is singing right beside me, wheras a very produced song can feel like it exists very far away, on another planet — which of course has it's merits — like I would like to live on another planet.

I make drawings by very easy means and I like it that way.  It means I can work anywhere. I don't need expensive machines (granted, I have a sick scanner) or hard to find materials. I could truly make a living using materials sold at my deli.

My favorite pen is the Uni-ball vision in fine.  I wrote a love letter to this pen for New York magazine, which goes into detail about why I think it's the best drawing and writing tool.  It is easy to find, cheap, waterproof, and never finicky.  I love it.  I use five pens and brush pens in total; in order of weight thick to thin they are: Pentel brush pen FP5M, a Kuretake Fudegokochi (my friend Alexa Karolinski got me a pack of these in Japan and I have routinely reordered), Uni-ball fine, Uni-ball extra-fine, Muji gel pen .38 mm (a pen trade with Liana Finck).

I use this GraphGear 500 mechanical pencil for laying out my ideas, and these Faber-Castell erasers to erase the trace once I've inked. I'm obsessed with these erasers (such a scandalous statement).

I know for me simplicity is best, so that is pretty much all I use.  I keep an old-timey "draftsman's mini-duster" on my desk to brush away eraser residue and lunch's crumbs.

Tool I wish I could use better: I always wished I could be a nib person. Whenever I use a calligraphy or dip pen I wind up spending the afternoon addressing empty envelopes to friends or writing Joana Avillez Joana Avillez Joana Avillez over and over again in some sort of trance or meditative naming ceremony.  

When I went to SVA in 2010 (for the Illustration as Visual Essay program) I didn't even know how to use a Wacom tablet. So even just using that feels like I'm a person of the world! I was also still fussing around with Rapidographs and white out.  My tools and process have become more and more dumbed down — or streamlined — depending how you look at it.  

Tool I wish existed: A pencil who's lead, once drawn onto the page, would transform to ink.

Tricks: This is perhaps less about tools, and more for working, but I always leave something unfinished at the end of the day.  When I get back to work the next day I can jump right in, and there's no lugubrious preamble.  

Misc: 

This is Pepito. He's probably four years old and he's my studio manager.  He is very intent on making sure I get away from my desk to walk along the river and then throw a ball around for as long as possible and then lay in the grass and stare at the sky panting. He's a huge asset.

Website, etc. 

joanaavillez.com

Look out for D C-T! my book with Molly Young (writer and crossword-maker and friend), an illustrated and coded book inspired by William's Steig's classic CDB being published by Penguin Press in 2018.

Be sure to follow Case’s Instagram and Twitter for fun quotes and photos!