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:3 feels happier than :) But not as genuine as :]

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Who wants to see my cat totally brave and not at all scared at the vet

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Sometimes, I Wonder if I Accidentally Bumped Off JD Salinger

This story is true and goes back to 2008 when John Hamilton at Penguin commissioned me to design the book jackets for JD Salinger's entire back catalogue.

Mr. Salinger was alive then, in his early 90s and, by all accounts, a belligerent and grumpy recluse. The chain of command was unusual and went like this. Salinger directed all his feedback via his New York lawyer, who then communicated with his London lawyer, who then communicated with Penguin, who then communicated with me, in my tiny home studio in North London. This process was somewhat intimidating, and went back and forth for weeks. It must have cost him a fucking fortune.

John told me Salinger was a very sensitive and emotional man and had always hated the first book jacket design for 'The Catcher in the Rye', a book which to this day still sells over a million copies a year. He had instructed Penguin to redesign the jackets using lettering only. "No pictures!" Salinger had stated. That's when John thought of me.

I designed three options, and Salinger chose the third — bespoke Inline Roman Capital letterforms with minimal and carefully considered flourishing to add a touch of refined elegance and unify the set. Salinger was shown the designs and signed them off himself, making only one change to the ‘Catcher’ jacket. He wanted the junction on the 'Y' in 'Rye' raised, which he felt made it more legible.

A day later, Salinger died. John said signing off the jackets was probably Salinger's last creative decision.

To this day I sometimes lie in bed at night wondering if the surprise of my stark, graphic and (back then) avant-garde new covers for his life's work tipped the poor fella over the edge. Fuck me, I hope I didn’t accidentally bump off JD Salinger. I just want to get this off my tits after all these years. Rest in Peace, Mr Salinger. What an intense privilege to be involved in a project of such literary magnitude.

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a guy ate an airplane once i could do it. i believe in myself

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my train keeps getting delayed. Followers… You know what to do…

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Laios....

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I heard about this earlier but this is phenomenally good news because a lot of these manuscripts hold palestinian intellectual history dating back centuries and my friends who work in the Islamic book history field believed these all to be gone

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It happens in an instant.

One moment, Gojo Shiki is easily fending off the tall ice statues, and in the next, she falls.

No!

Kamado Tanjiro immediately grips his sword, and turns. But it’s no use. A long bolt of the brilliant pink brocade from the Obi Demon slams down in front of him, blocking off his path and tearing through the rooftop at the same time, destabilizing his footsteps.

He’s too far. Too far away to make it–

Gojo-san can’t die.

She can’t die. Gojo-san is the only demon slayer who’s killed an Upper Moon. She can’t die here, not like this–!

Tanjiro inhales deeply, forcing himself to focus. Use his father’s Hinokami Kagura for explosive strength, and the Breath of Water for restoration; both breathing styles in tandem with each other, just as he’d done to save Hinatsuru-san earlier.

He is not too far and he can make it. Please, please work–!

Tanjiro leaps. His sword cleaves through a snakelike tendril of pink cloth that blocks his way, heedless of any obstructions.

Midway through his leap, arched over the cloud of glittering frost that Gojo-san is fighting in, Tanjiro sees it.

The Ice Demon, Upper Moon Two, standing right in front of her.

Tanjiro’s blood runs cold, and it has nothing to do with the ice crystallizing in the air around him.

… Even so, he doesn’t give up. Tanjiro clenches his fingers around the hilt of his sword, gripping it with all his strength as he roars and brings it down with all his strength upon the demon that’s standing there carelessly with its back to him–

–and there is a sharp, shattering sound, as his blade cleaves into a lotus-shaped block of ice that suddenly materializes out of nowhere in front of him.

“My, my, how hasty” The tall demon turns towards him with a small frown. “It’s rude to interrupt a meal, don’t you know? I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”

Upper Moon Two. The chilling characters are etched clearly into the demon’s eyes, and unmistakable identifier of its status and strength.

And Tanjiro can feel the way that the air almost seems to solidify around him, sharp and freezing and utterly choking when the demon snaps its fan shut and points it directly towards him.

“You–”

Whatever the demon is about to say is instantly cut off and will remain a mystery forevermore; its head suddenly falls off from its neck with a spray of blood. There’s a small expression of slight shock on its face –an expression that Tanjiro almost feels is mirrored on his own face, too, in this moment.

With a small gulp, Tanjiro lifts his gaze to look behind the demon. Gojo-san stands there impassively, with a bloodstained sword in her hand that’s dripping long crimson rivulets onto the ground as she proceeds to carve the rest of the demon’s body into pieces.

Outwardly, she doesn’t look to be injured too badly, but… there is still blood trickling down from her mouth, and she had literally coughed up blood earlier. Internal injuries? Oh, that wasn’t good.

“A-are you alright, Gojo-san?”

The girl does not respond. Instead, she silently wipes away a stark trail of blood from her lips, and tilts her head to glance backwards over her shoulder –directly towards where the fighting has ceased for a brief moment, where Upper Moon Six is staring with disbelief at the death of the higher-ranked demon.

“Next,” she says softly.

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my first favorite hobby is yapping. second is being extremely quiet and not talking ever at all ever.

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Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairytales (pt 10)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9)

Summary: There are many sorts of meetings. Meetings you dread and meetings you anticipate. Baron Ramsey is overdue for both.

“I did not expect you to return so soon,” the Queen says. Her coal-like eyes flick over the Baron, cataloguing every inch of him. Did she see the dust clinging to his trousers, evidence of his haste to arrive? Did she see the tightness in his jaw at her welcome? Did she see the new bead of sweat rolling down his cheek? “Another week at the earliest.”

“I—” The Baron has to summon moisture to his mouth to speak. He swallows. “I was already within our borders when your message found me. Of course, I had no choice but to return.”

The Queen’s expression doesn’t change, but her aura does. She leans back in her throne and watches him through half-lidded eyes. “Why is it you think I called for you, Baron David Ramsey?”

To torment me, he thinks and doesn’t say. He wishes he would have listened to his wife all those years ago. She told him they must go unnoticed. He thought he had rid himself of his arrogance when he married her, but he was wrong. It had been arrogant of him to not heed her warning.

“There is a new type of dye in the southern islands,” he says. He spreads his hands wide. “If I had known your majesty had already heard of it, I would not have delayed in finding a sample. I hope you will understand. I was returning home after so many years abroad.”

The Queen never admits to not knowing. Her expression flickers. “Yes, the new dye…I am interested in it.”

A wave of relief rocks through him. This is familiar territory. Every request for a new product she gives him is another handful of months he can keep her attention away from his home and the secrets he has kept hidden there for 19 years. “It would be my privilege to acquire some products using this new dye for you, your majesty. I have made a promise to the Baroness to return home this month however, so there will be a delay—”

“Returning home to an empty house?”

The Baron blinks. “Pardon?” Then her words register and a surge of sick fear makes him sway on the spot. What has she done? He swallows twice before he can speak. “N-no, to my daughter – my daughters. To the Baroness.”

The Queen studies him. The Baron desperately tries to hold himself still. The Queen always speaks vaguely. He is hearing a threat where none exists. The Queen’s domain may extend past his manor, but her magic doesn’t. She doesn’t know, she can’t know. She is testing him. Should he have denied knowing that the higher nobility of this land were, in fact, the Unseelie Court?

Sweat rolls down his temple and he feels the Queen’s eyes track its progress.

“Then rejoice,” the Queen says at last. Her nails trace the arm of her throne. “Your journey is at an end. Your family is in the Capital.”

“Wha—” What?! The Baron bites his tongue so hard blood wells. The pain does little to clear the panic from his mind. “I—I was not aware.”

“I can see that,” the Queen says. The sharp edge in her gaze softens. Calculation crosses her face briefly and settles into an unsettling amusement. She smiles. “Yes, that makes sense. You wouldn’t have been home to receive the invitation. There is a ball, Baron David Ramsey. All eligible ladies of the kingdom are in the Capital for it, of course. Your…daughters included.”

A ball? It’s been three decades since the Queen last a held a ball, perhaps longer. Why now? His wife told him that the Unseelie Court was confined to the very core of their territory after the last great war. She predicted that their power would not be enough to free them for another hundred years. So why a ball? Why invite the human nobles across the land to come into the heart of the territory before they were recovered? Why—

The Prince. These are politics the Baron knows. The Prince has come of age this year. This isn’t an ordinary ball. The Royal Line must continue regardless of the powers they may or may not have recovered. A Prince needs a Princess.

The Unseelie Court is hunting for new blood.

“Then I suppose,” the Baron says faintly, “that I am not going home quite yet after all.” The unease the Queen voicing his name evokes fades next to the sick fear roiling in the Baron’s stomach. “By your leave, of course.”

“Nothing would make me happier than having your attendance at the ball tonight,” the Queen purrs. She extends a hand and an invitation appears in the air between them. She crooks her finger and it drifts into the Baron’s chest. “I guarantee that this will be a  surprise reunion that no one will want to miss.”

The Baron’s clammy hand presses the invitation over his heart. Is it his imagination or can he feel oily tendrils seep from it and into his heart? Is the air colder? Without thinking, the Baron says, “Thank you for your consideration, your majesty.”

A wave of weakness washes over him as soon as his thanks leaves his lips. He staggers and his vision wavers. The Queen’s nostrils flare as she breathes in deeply, eyes fluttering shut. Does the King laugh behind his hand? Or does he cough?

His wife’s voice echoes in his mind. Never thank the fae. Never apologize. And especially never give thanks nor apology to the Unseelie.

“Don’t thank me yet, Baron,” the Queen says. When she opens her eyes they gleam with an unearthly purple. Black stains her mouth when she smiles. “Tonight. Thank me tonight.”

The order slips around his neck like a noose. The invitation throbs like a second heart. “Yes, my Queen,” the Baron whispers.

---------.

Cinderella watches the colors of the sunset catch in the crystals embroidered on her dress, red and pink and gold against the eggshell blue of the silk. Helga’s hands are gentle as she weaves Cinderella’s hair into an intricate knot.

“There,” Helga says. There’s a faint press of lips on top of Cinderella’s head, the move so effortlessly affectionate that Cinderella’s heart sings. Helga gently lifts Cinderella’s chin. “Take a look. We can change anything you don’t like.”

This afternoon with Helga has been magical. Cinderella doesn’t remember the last time she felt so at ease with another person besides the Prince. They talked and laughed and commiserated over her friend’s lack of communication, about nature, about what type of jam goes best on what type of bread, about everything and anything. Good food and good company has healed something deep inside of Cinderella, another crack sealing tight and holding. She can’t imagine not liking something that Helga has done for her.

She is still surprised when she sees herself in the mirror.

Last night’s gold jewelry highlighted Cinderella’s hair and the deep green of the dress. She remembers feeling beautiful and elegant and so, so confident.

Tonight is—well, it’s everything Cinderella feels.

It’s as if Helga listened to Cinderella’s recounting of the previous night and manifested every hope and every joyful memory  into what Cinderella sees before her. She feels like she’s glowing. Rather than focus on her hair this dress throws her light eyes into brilliant focus. She blinks quickly. She didn’t realize she had her mother’s eyes until this moment.

Her jewelry is still dainty, but it all shines as brightly as the crystals dotted like flowers through the skirts of her dress. A single teardrop pendant hangs from a silver chain around her neck and diamond earrings reflect firelight as the castle lights the sconces around her room. Silver thread holds Cinderella’s hairstyle in place.

“I’m the sky,” Cinderella says breathlessly.

“And more,” Helga promises. There’s a knock on the door. Helga meets Cinderella’s eyes through the mirror and she smiles. “Your carriage has arrived, my lady.”

Cinderella’s heart leaps as she rises. The Prince is here. Her friend. Suddenly she feels…not insecure, not quite. There is a fluttering in her stomach as Helga goes to the door, a breathless anticipation that makes her feel weightless. She finds herself following Helga to the door, stopping a few feet behind her when the older woman opens it.

Oh, Cinderella thinks as, unerringly, the Prince’s eyes meet hers. The Prince is draped in a deep, night-sky blue, the same crystals on Cinderella’s dress sewn in clusters on his jacket. His black hair is swept away from his face and a thin, silver wire twines around one ear like a vine.

“You’re early,” Helga chastises the Prince.

The Prince jolts as if he didn’t notice Helga at all. “I thought it best if we had dinner before—”

“We match,” Cinderella says.

Helga jumps, spinning on one foot with her hand presses over her heart. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come up behind me...”

“Why,” the Prince says and pretends shock as he looks down at his outfit. “I think we do.”

Cinderella fights against a smile. “You knew I would choose the blue dress.”

“I had an inkling.”

Cinderella slides around Helga, barely noticing as the older woman wordlessly gives way. She takes the Prince’s arm when he offers it. “You said dinner?”

“That I did.”

Cinderella is full on bread and jam and juice. “I’d like that.”

“You could have sent a note,” Helga mutters. But she drapes a buttery-soft shawl around Cinderella’s shoulders to protect her against the evening chill and does not protest when the Prince leads her from Emerald Castle and into the gardens rather than to the carriage.

The gardens are a different world at night, especially seen from the ground rather than the window of her guest room. Small, wrought iron torches mark their path past the flower beds and towards the hedge maze.

“If you get us lost and we wind up being late again, I’m not walking in with you,” Cinderella says as they enter. The hedges smell slightly floral and she breathes the fresh scent in hungrily. Jasmine, maybe? “I saw the look the Queen gave you last night.”

“My mother doesn’t give looks to me,” the Prince denies. He grins at her. “And we won’t be late. Or, if we are, neither of my parents will be upset.”

Something in his voice gives Cinderella pause. “Because they love you so very much?”

“Because if we’re late, they’ll be late too,” the Prince says and directs her around one last corner into the center of the maze where the Queen and King are waiting at a table set for four.

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(Patreon)

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snail love 💗

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With Captain America: Brave New World releasing tomorrow, we at comicedit wanted to remind everyone of the ongoing boycott against this film for the character Ruth, aka Sabra's inclusion, which despite numerous reshoots hasn't been removed from the film.

For more information on Sabra's history as a Zionist propaganda character, @imperiuswrecked has written a guide here.

Instead of buying a movie ticket, we urge you to instead donate to the Gaza Soup Kitchen, which is trying to give survivors of the genocide warm food, and to donate to one of the many fundraisers that still need help rebuilding their homes. Gazafunds chooses a random vetted fundraiser if you need help choosing one.

And as a reminder, every actor's decision to be in this film is a choice they made. You do not need and should not be justifying their decision to work with a woman who actively chose to join the IDF despite being exempt. A boycott does not mean "pirate but create fan material as usual", it means no engagement. It is important that this film exist in zero conversations that aren't about its Zionism.

Free Palestine.

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There are three breeds of cat:

Chonk

Goblin

Yeah that looks like a cat

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