#(my fountain pen is my scalpel)

[ginneke]

<flash fiction>

my voice is like a tool, a key, a scalpel carefully crafting incisions on the page or in the air, lifting words from the viscera -- searching in the entrails of language for cadence and rhythm and music, as if searching for prophetic notions, the building blocks of communication that let me say it right.

--

my voice is a honk. (HONK!) ebbed away with the infection taking over my throat and leaving just this relic. squeaky hoarse whisper. HONK. now it goes again, and the air rushes through as though in a tunnel, finding nothing to break against.

[peevesiehasasideblog]

"I often wonder if my diagnosis makes sense. Female to male transsexual is not a very good description of what is going on. It's too neat, too chronological. Too trapped between two states, man and woman. I find neither of these possible or desirable. I need the diagnosis for the surgery but I question the link between the two. I refuse the social construct of gender and desire a flat chest. I am forced to advocate that which is arbitrary and false. If I were to diagnose myself, I often think essay would be the better term. I am a piece of writing that I want to look and sound a certain way. I have this deep impulse to sculpt and shape my body. I think of the surgeon's scalpel like the squat nib of a fountain pen, marking up and crossing out. When I write, I am trying to say something true about the world. I am trying to polish language until it vanishes, becomes a window. I am not writing for the sake of writing, I am writing to bring the world into being. Living seems to be much the same process; I am not living for the sake of living, I live in order to carve, and sculpt and incise, wax/buff/burnish, weather/age/distill myself. To do this until I am a walking transparency, making the whole world visible. And people say I am an idiot for doing this, for carving up my body. I have two long scars where my breasts have been. Two dry rivers or else a tightrope with a gap. Maybe they agree with me about the fallacious sculpting of the fallen branch. Maybe the art was done when two fatty protrusions emerged, hanging from my sternum. Maybe nothing will be as masterfully mound as the glands I excised. Nothing as masterful as my big, fat areolas, my moving, hanging milk-works. If the artist is wrong-headed, then so am I."

— Jay Bernard, 'Idiot', 2021 Edinburgh International Festival

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #13: Tape VI (Sugar-Coat)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, death wish

Jackie awoke to silence.

He realized that the lights were out. He didn’t turn the lights off last night—forgot to, honestly. Heather must have checked up on him at some point, but she had left without saying a word. That meant there was no new experiment. Yet. 

He didn't like the thought of her watching him sleep. He hoped—no, he wasn’t—well—

Better not to think about it. He was being paranoid. Old habit, paranoia, one that had protected him back then but was useless now. A burden that served only to haunt him. After all, what reason would she have to try anything? Why would she? 

He felt sick at that thought. There was no other way to describe that emotion—he didn’t want another way to describe it. Better not to think about it. Don’t think, don’t even imagine. What happened to that? Jackie had gotten so good at not thinking about it. Why did he have to slip up now? 

The trick was to distract yourself. Jackie got up out of bed, untangling himself from the covers. He turned the lights on. The items he requested were still on the nightstand. Oliver Twist sounded boring. He could read later. What Jackie wanted was the notebook and pen.

He sat back on the bed and took the pen, clicked it open. He took the notebook and spread it to the first page. A blank page, what a wonderful thing. He hadn’t drawn anything since coming to Heather’s house. Make no mistake—he wasn’t an artist by any means. Still, he liked to draw, the way a puppy liked to chase its tail. It was pointless, but fun. It occupied his hands and his thoughts better than anything else. 

The pen wrote smoothly, despite being a cheap thing of plastic. The ink came out thick and deep black. He scratched in a few lines before the door opened. 

“Sleep well?” 

Heather wasn’t holding a scalpel, which was nice. She instead held a piece of paper and the tape recorder. That all-knowing, eternally waiting thing. The only other witness. She also had a book bag slung around her shoulder.

“Slept great.” Jackie placed the book and pen into a nightstand drawer. 

“Don’t put the pen away.” The tape recorder clicked to life, an action that was starting to irritate Jackie. “We’re doing something more relaxed today. I thought I should give you a break. And we’ve already covered the basics.”

“Sure.” Jackie took the pen out of the drawer. 

“Right, so… you can sit there.” She pointed to the writing desk. “Take the paper and write something.”

He took the sheet of paper. “What should I write?”

“Whatever you want. Nothing inappropriate, of course.”

Jackie did as she asked and sat down to write. He was still too fuzzy from sleep to think of something clever, so he stuck to the basics—the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Heather watched over his shoulder. “Subject has not lost their fine motor skills, despite their severe injuries. You have nice handwriting, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He put the pen down. “Was that it?”

“I need you to answer a few questions first. How is your pain now? Using the scale of ten, again.”

“One or two.” 

“How have the scars healed? Are they still there?”

“They’re still there. Healed fine.”

“I see.” She then brought a thick journal and a much nicer fountain pen out from the book bag. “Now, I never got an answer to those questions. Age, family, and birthplace, please.”

“Why does it matter?” Jackie didn’t want to answer. Where were those fighting words he wielded only weeks ago? Answering honestly felt like giving up. 

Heather didn’t register this comment as rude or snarky, although it was his intention. “It’s good to have that information later on, for my studies. In case I ever need it.”

“Let me guess. If I don’t answer, you’ll torture me?”

She looked up from her journal with an amused, yet puzzled, expression. “It’s only three questions.”

“Will you, though?”

“Torture is a strong word.” She tapped her pen against the journal. “I can take away your privileges. Would you rather sleep on the concrete?”

Jackie almost said yes, asshole, I’d rather sleep on the floor than be your lab rat, but that wasn’t a good idea. He needed to gain her trust. He needed to be patient.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he replied, forcing the enthusiasm into his voice. “I’m Jackie Rockwell, age twenty-one. I don’t remember my family’s names. I was born in Washington. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

Heather scribbled something down in the journal. “What do you mean, you don’t remember their names? Do you have memory issues?”

Absolutely not. He was not discussing this, not with her. “No, my memory’s fine. It’s a long story. We don’t talk anymore. Most of them are dead, anyway.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked more relieved than anything—probably happy that nobody would notice him gone, that sick freak—but she didn’t push the topic, at least. “Let's move on to the next question. Before all this, were you aware of your immortality? Or any sort of advanced… I don’t know, healing?”

“Not the immortality,” he said. “I guess I’ve healed pretty quickly my whole life. Never had any health issues. Never gotten sick before. I’ve got a good immune system.”

This all must have been fascinating, because Heather was writing like there was no tomorrow. “Never gotten sick? At all?”

“Yep, pretty much.” His usage of the term was strictly metaphorical.

“How curious.” She scratched a final sentence into her journal. “You don’t know why you’re immortal, I assume?”

Jackie nodded. 

“That’s fine. We’ll find out eventually.” 

Not if I can help it. “Are there any more questions?”

“No.” Heather opened the book bag up and stuffed her journal back inside. “What do you want for breakfast, by the way? I can make eggs again. I have cereal. If you want something specific, I can go buy it.”

“Cereal is fine, thanks.” 

Heather nodded and hurried up the stairs. The door opened, then it closed. He waited in silence. 

She returned with a bowl of milk and cereal, which he recognized as cornflakes. The spoon stuck out the top. The ceramic was cool in his hands. 

Heather didn’t move. The tape recorder was still running.

“I’ll eat this now, then,” Jackie said.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

He took a spoonful and put it in his mouth. Heather didn’t make any move to leave.

“Are you going to watch me the whole time?” He set the spoon back into the bowl with a tautness in his movements. It clattered against the smooth surface.

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“The plan.” He placed the bowl onto the writing desk. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She took the bowl and shoved it into his hands again. “You need to eat.”

“No.” He handed the bowl back to her.

“Jackie.”

“What?” he snapped. “I’m sorry I don’t want to be drugged again. I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.”

“That was one time. Did I drug your breakfast yesterday? Or the day before that? Or the day before that, even?” She took his hand and placed it on the spoon. “There’s no sedatives in this. Trust me.”

Trust. Like they were friends. Like he could afford to have trust. Unfortunately, it was eating the damned cereal or getting shoved into a freezer. Either way, she had a point. Nothing else he ate had been drugged, not since that fateful first escape attempt. 

But he wasn’t giving in that easily. "Do you have to stand there while I eat?" 

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

His grasp on the spoon was deadly. He considered chucking it at her head. Considered being the key word, because he was certain that freezers were much more uncomfortable than basements. "The problem is that it's creepy."

"Oh, calm down." She rolled her eyes. "You’ll be fine. Just eat."

It was a struggle not to throw the spoon now, but he managed. Instead of using it as a projectile weapon, he began to eat the cereal. It wasn’t particularly delicious. Kind of bland. Still, he hadn’t eaten anything else that morning, so he didn’t dislike it. All the while, Heather stared at him with growing curiosity.

Halfway through, he stopped. "What’s your problem?"

She shook her head a little. "Nothing. It's nothing. Carry on."

He continued, but not before giving her another scathing glare. He ate the cereal without any further problems. Other than whatever was going on with his captor, of course. She was looking at him like he was sprouting daisies from his mouth. Had he done something wrong? Maybe she was losing her grip on reality—it wouldn’t surprise him, to be honest. 

She checked her watch. It, too, was expensive, the face inlaid with what looked like real diamonds, the strap woven of solid gold. A small smile shadowed her face.

"What's happening?" He leaned forward a bit, trying to catch a glimpse of the time. Eleven o'clock. That number was meaningless to him. 

"Nothing. Nothing's happening. That's what's so interesting." She tried to stifle that smile by biting her lip, though it still managed to crack through. "Subject—"

"What do you mean, subject?' He leaned back, his posture sharply upright. "I thought the experiments were over."

Now she was—she was having a seizure? Choking to death? No, she was laughing. Laughing. Because he ate a bowl of cereal. It was quiet, muffled through her attempts at keeping a straight face, but nonetheless audible. 

"Subject—" She took a deep breath, and her voice returned to normal pitch. "Subject can survive lethal doses of poison. Enough dosage to kill ten people, ap—apparently." Another fit of giggles. "It's—oh my God, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Heather!" He scowled as she grinned even harder. His voice took on a flustered, awkward pitch. "You said this wasn't drugged! Hey! Stop laughing at me!"

"I'm not—I'm not laughing at you—" She covered her face with one hand. The laughter ceased, unsteadily, the way ocean waves gradually crashed into gentler and gentler motions, cut through with brief fits of coughing. "I wasn’t—I didn't lie, did I? There weren't any sedatives. It was just arsenic."

"Arsenic?"

"Just a little bit!"

"Enough to kill ten people?"

"Don't sound so offended." Her hand dropped to her side. She was still smiling. "You're fine, aren't you? You're perfectly fine. God, Jackie, you really are a miracle."

He didn't know how to reply. He could see the comedy in the situation, yes, but his bewilderment at her sudden amusement and his ire won over. Why ire, he wondered, when he expected some sort of betrayal? Maybe a part of him wanted to be proven wrong. Maybe he wanted to finally trust, finally let his guard down, ridiculous as that was. Maybe he just didn't like being laughed at for not dying.

"Well, then, I suppose I can cross poison off the list. Experiment concludes here." She took the recorder and turned it off. Her face was a little flushed. From laughter, most likely, or maybe even embarrassment. Giggling was unprofessional, as Heather would put it. Doctor Moreau probably never giggled. Especially not at his Hyena-Swine. She swallowed, setting her face back into neutral. Then, she stood straighter, cleared her throat, and took the empty bowl from his hands.

"Where did you even get enough arsenic to kill ten people?" Jackie asked, ending the lingering break in conversation. 

"I have my ways." Her head tilted a little at his expression. "Come on, I needed to test it somehow. Would you rather I force feed you arsenic?"

"I don't care. It’s not like I get a choice, anyway." 

He wanted the words to scrape her, cut deep into that guilt he'd seen before. It didn't work. She got up and walked away instead. 

"I'm glad to see you're catching on." Heather placed her hand on the door handle. "I'll be back in a few days. Yell if you need anything."

"You better not forget my lunch.”

"I'll set an alarm, don't worry." She waved his concerns away with her other hand. "I'll bring your dinner as well. Or supper."

“You’ll bring me dinner? Or supper? Bless your heart. What did I do to deserve such mercy?” He stood up with an affronted stiffness. “Honestly, this sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing. You wouldn’t even need to set any alarms if you just—“

“Spare me your escape plans.” She slipped through the doorway. “Don’t break any furniture, by the way. I’m not replacing that bed.”

“Oh, yeah? Well—“ Heather was gone before he could finish that clever retort. 

The lock clicked into place. A strange, echoing feeling struck a chord in his chest. He wanted to be left alone, yes, but not alone in the basement. Not in the eternal stillness of what was really a sugar-coated cell, stagnant and stuck in place until she decided to visit him again. He walked up to the door, hesitating all the while, listening to the sound of her retreating footsteps with bated breath. 

“Heather!” He knocked on the door, at last. “I need something. Get back here.”

No response, even as he repeated his call once more, then twice more, then a reluctant third time. His captor had failed to realize that it was difficult to hear anything behind a locked door, unless you were close by. Heather must have already reached another floor by then. She, unlike him, was free to move, free to leave, free to indulge whatever whim struck her. 

Otherwise, she had heard him clearly, and had simply chosen to ignore him. It wasn’t hard to believe.

Jackie turned back to his room—not his room, just the room he was locked in, Jackie reminded himself—as the feeling rose in pitch, plucking every taut sinew in his body. He could draw, or he could read, or he could scream into a pillow. He could think about things, talk to himself. He could break every single piece of furniture in there, just because. He could let the tap run until the whole place was flooded. He could throw his comb at the walls until it snapped. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to do any of those things. He didn’t want to do anything at all.

What did he want? To die, of course, but other than that? Sleep was the closest thing. It was good enough. A few hours of forgetting. He could escape the concrete floors and blank walls, if only until he woke up, if only in his dreams. 

He collapsed into bed with a small groan. All things considered, it had been a good day, but it had exhausted him nonetheless. A break from reality would be more than welcome.

happy Friday the 13th! :)

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

[bandomgay]

Doing surgery on my fountain pens is so funny like what do u mean I need a scalpel and syringes for these little guys

[shadowmercies]

❝ THERE COMES AN END TO ALL THINGS … AND THIS BRIEF CONDESCENSION TO EVIL FINALLY DESTROYED THE BALANCE OF MY SOUL. ❞ ⸻ inspired by dr. henry jekyll (jekyll & hyde), dr. gregory house (house md), lord shen (kung fu panda 2), and ebenezer scrooge (a christmas carol)

PINTEREST — SPOTIFY

tw: death, murder, traumatic birth

basics

• full name: gabriel elias crowe

• preferred name: elias

• nicknames: eli (only by those he considers friends)

• gender: cis male

• pronouns: he/him

• age: 62

• date of birth: 10th august 1961

• zodiac sign: leo

• sexuality: heterosexual

• place of birth: co. clare, ireland

• residence: a spacious room with its own en suite at the bastion in london ; he also owns a third floor flat a ten minute walk away which is used as something of a bolt hole

• occupation: doctor & resident mortician for the bastion ; former trauma surgeon

• aesthetics: old medical text books, surgical scalpels, tweed, black coffee, salty sea air, petrichor, fountain pens, the metallic taste of blood, sandalwood, irish whisky, a crackling fire, decadent velvet cushions, grand pianos

appearance

• faceclaim: daniel day-lewis

• voice claim: daniel day-lewis

• height: 6’ 1”

• build: tall ; lanky

• eyes: green-grey

• hair: grey

• piercings: n/a

• tattoos: a nautical compass on his inner right forearm ; two black armbands around his left forearm (one solid black & one celtic) side by side

• style:

personality

• positive traits: organised, resourceful, articulate, hardworking, punctual

• negative traits: reserved, opinionated, blunt, assertive, callous

• mbti: istj - the logistician

• likes: irish whiskey, savoury food, reading, researching, watching the rain from inside his room, art, classical music

• dislikes: extreme temperatures, spicy food, heavy metal music, being underestimated, rudeness, prejudice, tardiness

• phobias: entomophobia ; acrophobia

• hobbies: working, reading, researching, playing the piano

• skills: polyglot (speaks fluent english, irish, german, and french) ; ambidextrous (favours his right hand)

• pet peeves: being interrupted, loud music, when people don't say 'please' or 'thank you', people invading his personal space, loud chewing and talking, anything unhygienic

• other: suffers from insomnia ; he is usually very calm and collected, but when provoked he'll snap and erupt into a fiery temper that occasionally leads to threats of violence

family

• mother: sylvia evangeline crowe (née thomas - deceased)

• father: jeremiah maurice crowe (deceased)

• siblings: none

• the sunshine to his thundercloud/love interest: évelyne chaudoir

favourites

• food: anything he can snack on like fruit or seeds

• drink: irish whiskey

• time of the day: evening

• weather: dry and cool

• colours: blue ; grey

• songs: anything classical

bio

— elias was born on 10th august 1961 at 2:27pm to jeremiah crowe, a lawyer, and his wife sylvia, a business secretary. it was a warm, dry day and almost a month before he was actually due.

— elias’s birth was traumatic and sylvia almost died from blood loss. there was also trauma to her reproductive system and it meant that her chances of having another child were non-existent. sylvia became very bitter about it and harboured resentment towards elias that lasted the remainder of her lifetime.

— edwin was raised by a nanny and later by a governess. his nanny, maeve, was quiet, calm, caring, and treated elias if he were her very own. his governess, alice, on the other hand, was incredibly harsh. she cared for nothing but providing him with a head start to his first class education. alice never had a strict timetable, only moving on or breaking for lunch when she was sure elias had grasped what he had been learning so far. during this time, he rarely saw either of his parents and the older elias got the further he grew apart from them.

— by the time he attended boarding school from the age of nine, elias was already reading above the average level for his age. he loved to read, was very good at most subjects taught, and spent a lot of time in the library, however, he hated sports with a passion. he was never anybody’s first choice when it came to other boys picking teammates and he especially hated football. the only sport elias tolerated was badminton, which he played in his garden with his neighbour’s children back home.

— the older he got the more his parents began to pester him about thinking of the future. naturally, jeremiah wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and sylvia wasn't particularly fussed as long as it was a high-paying, respected profession. after thinking about it for a while, elias decided he wanted to be a doctor, which pleased both of his parents greatly. they bought him textbooks to make him study in his free time to get a head start before applying to university. elias became passionate about medicine very quickly and also became adept at anatomy before he needed to know about it.

— at 17 years old, elias’s parents decided to uproot the family from ireland and make the move to london after jeremiah was offered a top job at one of the most respected law firms in the country. elias was reluctant. he didn't want to leave everything and everyone he knew behind and trade the lush green hills of county clare from the smoke and noise of the city. but ultimately he had no choice but to follow along, at least until he could move away for his studies and then on to a career that could take him just about anywhere he wanted to go. anywhere was better than under his mother's scornful, watchful eye and under her suffocating control.

— at 18, elias enrolled at oxford university to attend their school of medicine. jeremiah had wanted elias to stay in london, but was persuaded to let his son leave when elias threatened to drop out of university altogether. he lived in halls of residence for two years and then boarded at a house nearby with two classmates. he also excelled in his course and gained top marks for the majority of his classes, but ranked the highest in neuroscience and trauma medicine (the latter of which eventually became his speciality).

— elias spent this career at the same hospital in central london, building up his reputation as a world renowned trauma surgeon. he also spent some time travelling to give lectures and even wrote a handful of research papers.

— he eventually became disillusioned by the idea of helping people even when there was no hope left. the part of him that held that hope over the years had slowly faded away until there was nothing left. he found power in controlling death, even after spending so many years bringing people back from the brink of it. elias thought that killing a patient who had little to no chance of survival or who would suffer for the rest of their lives if they survived was the kind thing to do; to ease their pain and suffering was better than letting them live with it.

— he spent the next two years sporadically killing patients who came under his care, from car accidents to overdoses, usually through administering drugs or nicking certain arteries with a blade, which were made to look accidental. elias eventually got to a point where he realised he could no longer work at the hospital, that he could no longer upheld the hypocratic oath, and that even one accidental move could trigger suspicions. he wasn't about to tarnish his public record and reputation, so gave in his notice and lied, saying he was thinking of taking a job in some remote part of the world to live a quieter life.

— it wasn’t long before he was sought after by the the table. his skills, knowledge, and experience would be invaluable to them. and whilst not a fully qualified mortician, elias assumed the role on the basis that there wasn’t anyone else willing to do it. he had the basics down to a t and spent a lot of time studying (and practising) to ensure he was capable. however, he settled quickly into the job and found that he enjoyed working with patients that didn’t talk back and ask stupid questions and move when he specifically told them not to. elias’s services as a doctor to the high table were also highly sought after by the common assassin and gang member, knowing they’d be quickly and securely stitched up to move onto the next job. sometimes elias is grateful for his insomnia and it’s usually when he has an influx of clients during the night.

— elias now lives in the bastion itself, ensuring he is able to answer a call for help at any time and to provide his services as mortician quickly and discreetly. he likes living there as it gives him privacy from the outside world and his previous life, as well as being able to conveniently access anything he needs or wants.

other muses: d. montmorency / r. thorne / m. fox

[hellmouth-manor]

This is my dessein (translator’s note: “dessein” means “design”)

Hibiki condemns him, and Alou pushes his hair back out of his face, huffing out a short sigh between his teeth. Everyone’s insistence on resistance is… persistent. But in the midst of his own exasperation, he seems to find something humorous.

He winks at Eli.

“‘I can’t’, you say, ‘I don’t’, you say, ‘I’– hm… well I suppose you’re right. I’ve been caught. The game is up! I lost! Oh no!”

Alou slaps one palm against his forehead, head rolled back in mock agony. Then he laughs, a sharp and hollow sound that’s more malice than joy.

“Oh, goodness. Oh, bless your souls. D’accord, I concede. You should all be proud of yourselves– I couldn’t ask for better players. Truly.”

There’s another snap– but this time the sound comes from Alou’s raised hand. When he does it, you can see some of the strings actually shiver in the air, catching the light in their vibrations.

All the food from the table clears. Only bare plates, empty cups, and the other heaping piles of meaningless wealth remain.

Before your mind can quite register it, a cacophony clatters out all around the table. Familiar tokens appear in the dark space above your plate: shining, gold, and heavy. They rattle the plate when they hit the fine silver, but not a single one spills out onto the cloth or the floor. Only Alou’s plate remains void of–

– Five soul coins.

“How did you phrase it exactly, Pheo?”

He pretends to take a moment to recall.

“Ah, yes– she said, ‘this trial is special because it’s a challenge’. I would say it’s fair that the points go to– hm– Envy. Isn’t that right, Mirai?”

That damned scoreboard lowers into view from the darkness. A point is added to Envy before your eyes, and the new score shows as follows:

LUST: 17

ENVY: 17

PRIDE: 13

GLUTTONY: 10

SLOTH: 9

GREED: 5

WRATH: 2

That’s not the end of the proceedings.

Something else shifts on the table setting in front of Mirai, amongst her coins. It almost looks like the blossoming of a flower or the unwrapping of a cocoon, if the strings were made of the invisible space around it. An object is left innocuously in place, and similar to the other times that personal items appeared, a disembodied voice calls out a name: Alou.

[ Feather Quill Pen ] A fountain pen made of exquisite steel, a tip sharp as a knife. The pen is attached to a brown and black feather. Next to the pen itself is a glass reservoir filled with a thick dark red substance. A note is attached to the gift that reads "The Pen is mightier than any sword or scalpel. Remember your hubris. - Louisa <3"

Alou smiles fondly– no, proudly– at her. Perhaps he got the wrong message from Louisa’s note, refusing to let go of his hubris rather than keep it in check.

“Thank you for all of your efforts. It was touching, to see you all working so hard to run all the mazes we made for you. Ah– did you really think we were letting you run around unsupervised, unsupervised? No, we were watching the whole time. Or, Micah was, rather.”

Alou waggles the fingertips of one wing at Micah perched on the toadstool.

“I have to give credit where credit is due– this all would have been impossible without Micah. A snake like him is one-in-a-million. All the strings he pulled to sow the ‘information’ among you with his worms, the hard work he did to stage the ‘escape attempts’ with the dead--”

He smiles serenely at Raoul.

“I’m grateful to you for inviting me along, by the way. Unfortunate that you thought you’d found your way out when you stumbled across our soul vault. You can’t even get in there without me, did you know?”

He twists a hand and more strings resolve into images of the adventure. Spaces similar to the areas you explored when investigating for this sham of a trial come into view– Minami doing a dangerous maneuver off the edge of a balcony to enter the lounge which had mysteriously ‘manifested’ for the dead, Mirai and Raoul coaxing imps backstage along their route, Fumiko cooing at and cuddling a cerberus, the gates to the vault that the dead had discovered…

“It must have been a surprise to those of you who snuck off to go back only to encounter Fumiko waiting at the vault holding your souls. You really thought that we didn’t notice when you’d all ‘wandered off’ before this trial…!”

He grins victoriously at the demons who had re-appeared partway through– eyes lingering on the bloodied and beaten Olwin and Hisashi.

“My condolences, that we can’t give you your souls back. But the puppy was worth it, wasn’t it? You should be grateful to Micah for that too– all the little animal friends he kept trying to push your way… he really cares for you, you know?”

Another twist of his hands, and the images among the strings flicker and vanish again.

“I wish you could see how happy he was when he pitched this challenge. You could be happy, too. Micah understands– the helplessness and the inevitability… It can be comforting. It can even be fun! You’ll see.”

Alou sighs softly.

“Eventually. Well, I know you won’t say it, so I will. Thank you again, Micah. This just goes to show how rewarding it can be, when you put your trust and your love in all the right places.”

He claps his hands together, strings shivering again with the sound.

“Before we dismiss you, I have the honor of announcing the next motive: The next killer gets to go back to the land of the living with their memory of Hellmouth Manor erased, and choose one living person to go with them. Even if they fail to avoid execution, their chosen plus one still gets to go.”

You can see it in the hunger in his eyes. Even if he denies it, he already enjoys the labors of his love– his great design.

“I’m eager to find out if knowing everything makes playing the game better, or worse.”

[autisticnightfury]

— The Godly Hand —

made using post it notes, sketch book paper, washi tape, glue, double sided tape, markers, fountain pens, letter stamps with black ink, lightly singed. glued and taped into my bullet journal

favorite details under the cut!

very proud of the hands

the reflection and layers and texture around his head

i cut out certain things with a scalpel and forgetfully did it on top of the page, which added a nice texture

[terakopian]

Essentials for a client meeting and recce in the City Of London, to plan a series of photographic shoots; 1) Lumix G9 with one of my favourite all time lenses; a Leica DG 10-25mm f1.7 Vario-Summilux 2) Traveler’s Notebook 3) A good fountain pen; my Visconti Opera Master Silver Dust #visconti #viscontioperamaster #viscontioperamastersilverdust #travelersnotebook #lumix #lumixg9 #m43 #leicadg #leicadg1025 #photographeratwork #todaysoffice #planning #shootplanning #fountainpen #cityoflondon #thegherkin @visconti_italy @viscontiusa @viscontipen @travelers_company @lumix @lumixuk @lumixjapan @lumix_de @lumixusa @lumix_fotografia @lumix_france @eddycam_international @eddycam_deutschland #eddycam (at The Scalpel) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ckf4ug_jW1O/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[mothershipresidencies]

Lucy Steggals

Deer Moon

In the absence of a corkscrew I have just opened the last bottle of wine bought for the burning with a black screw and a pair of acid yellow pliers.

They are the same pliers I use to extract scalpel blades from the holder when they are blunt. Deer Moon the moment is now. I have changed my screen saver to the only image I have of you looking at me. I have abandoned the blood pen and I am writing to you on a digital white blank page. When I was nearer you, I made a small cuttlefish ship from all the white things I found. For sails it had a feather and a head phone port from an iPhone.

I think I am going to open the grey book that I never got to the middle of. I am going to begin at the end. Holding it closed is the perfect egg-shaped stone my Mum found on the beach that is clothed in yellowing layers. They tell you not to sit on the rocks there now because those faces are dangerous, they crumble and kill.

 17th

I buried some of the ash at the base of the oak tree and put the rest down the compost loo to dispel odors. I never did see an albino deer but after I left when I got to where I was going, I saw for the first time a jet-black squirrel.

 16th

I am digging a shallow grave with a round silver spoon borrowed from the Mothership. It’s a sunny spot, up high. However hard I bend and twist I can’t see the man, only soft white chalk curves. I am too close to him. At the base of the hill in the Abbey I balanced a feather on the palest solitary blushed rose and breathed in deeply. I know people come here to conceive bit I am sure today that’s not relevant.

On the way here we went to a place where miniature people were scurrying about wounding trees and building beautiful bridges that go nowhere. A man with gold tooth offered us half a chocolate digestive and stopped us reversing into a ditch. My feet are black with ash and face is warm from the suns gaze. I am happy in this corner between the wall and the window watching the acorn rain. In the graveyard a bush swallowed me. I held tightly to a spindly twig, gently so as not to break it.

The table in front of me has almost nothing man made on it apart from a camera a phone and an armless Kewpie with seaweed for arms. Cuttle fish ships sail across it.

No more dead dust. I am stroking my body with oiled stones from the sea. We walked barefoot on the beach and spun seaweed. Sometime soon I will fill a bath with it and just float. I am laden with pebbles and drift wood but I am going to hold what happened here lightly like a cloud of tiny spiders. If you look hard enough at the rock face the sky looks more solid than the land.

 15th

Yesterday people came with stories of other people. The parents who moved house without telling their children and fitted the new house out exactly like the old one. The man who had a motorcycle accident and reclaimed himself using his old shirts as an anchor. A collective tale of unwanted dolls from faraway places in plastic tube coffins. Together we got lost and sank onto a bog. We ate a thousand small fish, perfect in death, that had jumped out of the sea with curry, cake and a Turkish type of delight from Greece. After dinner we burnt the pleated moon under a full harvest moon, roasted a single marshmallow and breathed in frankincense and myrrh. 

 14th

Today I passed through the glass and deliberately had my coffee, a blood grapefruit not more than three meters from where I had it yesterday. I am facing the oak tree dead on. If I lean one way I can see the solitary swing, lean the other and through the leaves are three others. Two forwards and backwards and a perch with rings.

 The single swing is hung from the sturdiest branch, it spins in a chaotic unbalanced, skin chaffing way. I have been looking at it for days. All four rely on the oak tree, I think we are going to be friends for a long time. It like me is not perfect it is scarred and gnarled in parts. I wonder if this is a mast year the year a tree produces more acorns than the deer and squirrels can eat? I have finished and hung my pleated ring in the window. Through that which is seen I filmed myself swinging.

 Later I felt you standing there in the clearing did you come to say goodbye. 

 13th

Hovering in the window are two hole and one-half blank pages.  One is a doorway that reflects the sky back to me. I have started pleating the paper from 1996 ‘I swear to take a man I love to the William Morris room’ heading backwards to 1993 ‘I am a pimple on the clear complexion of the earth’ It feels less like destroying more like mending. Together they went to Dorchester to by wax thread and needles. We met by the sea and ate overpriced fish. The dog was sick under the chair. The ink is dry and I have lost my thread let’s start again.

 I have paper now also scissors and a stone. paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors, scissors cut paper do you need all there or just two of the same? You have not appeared. I am going to thread the wax string into the sail needle and see what happens.  

 12th

Frank, Dickon, Nick, Simon one and two, Benji, Luke, Ben, Rob…Fold, Fold, Fold… ‘I hate me’

I have dismantled 1994- I think I might turn it all into a giant clown’s ruff, for Lucky. 

They predicted I would marry but would have many other men in the kitchen making breakfast. I would be hippyish, would hate my kids and make them wear clothes from Oxfam. I would cut out butterflies and hang them from the ceiling, wear weird cloths and leave all the windows open. I am scared the blank pages will steal my words. To late I have cut the cord shall I rearrange, edit extract or just eat it?

 There is a pile for travel, Nepal, Cherbourg; one for small notes from the school board; a permit for treks of enchantment; a reference to a burnt eyelid; letters from Belgium,; my first pill packet; a paperclip; old photographs; cards from dead people; tattoos to be applied at the same time by friends across the channel and poems and quotes from Chaplin and Rossetti.

 A small dent has appeared on my third finger sort of like an old bee sting with a worn-out center. I am writing this a studio where other people’s archives are hiding, trapped in liminal space.  I am afraid of blankness. It hovers, lurks waits to punch, suffocates.  It’s a full moon on Saturday. Burning rituals have happened here before.  Ash can feed fallow ground. Can it be a fond farewell?

The lady with the grey dog wouldn’t burn here diaries. She keeps them for memory and to give to her daughter to read so she understands her… but she only has sons. My brother stopped by for tea today.

 A red admiral butterfly flew in earlier. She said it might be her mother. The moon and the Deer are here to help me.

 11th

I am afraid of you blank page because of the old ones. Left-handed people should not use fountain pens. The sky is hammering on the corrugated plastic roof it wants to be heard. I am sitting in a corner outside is a perfect clearing with a single swing. This morning I felt something I turned and caught a flash of the rear end of a deer. There were more, two are dappled with multiple moons.  I arrived with a box of supplies packed by my mum inside it she had put an old embroidery hoop and an image of a small girl holding a hula hope int a spinning glass frame. It’s on the table if you spin it catches the evening sun and turns the room into a carousel. I also bought the Dorset diaries 15-18 1993-1996 from the side all you see is the edge. Diaries are not tidy things, stuff slips out. ‘We don’t grow up we just layer’. I am going to fold the page back make the first of many creases. Why do we keep them? unhealed trauma someone said recently. I think I just saw an albino deer, a sign of divinity, transformation and soul purification. I stare out the window longing for it to return. I am both doe and fawn being chased by a blank white page. My hand is bloodied now there is no turning back. I can slay with a pen. Stay on the deer tracks. If there is a point on a circle you can get to it two ways.  At home in a glass dome I have a broken pulled glass fawn with an old clay pipe for a leg. Almost I stand it up holding my breath as I replace the lid so it doesn’t fall. Another thing on the table here is a terracotta faceless woman hunched over in a headscarf and shawl. I made her at the same time as the diaries. She is the sister of another figure bent almost double. I don’t know if she still exists? If so she is in the blue mountains near indigo valley. She has travelled further than me. It’s dusk the deer have returned. I have switched out the lights and am laying, waiting. I no longer fear blank pages because I am already wrapped. I have cut my eyes on thorns and fallen down banks in bad shoes. I turned my coat to amour but now it is returning to fur. I am still wary of predators but am looking across at a wide-open space near running water with a swing where deer’s come often to graze.

  Deer Moon meeting you was a gentle joy and I miss you.

I must order more red ink.

Much love

Lucy

[ecotone99]

[RF] Dear Brother

WARNING! THIS SHORT STORY CONTAINS FOUL LANGUAGE AND SOME SCENES THAT THE READER MAY FIND DISTURBING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

[Author's Note] This was a short story I wrote when I was a junior in high school. Looking back, I love it, mistakes and all. It was an assignment given, and my teacher said I had made her cry, and she had given me full points. It's currently in development of an adaptation into a short film with the help of my friend's studio. I hope you enjoy!

1.

The smell of the preservative burned his nostrils, the dank, musty smell of the fetal pig made Andrew’s stomach churn, and separating the intestines only made it feel like his breakfast was beginning to crawl up his esophagus. The sweat rolling down his brow only intensified as he continued to separate the intestines, and occasionally cut the mesentery with the fine edge of a scalpel. Scat from the intestines would pour out onto his plastic apron, and he’d wipe it off with the backside of his glove and onto a paper towel. “Hey Raye!” a thunderous voice shouted from a few feet behind Andrew. Andrew turned, only to be hit with a mass of intestines, sending blood and scat in seemingly every direction. Andrew’s stomach churned as the stinging smell of the preservatives, scat, and blood hit the chemoreceptors in his nose, and his breakfast began to rapidly travel up his esophagus, and through his pharynx, and the mass of food and bile was expelled from his mouth, and poured all over the mass of intestines and all over his Khakis. As a wave of sickness began to spread like wildfire in the classroom, the teacher ran over to young Andrew Raye, and escorted him to the nurses office. As he was leaving the classroom, he noticed that Wilson Sidd, the kid who had continued to bully him throughout his years in elementary and middle school, and throughout his freshman year in high school, gave him a sly smile. Andrew, now sitting in the nurse's office drinking water and recalling the previous events to himself, the school nurse came in with his belongings, along with a change of clothes from his P.E. locker, which smelled of sweat and grime. In silence, the nurse gave him his clothes, and he walked into the restroom, where he changed out of his outfit, which was now covered in blood, vomit, and pig scat. He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering how someone could bully an innocent, introverted boy such as himself. He looked at his fine, medium length brown hair, his small, weak, wimpy frame, and his semi-defined baby-face. He stared at the reflection of his own, piercing blue eyes, eyes which he got from his mother, and admired them. He saw himself as cute and handsome, but in a humble way rather than a narcissistic way, unlike Sidd. As he walked out in his black shorts with the Harlem High emblem printed on the bottom right leg, as well as on his grey t-shirt with mint green dye, he grabbed his stuff and asked the nurse if he could leave. “Are you still feeling sick? We can call your parents, and we can get you home if you’re still sick.” “No thanks, I think it was just the intestines from the fetal pig, it was really gross. But I really do appreciate the offer, I think I’ll be okay.” He smiled at the nurse. “Okay then, well I’ll just write you a note so you can get back to class, yes?” “Of course.”

2. Andrew, note in hand, walked out of the nurses office, with his photodegraded Jansport backpack, he made his way toward his next class, knowing that the bell would ring any second now. As the bell rung, he galloped faster and faster toward his Social Studies class. He was suddenly shoved forward, and fell in the crowded hallway, and as he was getting up, he had his left hand stomped on twice, leading to the constant, throbbing pain that continued to haunt him throughout the rest of the school day. As he entered the classroom 130-B, he put in his airpods, and pulled out his phone. He opened up spotify and began to stream Nujabes. The peaceful sound of lo-fi hip hop began to flow through his ears, and soon after, the soothing, emotional rapping of the artist Shing02 began to produce a warm wave of happiness and calmness. As he sat down in his seat, he began to produce a notebook and a pen from his bag. As he opened the nearly pageless spiral notebook to an empty page, he began to write in his messy cursive.

Dear Brother, How are you? I know it has been awhile since we talked, but I just wanted to check up on you. I’ve really missed you, and could really use your advice right now. I’ll probably just deal with it, I know you’ve been busy. I hope you are doing well, Momma and I miss you terribly, and we hope to hear from you soon. Your Favorite Brother, Andrew Oliver Raye As the words from his mind flowed through his hand, into the pen, and into the smooth, thick ink from the nib of his fountain pen, he finished his letter to his Brother, Oliver. When his mind began to fade into reality, and out of his own world, he quickly became aware of his teacher, Mr. Williams, was staring at his profile, with a passive aggressive look. “Mr. Raye, do you know why you’re failing this course?” He aggressively whispered. “No, sir.” Andrew replied, straight-faced. “It’s probably because instead of doing your work, you’re out playing around with girls and writing them sappy love letters. How about you put that away, that way you can work on what you need to, putting you on the path to actually graduating High School?” “Yes sir.” As Mr. Williams walked away, the voice in Andrew’s head spoke his feelings. “Officious little prick.”

3. Andrew found himself sitting alone underneath the shade of a big tree on this seemingly awful spring day during his lunch break. After the events of not only getting bullied by his peers, but his instructors as well, the neurons in his brain fired, bursts of electricity shot rapidly through his head, like a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier. His mind was processing the previous events, and the other events preceding them. He sat there, suffocating in his own isolation, while trying to keep calm and convince himself that everything would turn out alright. He hated where he was at in his life. He missed his brother terribly, and thought about him everyday, even though he knew that he would be coming back. His only true friend, gone, like a leaf in the wind, carried away. He still had his mother, but after his brother had left, their relationship had become distant. The same could be said about his group of friends, although due to the underlying drama within his friend group, his choice to leave didn’t phase him much. As Andrew sat, peacefully eating his apple and drinking his water from his HydroFlask, he noticed someone walking toward him. A sense of animosity overcame him, almost as if he was cringing watching him with his lumbering stride. “Andrew, we need to talk.” “Hi Casey.” Andrew responded dryly. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” “What do you care?” “Because I’m your friend.” “I’ve just been busy.” “No you haven’t, why aren’t you returning my calls?” “I just don’t wanna talk to anybody right now.” “Listen dude, I’m your best friend—” “I’m sorry, when the fuck did you care?” “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you serious right now? I’ve been your best friend since the 3rd grade, and now one day after a ‘fun’ vacation you just stop talking to me? You cut off the entire friend group, led on Natalie and shat on everyone else, and your excuse is that you just dont wanna talk?” “I can do whatever I want.” “Is this a joke to you? Do you just find fun in hurting the feelings of other people? Do you know the kind of shit I go through? Who the hell am I supposed to talk to? I’ve never met anybody in this world that actually gives a shit about me until I finally had the courage to tell someone, and that person is you, and you’ve helped me every single time I asked for it, and now when you’re in trouble you cut everyone off? What kind of sense does that make?” “Can you just shut the fuck up? Leave me alone, I don’t wanna talk to you.” “Get off your ass and come down here.” “Why?” “Because I wanna have a face to face conversation where I don’t have to look up at you and feel like--” “No, leave me alone Casey.” “Andrew seriously come down here now.” “You’re not the boss of me, I can do whatever I want.” Casey felt the rage slowly building throughout the conversation, and anger has continued to gradually speed up, like bubbles from a bottle of champagne. Now the bubbles had made their way to the backside of the cork. Casey began to lose control, and now the anger began to physically manifest itself in the form of his fists clenched together, making his knuckles white, and the veins in his neck and forehead beginning to protrude through his skin. Without thinking, fueled by his unrelenting anger, he began to walk up the grassy hill toward an unsuspecting Andrew, who went back down to thinking and eating his apple. Mindlessly, he grabbed Andrew and pulled him up to his feet by his shirt.

Andrew dropped his apple from his right hand and out of pure instinct, he clenched his small boney hand into a fist, and swung as hard as he could at Casey, making him lose his grasp and drop Andrew. Before Casey could return the favor, another student came up to them and separated them, not seeing Andrew’s previous swing and thinking that they were about to get in a physical altercation.

“What the hell are you guys doing? Quit trying to fight each other and piss off!”

Casey stormed off as the other student finished his lecture, and Andrew heard the sharp piercing bell go off as his peers left his side. He grabbed his stuff and packed up, and continued onto his next class.

4. Andrew’s mind began to race as he was processing the situation, he was scared, no beyond scared. Andrew was terrified. He had simply been wandering down the street, and he had looked up from his phone, only to see Wilson Sidd standing against the brick wall of a Harlem apartment. He tried to look down at the ground as he walked past, but it failed to trick Sidd. Andrew felt a strong yank from the back of his backpack, and he fell to the ground like a brick. After trying to get up, he was met with a large, matte black boot forcing him down to the ground and grinding into his chest. “Hey you little faggot!” Sidd exclaimed, his hyena-like grin stretching across his face into a disturbing expression. His face and his shaggy brown hair had struck fear into Andrew ever since he was a kid. Andrew always thought he looked like a hyena with his evil smile and his large ears, skinny face, and beady eyes. His slim, muscular build made him tower over Andrew, and his strength had always been the scariest part of him, especially if you were on the receiving end, as Andrew had been in his years in elementary and middle school. As Sidd’s boot continued to put pressure on his sternum, saliva and mucus made its way forcefully onto Andrew’s face from Sidd’s mouth. The pain and pressure from Sidd’s boot continued to increase, and Andrew began to scream. Suddenly, a deep, masculine voice yelled at Sidd from a few feet away. “HEY KID! PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE! GET THE HELL OFF HIM!” the man screamed angrily at Sidd. Sidd looked down at Andrew, and spat on him one last time as he fled the scene. Andrew began to get up and wipe the spit off of his face, and as he was doing so, his bones groaned in protest. “You alright kid?” The samaritan asked. “Yeah, just a little shaken.” “You gotta learn how to fight, someone might not be there next time, go to the gym and show him who’s boss.” “Thanks man, I really appreciate it.” Andrew shook the man’s hand, and the two departed. 5. Andrew painfully made his way toward the Douglas Park Apartment building, and walked in, taking the elevator to the 3rd floor. He made his way down the hall, and he found apartment 308. He clumsily fumbled the keys from his bag, and the pain in both his hand and sternum radiated through his body as he tried to enter. He unlocked the door, and threw his bag on the floor. The apartment was messy with trash and clothes. Pictures of his athletic father and brother, David Jesse Raye, and Oliver David Raye, were hanging all over the walls. He walked over to his cluttered living room, and passed out on the couch. Andrew was awoken by his mother, telling him to get ready. The woman was in her late 40’s, her curly brown hair had streaks of grey, and the wrinkles on her face weren’t quite pronounced, but very much noticeable. Andrew noticed she had been wearing a black dress and heels, along with a black overcoat. “Mom, where are we going?” Andrew asked, sleepily. “Trinity.” She responded, in a monotone manner. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute Ma.” Andrew made his way to his small, cramped room down the hall of his apartment, and he went to his desk. In the bottom drawer, he grabbed a mass of letters, about 300 to be exact, which were all held together in a bundle with the help of a large rubber band. Andrew undressed from his P.E. Uniform, and he threw on a wrinkled black dress shirt, and slacks, along with a pair of black dress shoes. He then grabbed his black overcoat and black trilby. He returned to his front door where his mother was waiting for him in silence. Andrew stared at the the names engraved into the marble in the mausoleum. Pain rushed through his system, and tears began to well up at the corner of his eyes. The names, on top of each other, read; David Jesse Raye - August 23, 1972-September 30, 2016 and Oliver David Raye - June 22, 1992-May 12, 2018

Andrew placed the bundle of letters in the steel vase attached to the marble plate, and he noticed that the most recent letter on top read, 05/13/19. One year, he thought to himself. His mind couldn’t help it and it took him back to that night. Andrew had been hacking up a nasty case of influenza in his bedroom and his brother was looking for some cold medicine. After informing Andrew that there wasn’t any, Andrew asked Oliver if he could go down to the convenience store and buy some, and initially Oliver refused, he said it was too late. But Andrew begged him to, and he eventually gave in. Oliver made his way out of the apartment, and later, Andrew awoke to police knocking at his door. They had explained that the store that Oliver went to was robbed, and the cashier, Oliver, and another civilian were shot. Oliver and the Cashier were killed instantly. Tears began to well up in Andrew’s eyes, and he was transported by his thoughts from the past back to the present. What am I doing? His mind spoke to him as he stood there in silent emotional pain. Why am I here? Why is this happening? What is wrong with me? Was it really my fault? Yes… it's all your fault. It’s your fault that Oliver is dead. It’s all your fault. His mind was arguing with itself, and suddenly, a rush of calm went over hm. He stopped crying. Although his mind was still enveloped in darkness, he wasn’t panicking. A dark thought rushed into his head like a car going 90 down the highway. Andrew, in terrifying silence, walked calmly and swiftly back to his Mom’s car and waited for her.

6. After a car ride of silence, Andrew made his way home with his mother. His mother had made his favorite dinner meal to try and cheer him up after their visit to the cemetery. As he and his mother ate at the dinner table, it seemed as though all of Harlem was silent in mourning with the two Rayes. As the two both finished their dinner, they departed to their separate rooms. Andrew laid down on his bed and began to cry. The empty walls seemed to scream at him, and the silence in all of Harlem pushed him closer to what seemed like his impending doom. Andrew cried and cried, until his tear glands lacked the ability to produce tears. After he had nothing left to cry, the darkness that had been circling his mind since his cemetery visit swooped in. Andrew’s hands found their way into his desk drawer. He fished around and found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pocket knife with a red handle, and a black textured rubber grip in the center of each red plastic slate. With a swift flick of his wrist, the knife opened, and the razor sharp blade gleamed with the light of his beautiful sunset showing through his window. Andrew’s thumb ran itself along the fine edge of the blade, and it cut through his thumb, and blood began to slowly drip down his hand and onto his wood floor. His mind spoke softly to itself. Satisfying… it said. Do it. No. Do it. Don’t. Do it. Andrew please... Do it. It wasn’t your fault Andrew. It is your fault. It was. Yes. Do it. I’m gonna do it Yes… Andrew don’t. Mom needs you, your friends need you! Put the knife down. No. Don’t listen to it. It’s better off this way. Andrew quit it! None of us blame you! Remember how much we loved you! Damn it Andrew! Don’t listen to it! ANDREW PUT IT DOWN! YOU’RE WORTHLESS! NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOU! THAT’S A LOAD OF BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT ANDREW!! DO IT! DO IT YOU LITTLE FAGGOT! ANDREW DON’T! PUT IT DOWN, I NEED YOU TO REMEMBER! DO IT ALREADY!!! ANDREW REMEMBER WHAT I SAID TO YOU ON YOUR FIRST DAY!

Andrew’s mind silenced itself, and he recalled a distant memory. Andrew remembered being driven to the front of Democracy Prep Charter Middle School in East Harlem. After a car ride filled with songs from Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly, he and Oliver had finally arrived. “Alright bud, this is where you get off.” He said in his usual, happy tone. “But what if I get beat up again?” “Listen, you need to fight back.” “But mom said--” “Forget what Mom said. If you don’t do anything to shut it down, its gonna keep happening.” “I guess…” “Listen, life has a funny way of doing things. There will be times when life throws crap at’cha. In those times, you have to fight for what you need. I love ya bro, I gotta leave, tell me how it goes when you get home, yeah?” “Yeah, for sure. Thanks bro.” And with a quick fist bump, Oliver had drove away in his 2002 Corolla. Andrew was brought back from his mind and into reality, and he found himself holding the knife on his wrists, ready to cut swiftly upward to end his own life. Andrew out of pure shock dropped the knife and began to cry.

7. Andrew woke up to the painful sound of his alarm the next morning, and began to get ready for the day. As Andrew walked out of his apartment with his coffee, the words of his brother echoed through his mind. You have to fight for what you need. As Andrew recalled the previous events to himself, he noticed a kid in a black hoodie with a familiar, Hyena like grin. Sidd hit his travel mug upward, splashing hot coffee onto Andrew face, making him scream. Andrew tried to wipe off the remnants of the coffee from his face when he received a bony fist to the gut. Andrew hurled over, and fell to his knees. “Hello again, faggot.” Sidd’s grin stretched across his face like a madman. “F-fu-huck y-you S-Sidd.” Andrew responded in a shaky voice. “What did you just say to me?” “You heard me… faggot…” Andrew grinned for a moment, but it was wiped clean off his face when a kick from Sidd sent him rolling on the sidewalk. Andrew’s nose began to bleed, and he got up. You have to fight, he thought. Okay! Andrew clenched his fists, and as Sidd was approaching to strike him again, Andrew hit him as hard as he could right in the jaw. Sidd staggered back, and grew even angrier as he charged at Andrew. He swung and missed, and Andrew countered with a knee to the gut. Out of instinct, Sidd elbowed him and as Andrew staggered, he kneed him in the gut, and as he hurled over, punched him in the jaw, sending his head looking straight up. Andrew fell on the ground unconscious, and Sidd continued to pummel him.

8. Andrew awoke in the hospital, pain surged from all over his body periodically like a wave. He realized that the painkillers he was on were wearing off, and he called the nurse. After drifting in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to find his way back into reality. He sat up in his hospital bed and saw his mother. His mother began to cry, and Andrew comforted her in his arms. Andrew had to stay in the hospital for three days. Sidd had broken his nose, left arm, and a false rib. Andrew later found out that Sidd had been spotted by a police officer, and had been arrested. As Andrew sat alone in his room thinking of his victory, a girl walked in. Andrew became confused. This wasn’t his nurse, or anyone he knew, it was just some random girl. “Hey…?” “Hi. My name’s Emily! My mom is in the room across the hall, and she told me what happened with you. She said you don’t get many visitors, so I thought maybe I’d say hi, since she also told me we were around the same age.” A pleasant smile came across her face. “Thanks, that means a lot! I don’t have many friends, so it's good to meet a new person! I’m Andrew.” “Hi Andrew!” Andrew and Emily continued to talk through his hospital stay. Everyday she went to go see both her mother and Andrew. Andrew felt at peace. He had finally gotten what he had so desperately needed; a friend. After a few months, they began dating. Andrew thought about marrying her often. I wonder who I would have as my best man… Oliver came into Andrew’s mind. A wave of depression rushed over him. Andrew had stopped writing the letters, and hasn’t visited his final resting place in almost a year.He began to recall the events leading up to meeting Emily, and he remembered his flashback. He remembered the voices. At the time he had never pieced it together why he was stopping himself, but he now realized that it wasn’t his voice that was battling the suicidal thoughts.

Andrew realised that the voice belonged to Oliver David Raye.

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[deadinsidedylan-blog]

Kuru Ink Paintings

I have done two paintings with Ink, as an attempt to venture out of my comfort zone and try to use different mediums. I feel as if this was very successful as it helped me to develop as an artist. I also used fountain pens, scalpels,  ice lolly sticks and gift cards to paint with. i feel as if this was successful and I wish I would have done more of these paintings.