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yikesharringrove · 3 years

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Show Pony

Chapter 4: Summertime

Read on ao3

“See and this is my girl Patsy. She’s the smallest of the three, but she’s strong as all get out.”

Steve gestured to the horse, brushing his hand down her long nose. She was a beautiful dark brown, her coat sleek and obviously well-kept. Steve said he washed and brushed his horses each night, keeping them free of flies and dirt.

Steve’s three horses were together in the little paddock, grazing on the sparse grass. There was a large oil drum filled with water in the paddock for them, and a trough filled with hay and horse feed.

Steve had brought a bag with them out to the paddock, and he whistled through his teeth, all three horses gathering around him at the fence. June used her nose to bump Steve on the side of the head.

He smiled at her, one a’ those real sunshiney ones he had, and kissed her between the eyes.

He dug through the bag, pulling out a few apples, a pocket knife, and a Tupperware container filled with various pills.

Billy simply watched as he cut one of the apples in half, digging out small pockets in the meat of the apple and meticulously inserting the pills. He repeated the exact same procedure with the other half of the apple and offered the first half to June.

She crunched it happily, the second half of the apple going to Loretta, a beautiful dappled horse with a dark-colored nose.

Each horse got three apple halves with the correct combination of pills.

“They each get supplements twice a day. We get the hay locally every place we stop, and depending on where the hay is grown, it can lack nutrition they need. Plus, traveling horses can get digestive problems from working hard and not having a lot of grazing opportunities. I wanna keep my girls healthy, you know?”

Loretta had wandered away after Steve set the bag on the ground, huffing as she realized apple time was over. June stayed with Steve, softly knocking her nose into his head and shoulder, making Steve laugh brightly and pet her neck.

Patsy stayed in front of Billy, and he felt like she could see into his fucking soul. Her brown eyes were huge as she appraised him, almost as if she was trying to suss out if he was good enough for her Steve.

“You can pet her, if you like. All my girls have been raised with us since they were foals, so they’re real touchy. Loretta pretends she’s too cool for it.” Loretta, as if hearing Steve say her name, gave another huff from the other side of the paddock. “Yeah! I’m talkin’ ‘bout you, Letty. We all know you’re a softy!” Steve grinned at Billy after calling out towards her, like they were sharing a joke.

Billy couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from pulling up.

He smiled a lot around Steve.

He looked back towards Patsy and mimicked the way Steve pet June, keeping his hands gentle and soft as he brushed down the length of her nose.

Her hair was so soft, and she felt like warm velvet underneath his hand.

“I’ve never been this close to a horse before,” Billy said softly, not taking his eyes off Patsy and the way his hands brushed down her strong neck.

“I love horses. Always have.” Steve had wrapped his arms around June’s thick neck, his cheek smushed to her as he looked at Billy. It was cute. Everything Steve did was cute. “Not to sound like a horse girl in a Lifetime movie, but they’re just so great. Sometimes it seems like they know everything.”

“Yeah, they’re real human.” Billy thinks it was all in the eyes. The huge, deep brown eyes.

Billy had really come to appreciate brown eyes in the last two weeks.

“June was born when I was nearly six. I’ve been riding her since I was seven or so. There weren’t a lot of kids around so she was kinda my best friend. Which. Sounds totally lame.” Steve’s cheeks went pink, and he hugged June tighter.

“How long have you had the others?”

“I’ve had Patsy for seven years. Loretta’s the newest. I just started training her for the event last summer, although I’ve had her for a while. Horses are considered fully grown when they’re five, so we don’t make them do events before then. It can be bad for their backs if you start riding them too young.” Steve absentmindedly stroked down June’s neck. “I try to keep my girls healthy and safe. If you really take care of them, they can live to be about forty, although they shouldn’t do rodeo events past fifteen-ish.”

Billy did quick math in his head.

“So, what do you think you’ll do with June when she retires?”

Steve looked out past June over to Loretta when she was trotting about the paddock.

“I always kinda had this dream. Like when I get tired of all this, of opening a ranch for old rodeo horses. Ones that are too old or sick to do events. I would take care of them and give them good food and exercise and stuff so they could have a happy retirement. Some rodeo horses are sold to people for, like, personal riding use, but they’re event trained, and usually aren’t great for, like, leisure riding, and people get mad. So, yeah. Retirement village for horses.” He buried his face into June’s neck, and Billy could see the tips of his ears were flaming in embarrassment.

“I think that’s sweet.” He really did. “Hell, you said a well taken care of horse can live for twenty years past retirement, might as well treat ‘em right.”

Steve pulled his face out of June’s neck and beamed at Billy.

Billy’s hand trembled slightly and stuttered over Patsy’s neck.

“I take each girl out for some exercise every day, you wanna help me? We can just walk ‘em.” He looked so hopeful, like all he really wanted was for Billy to hang out with his horses for the rest of the day.

And lucky for him, Billy had already called out of work for the evening, and didn’t tell his dad about it.

“Let’s do it.”

Billy stood back as Steve got June ready, smoothly slipping a halter over her face, attaching a soft rope lead to the ring on the left side of her nose.

He opened the paddock, raising one hand towards Patsy to keep her where she stood while he gently led June out, wrapping the rope lead once around his hand and holding it tightly.

Billy walked next to Steve, June on Steve’s other side as they began making their way to the edge of the fairgrounds, passing the large spread of campers and R.V.s.

The fairground was out in the boonies, outside of the San Diego city limits, and there was a significant amount of sprawling flatlands and hills, covered in emerald grass.

June trotted happily along, tossing her head and bumping into Steve’s shoulder, making him giggle and throw Billy gleeful looks at her behavior.

“Tell me something,” Steve said as they began moving downhill, guiding June on a long walk around the area.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something about you. Something I don’t know.”

Billy cast around in his brain.

There’s a lot Steve didn’t know about him.

And for good reason, too.

He didn’t want Steve to know about that shit.

About the way his father hates him for no other reason than who he is.

The way his mother only calls him twice a year and posts on Facebook every other day about her new husband and their twin toddlers and their perfect life in Oregon.

“When I was, like, eight or nine, I watched Almost Famous, and I just fucking loved everything about it. It made me wanna be in a band so bad. I mean, they’re like a family, all going on tour. It’s so idyllic to me. That’s, like, my retirement horse dream. Make it in a band. We don’t gotta be that famous, or anything, just, like, make it .”

Steve gave him one of those soft smiles of his, and slipped his hand so naturally into Billy’s.

“I’ve never seen that movie.”

Billy gasped dramatically, swinging their hands between them.

“Oh, Stevie, we gotta see it. I don’t even care, I’m gonna make you fuckin’ love it. You’re just like Penny Lane, actually. Kind of a wanderer. Free spirit.”

Steve’s eyes were bright, and they looked gold in the late afternoon sun.

“Is that your favorite movie? Almost Famous ?”

“Yeah. Probably.” It definitely was, but he could let himself geek out over it later. He’s resolved to make Steve watch it with him, and he could be a little lame nerd kid over it then. “What’s your favorite movie? And if you say Black Beauty, I’m running away from you.”

Steve looked at him sheepishly.

“It’s not Black Beauty, but, I mean, it’s Spirit.”

“That animated one?” Billy thinks he’s seen it once or twice when he was a kid. He remembers his dad calling it propaganda.

“Yeah. I mean, I just thought it was really beautifully done. It’s kinda hypocritical, since it’s about, like, freedom and stuff, and a rodeo is totally the opposite of that, but. I don’t know. I just like it.”

“We’ll watch that one, too, then. Favorite movie double feature.”

“I would like that,” Steve said softly, taking his gaze from Billy back over to June. Steve never made much eye contact, and constantly dragged his sight somewhere else when he was embarrassed.

“Maybe I could come to your place. Hang out with you.”

Billy’s whole body went cold.

It was like the temperature had dropped forty degrees, freezing and shattering the perfect warm bubble around them. Like the soft winds stopped making the grass and sparse trees whisper in its wake. Like Billy was trapped in a freezing block of his own panic.

“No.”

Steve stopped in his tracks, and Billy clutched his hand to stop him from slipping it out of his grip.

“Sorry, I, that was really rude.” He stared at June’s front left hoof. “My dad. He doesn’t like. He hates that I. He’s a homophobe. If I-if he even thought that you, that we were, he would-”

“Hey, Bill, it’s okay. I’m, I understand.” Steve pulled their hands up to press them against his chest, brushing his thumb over Billy’s hand. “You don’t have to explain, if you don’t want. I’m sorry for suggesting it.”

“You didn’t know,” Billy said gruffly.

“And I’m not upset. Promise.”

Billy chanced a look up at Steve’s face.

He was giving him a tiny smile, his chin tilted slightly down to give Billy the most sincere look he could possibly manage with those big earnest horse eyes of his.

Billy leaned forward, pressing the softest of little kisses to that tiny smile. It was the only way he could think to let Steve know he was alright. No hard feelings.

They kept walking June mostly in silence, bringing her on a big loop of the lush field.

“My dad doesn’t really like that I’m bi,” Steve spoke unprompted, but it was clear he meant it as a response to their last conversation. “He told me when I came out to him that I’m just young and trying to be rebellious and acting out sexually and I’ll settle down with a nice girl once I’ve gotten it out of my system. I got so mad. I was fourteen. I once heard him and my mom talking about therapy. Like, you know. Therapy .”

Conversion therapy.

Fuck.

“Did they ever go through with it?”

“Nah. My mom told him that was fucked up and that whatever’s going on with me will work itself out. Now we just don’t talk about it.”

“She kinda had your back, that’s pretty cool.”

Billy told his mom he liked guys about two months before she left. She just told him not to tell his dad.

“Yeah. Ignoring it is better than the alternative, I guess.”

Billy chewed on the inside of his cheek.

They were still holding hands, despite their palms getting sweaty from being pressed together in this heat.

It was kinda gross.

Billy never wanted to let go.

“I never even told my dad. He’s so clear about his feelings about. Stuff like that. He’s ex-military, and all that comes with it. Super conservative. Religious conservative, even. So he’s pretty much against everything.”

“So, that’s why you wanna move out so soon? Not to pry, or whatever.”

“Yeah. It sucks having to hide fundamental pieces of who you are from your family. The people that are supposed to love you, but instead tell you to change your shirt before you leave the house because you look like a queer.”

He left out the parts about the backhand slap and the much more aggressive wording that actually spelled out that interaction a few days ago.

Billy had left his house feeling all kindsa cut up and pissed off and fucked Steve as hard as he could on the small table in the airstream, making the whole trailer shake and creak, just barely covering the sounds of Steve’s moans and cries.

It was a good way to work out all that rage.

There was something nice about stickin’ it to his dad by stickin’ it in Steve.

They began the climb up the slight hill back to the paddock.

“I’m sorry, Bill. I know I don’t get it, but I’m just. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

He wasn’t sorry for his father’s behavior.

He was sorry for how his father has shaped him.

How sometimes he was selfish and angry and closed-off.

How he could get mean and snarl and attack before asking questions.

But most of all, he was sorry that he was scared.

Too scared to follow Steve to the ends of the Earth, like he was absolutely fuckin’ dying to. To live in these perfect few weeks together forever.

Too scared to let go of their time together. So terrified that when their moments are finished, he’ll miss this happiness and peace so much he’ll wither into nothing.

So terrified that this is the last time he’ll ever feel like this. Feel like there’s something good and worthwhile and beautiful inside of him.

So terrified that the rage will eat away at that beautiful thing until there’s nothing left.

Steve pulled his hands out of Billy’s when they reached the paddock, and he gave Billy a gentle smile, his eyes catching the sun in a way that made every warm summer afternoon wiggle its way into Billy’s heart. The cascade of fearful thoughts stopped in Billy’s brain, and he let himself watch as Steve pet June softly, removing her halter when she was safely in the paddock once again.

Steve placed a different one on Loretta, bringing her out of the paddock next.

Loretta kept them walking a little faster, kicking her hooves up and making Billy laugh in the way she seemed to prance through the grass.

She took off in a gallop, Steve jogging along next to her, the lead wrapped once around his hand again, and Billy could hear his laughter on the summer air.

Loretta was full of energy, whinnying and braying all the time as she and Steve looped around the soft grasses.

Billy cut up the hill, moving closer towards the fairgrounds and taking a seat on the ground. He crossed his legs in front of him, leaning to rest his elbows on his thighs, propping his chin up with his hand.

The grass was impossibly soft underneath him, and Steve was smiling so wide, pretending to swing dance with Loretta, using the lead as if it was the arm of his partner, spinning himself underneath it.

There was a fat bumblebee buzzing around near Billy’s knee, landing on the tiny wildflowers sprinkled in the grass, wiggling itself in the pollen.

It was fucking.

Idyllic.

Like something from one a’ those horse girl movies Steve no doubt loved more than anything.

The sun was moving slowly through the sky.

He could just barely hear the announcer’s voice, echoing from the speakers in the event arena.

And he wished, for some time, that this was his life. Traveling with Steve. Spending warm summer days sitting in the grass while Steve exercised his beloved horses. Nothing weighing on him but what they should do for dinner that night. Whether or not Max and her little rodeo friend Elle needed some extra cash for food.

He let himself flop back in the grass, spreading his arms and legs out and watching the clouds roll by, sparse as they were.

He hates to say it. He really does. But this is the happiest he thinks he’s ever been.

Which is just. Sad. And dangerous. And not what he needs in this time-stamped little fling with someone he barely knows, despite how much he feels like their souls may be connected, or other shit the old poetry books stashed under his bed might wax and wane about.

He tried to memorize everything about this moment. How Steve squinted in the bright light, the corners of his eyes crinkling just like they did when he smiled. The way the sun warmed his skin, almost as much as Steve’s touch warmed him up.

Everything about these two weeks has been so perfect, it’s genuinely heartbreaking.

All Billy wants is to cling onto Steve, and cling onto the month for-fucking-ever.

He barely noticed the sound of hooves approaching him, and he grinned at Steve when he dropped to his knees next to Billy’s chest, his face tinged red, his brow slightly sweaty.

Loretta leaned her head down to sniff at Billy’s forehead, and Billy made Steve laugh when he went cross-eyed to watch her dark nose twitch.

His laugh made something inside Billy keel over and die.

Time is ticking down on how long he’ll get to hear that perfect sound. That lovely music of Steve’s happiness.

“You ready for Patsy?”

Loretta bumped Billy once on the head and moved to graze some of the grass next to Steve’s hip.

“Yeah,” he said.

He meant I’ll miss this too much when it’s gone.

#steve is a HORSE GIRL #i CANNOT stress this enough #anyway i highly recommend reading on ao3 because i said some stuff in the author's note but idk you don't have to if you don't want #show pony #yikes writes #rodeo au #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #anyway the more i write this fic the angstier it's getting whoops

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cecilspeaks · 4 years

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173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play. More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to “some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment, a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe.

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 173 #the hundred year play

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alpaca-writes · 3 years

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Mystics, Chapter 27

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by the strange shopkeeper Lyrem Nomadus, everything seems to be going well- in fact, their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Read Chapters 1-26 and more HERE

Taglist: @myst-in-the-mirror, @livingforthewhump

CW: Drugs and drug mentions, manhandling, swearing, violence, and gore mention

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TEENAGE WASTELAND

Arthur remembered well how to find Benji’s house. He had to pick up Arch from the narrow condo a few times in the past. They would always emerge from there a little bleary eyed and tipsy. He never said anything to Charlotte. Not once. To him, it was just a normal part of the teenage experience. He’d try to sober them up and send them home with a good enough excuse that their little bender would be over-looked as an innocent sleepover- without the sleep.

Persephone had used all of her remaining strength to launch him back into the mortal world, and Charlotte would have to remain behind for now- until they were able to open a door to the Labyrinth from the Underworld.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about his sister. She would be safe with the gods.

At least Persephone dropped him in the middle of the city this time. His first visit plunked him in the middle of abandoned farmland and it took too much time to steal a truck into the city to kill Lyrem. He ended up finding Arch in the back alley instead. It felt like it was only yesterday he was stabbed in the leg while trying to rescue them.

The creaking of a window shutter opening nearby filled the courtyard with a familiar Bob Dylan song and the poor mimic of a kid trying to sing along to it. Ballad of a Thin Man, and it was definitely Benji.

Arthur walked up to the window, feeling like there was nothing that would stop him from getting to Arch and he rapped on the open shutter.

“Benji!”

The drifting smoke and strong skunk smell made Arthur back off from the window again. Benji didn’t hear him.

“And somebody points to you and says, ‘It's his’”

“Benji!!”

“And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?"”

“BENJI!”

“And you say, "Oh my God! Am I here all alone?!"

At this point, Arthur stuck his head through the window, and watched him in the corner high as a kite with a tall bong sitting on a table in front of him. The boy continued singing and acting out the lyrics with impeccable quality of a stage performer.

“But something is happening and you don't know what it is

Do you… Mr. Jones?”

At the last line, Benji turned toward the window to see Arthur’s scraggly face, impatient and red as a brick with the anger of not being heard. Benji jumped back, eyes wide.

“Benji, finally! I’ve been calling you from outside!”

“Dude,” Benji swallowed, growing pale and looking sickly. “Not again man, I don’t know what drug you forced into me, but I do not want anymore.”

Arthur scrunched his face, “what are you talking about?”

Benji shut off the music from his phone, and approached the window wearily.

“Look man, I know you and Arch are close so I’m not gonna play this game with you. I don’t have any, and I don’t deal opiates. I’m not telling you who does, either. You gotta get clean.”

Arthur hopped up, and popped himself up through the window. Jumping down, he landed in a pile of dirty laundry.

“I’m not here to deal,” he explained, “I need your help with something.”

“I said I don’t wanna be the guinea pig for your shitty mushrooms, dude! Get out!” Benji opened his bedroom door. If he needed to make a break for it from the crazy man, he would.

“I’m not trying to give you drugs!” Arthur reached out, and pulled Benji in by the arm. “Last night at prom you were sent to a different world. I need you to help me get there.”

Benji was plopped down on his old bed, and he didn’t try to move any further. He rubbed his arm where Arthur had held him and massaged the bruises that he had started forming. This man was crazy; he was insane and his timing was WAY off.

“Prom… was like, a week ago, dude,” he said meekly. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got super high that night and I saw some really crazy shit, and I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Arthur sighed and scratched the top of his head, only then realizing how disgusting his hair had become. He probably didn’t smell too great either.

“Look, kiddo, I’m really sorry that you’ve been dragged into this- but right now, I need you to listen to me.

Arch was taken by that creature that I lit on fire. That wasn’t a bad trip, it really happened. And now I need to get to where Arch is. The only place I can think of that they were sent is the same place that you went that night at prom. That’s the working theory, anyway. I’m not giving up on it.”

Benji interrupted. “But I don’t… I don’t understand… I know that there was a point in time I got really muddy… or I fell into a puddle of oil or crude or something sick like that, but…”

His nails lifted toward his teeth, and he started biting between words. His breaths shortened.

“Nah, nah man. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Arthur nodded. He couldn’t expect Benji to understand or believe him, so he gave up. Instead, he focused his energies toward creating the portal. Whether Benji had believed him or not, shouldn’t matter. The kid was still sent to that realm whether he chose to remember it or not.

“Dude?”

Arthur’s eyes were closed, and he was holding out his hand to hopefully create the portal as Benji watched on.

“Dude! I told you to get out”-

Nothing was happening yet, but Arthur continued to concentrate the best he could with Benji’s distracting shouts. He grabbed Benji’s arm, hoping that it would be enough.

“DAD HELP! There’s a crazy junkie in my room!”

Shit. Arthur didn’t have any more time. He broke his concentration and wrapped a hand over Benji’s mouth to stop his yelling, but it was too late. Footsteps that were loud and heavy started pounding down the hall from the kitchen.

“Fuck!” he shouted out. He released Benji reluctantly, and his face was splattered with regret. He turned back toward the window. Instead of seeing the trees and the grass and the cars lining the street, he saw black. A void into the next realm that was just large enough for him, and it was shrinking.

“Benji? Everything okay bud?”

Benji froze. As he had turned to show his father the man who had tormented him, he saw the pitch-black void that had erupted in his room and the man standing before it, hesitant to step into it. The wide shouldered man who was Benji’s father pulled his son away and stepped back. Neither of them, completely able to comprehend what was in front of them.

Arthur stood still in front of it, fearing the way forward. Then one hand emerged along with another. Grabbing Arthur by the shoulders, they pulled him in, and he was finally consumed by yet another void.

He fell, crashed into the dark glass that carpeted the expansive land of rolling hills and flatlands. Arthur only hoped he had ended up where he needed to be, and that the hands that pulled him through were at least, friendly ones.

Supporting himself with his arms, he looked up from the ground and saw a familiar set of legs standing in front of him. Then one of them kicked out, landing into his side and he fell again, this time, laying on the ground completely. After wincing through the sudden blow, he blinked, seeing the last of the void turn to nothing and a deep orange sky took its place. He groaned, clutching his ribs.

“That, was for stabbing me,” Lyrem’s face came closer into view as stood over Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t really in the mood to argue with the dead man, but he didn’t seem to care terribly.

“Worth it,” he mustered, and rolled back to where he was before.

“And you can finish that sentence by thanking me for saving you from the Depths of Despair,” Lyrem sniffed. He looked around, mildly paranoid that Paimon wouldn’t be far behind.

“I’ll thank you when I’m good and dead,” Arthur stood, brushing himself off, and pulled some of the glass from his calloused fingers. “For now, I need to find Arch and bring them home.”

“Not so simple a deed-” Lyrem said simply. He turned, heading towards the mouth of an open cave. But Arthur had different ideas, and pulled the old man up close, by the collar of his shirt until they were nearly nose to nose. He growled into his face, but Lyrem was hardly put off by the close contact.

“Don’t fuck around with me, because I am not in the mood!” Arthur studied the man’s face as it was still inscrutably unfazed.

“Listen very carefully, Arthur. Arch trusts Paimon now- quite possibly more than they trust me or you. I’ve been here long enough to see that their bond has strengthened. We need to play this wisely or else Arch will become Paimon’s next plaything. He is too strong for either of us to defeat on our own,” Lyrem spoke calmly, lowering his voice until it was just a little more than a whisper. “We need Apollo.”

Arthur pushed him away and pulled out the jar of holy water from one of his cargo pockets.

“Arch wouldn’t trust a demon more than me,” he said with confidence.

“Ah- Paimon isn’t a demon.” Lyrem countered. He straightened his shirt collar and pointed toward the jar in Arthur’s hand. “He’s a god. And you would be wise to put away the jar of lynx urine before you spill it on yourself.”

Arthur looked down at the jar. It was a tinge yellow. He scoffed, exhausted though he was of talking. He unlatched the top, popping the rubber seal and sniffed. He grimaced, and held it far from his nose.

“A god? And hold on- this is lynx piss?” Arthur questioned. He latched it again. Lyrem didn’t seem to be lying. He seemed to be quite sure of himself, in fact. “Why… Why did you have a jar of lynx piss in your back room?”

Lyrem waved him off.

“I needed it to summon a Goddess”

“Why were you summoning a Goddess with lynx piss?”

“Because my wife had cancer”

Arthur stared at him blankly until Lyrem decided to explain himself in slightly more detail.

“The urine is solidified into a crystal under several moon phases and then engraved with- you know what”-

Lyrem hushed him at this point, wondering if it would be easier to just put him asleep and drag him to Paimon himself. He thought better of that and ushered the man nearer to the mouth of the cave. Arthur placed the bottle inside his pocket again.

“If you want Arch to come out of this alive, then you must follow my lead. Paimon is powerful here and if we want to avoid suspicion, then we must play the parts convincingly. Starting,” he said, poising himself, “with this.”

“What? With wha”-

Arthur received a blow to the side of his head. One strong enough that it forced him to keel over onto his side, and before he had any time to recover, Lyrem’s knee connected with the front of his face, knocking him flat on his back. He wheezed out.

“You… asshole!”

“Nice and bloody just how Paimon likes,” Lyrem winced a bit as he walked around his backside and rounded him. Finding the jeweled knife on his belt, Lyrem took it away from him. “I know you would do anything for Arch- that is the one redeeming quality of yours.”

Next, he pulled up to Arthur’s right side as he was busy nursing his nose. Lyrem licked his lips and then pressed a foot down into his thigh. Loud, agonizing howls filled the air, and Lyrem relished in it. He didn’t let up until his was certain his leg had fallen back into disrepair.

“But the question, I think that is on everyone’s mind, Arthur,” Lyrem picked him up, and dragged him forward. “-is whether or not Arch would do anything for you.”

Lyrem lifted up his eyes to the opening. Seeing the figure of Paimon stepping through the threshold, he grinned wickedly.

“I believe I’ve found a little gift from your uncle, and Arch’s next carving project.”

Paimon tilted his head, hiding his excitement with a smirk of mild amusement and crouched down. In his left hand he presented Arthur’s strained looks with his own bowie knife.

Arthur shook as the knife approached his face, threatening to make the first cut deeply against his cheekbone- but Paimon pulled it away just in time. Arthur let out a relieved, heavy breath and stared down at the obsidian carpet as the sweat dripped off his temples. He heard the gritty voice of Paimon above him.

“I think we’ll have to place a little bet.”

“Oh? What are you thinking?” Lyrem asked, adjusting his collared shirt around the nape of his neck.

“I bet you that Arch can carve out his heart in five minutes or less,” Paimon proposed, “blindfolded.”

Arthur’s head snapped up in alarm, eyes wide and blinking through blood.

Lyrem raised an eyebrow, “and if they fail? If they take longer than five minutes?”

Paimon considered all of the things in the world that Lyrem could want. He wanted the bet to be interesting, after all. Taking a tour of Mount Olympus, giving him a vial of water from the fountain of youth, or bringing him Phillip as a fun little reward would be all great and wonderful ideas but-

“Let Arch go…” Arthur interjected, “If they can’t do what you say in five minutes or less, then let them go- Back to Earth and back to their real life.”

Lyrem hesitated- not something that he often did. His eyes darted to the man and up to Paimon, gauging his reaction. Would Paimon take it?

It wouldn’t be so easy, would it?

Paimon held a finger to his lips in contemplation, then swiftly brought a hoof down on Arthur’s back, forcing him into the jagged slices of volcanic glass. He grunted and seethed into the ground.

“I accept the bet, although it will take me some time to decide what I want when I win; when Arch succeeds well beyond my expectations and rips your heart from your chest,” Paimon smiled. “Oh, you would have been so proud, Arty. I do wish I had taken a picture for you of what they did to young Marcus… For now, I’ll have you locked in a cell until I make up my mind about what I want.”

Paimon lifted his hoof off of Arthur’s back. He let out a sigh of relief in that there was at least some hope for Arch after all.

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gibberishquestion · 4 years

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thank u for the tag @iishiimaru very epic ! i like talking about myself

1. name: sawyer! or plex bc i am kinning so hard

2. gender: nonbinary. i don't have a more specific label nonbinary feels good

3. star sign: leo

4. height: 5'2 barely

5. sexuality: Fuck If I Know! i really like fictional boys but irl i only like people who are not boys. no idea what you'd call that. i used to use the lesbian label and it's helpful irl but... i don't feel that connected to womanhood

6. favorite book: ok this is kinda cringe of me but i really like flatland. i reread it whenever i need something to read

7. current time: 7:05 pm

8. average amount of sleep: my schedule is a wreck due to quarantine but somewhere between six and nine hours. very helpful i know

9. dogs or cats: BOTH?? i'd call myself a cat person if i had to pick but bro i love my dogs so much

10. number of blankets i sleep with: two, a comforter with a soft blanket underneath

11. dream job: idk man i just wanna be a nurse. in an ideal world, pixar animator but like without the connotations of working for the mouse

12. blog established: i was 13 so... 2015? damn

13. favorite animal: proboscis monkeys!!! it started off as a special interest in sandsverse but now i just love them. dude.... they have noses...

14. number of followers: 1057 last i checked

15. reason for url: i like starlgight expres.... i've been thinking about changing it but idk if the one i want is free

16. something i'm grateful for: this is kinda stupid but My Interests... literally silly video games and musicals and movies make me so happy i

i tag @fastidious-and-a-mess @fictiongeek @ssanvalentin @caveac @spectralsapphic and whoever else wants to do this!!

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ask-mystery-shack-cipher · 5 years

Note

Oh! Are Circles the highest social class compared to the others?

((This answer requires a little more of an in depth explanation, so we’re answering this way, hope that’s okay!

Basically the class structure is a bit…It matches the flatland book series, really. The more sides one has, the higher their social standing. They were a very…vain culture in that respect.

The bottom of the barrel are the Isosceles, they’re only considered as having two sides despite them being a type of triangle. They were soldiers and considered expendable. They are the largest population, by and far. Equilateral triangles are seen as a step above, they’re the merchants and tradesmen (or if you want a better comparison; the retail and fast food workers). Squares were allowed to have a higher education and could enter as lawyers and the like. Pentagons and up were allowed to pursue the best courses of higher learning. Most of the doctors would be octagons, as an example. It climbs on and on up until you get to the circles, which the highest count is around…30 sides I believe it was?

See, the more sides a shape has, the more fragile they become. They lose their sharp corners that help them hold their shape and past the point of 30 they’re unable to have offspring (though this fact is kept hush from the general masses). But still, the 30 sides is seen as Absolute Perfection in everyone’s eye and they shoot to eventually have their descendants join the ranks of the circles one day.The reason this works is, when a pair have offspring, they’re often born having one more side to them than the parents (with the rare chance of having a second added). So, through good breeding an isosceles family could eventually become a circle family. And it was this logic that the circles and the aristocrats used to help keep the much more numerous isosceles in line. This is why there’s a very strict and rigid class system to make sure everyone stayed in their place.Now there are exceptions to this rule! The Irregulars and the Perfects.Irregulars were seen as inferior, ugly creatures, though the only thing different about them is their lines weren’t all within a very small difference of each other. These poor souls were usually put down at birth (you don’t wanna know how) or used as learning aides on the rules of touching (this was not a pleasant job, and usually resulted in the deaths of them after a short while). Basically irregulars were considered garbage.Perfects, on the other hand, were pretty much the exact opposite. As the name implies, all their sides match in length, down to the decimal point. This is an exceptionally rare occurrence, and the shape that was lucky enough to have this feature would be considered exceptionally handsome in appearance and often treated as if they had an extra side. This perfection also meant they were more likely to produce offspring with an extra side (Bill is a Perfect Triangle, which is why he was able to study and get a job that only squares and up could get).Basically the whole society’s crap, and one can kinda see why Bill thought they had a very flat society and wanted to liberate it…))

#Anonymous #Text post #Lore post #((Man that was a lot but we're getting the lore down bit by bit))

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alphawave-writes · 4 years

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Prophets and Messengers final chapter: Beyond Touch

Synopsis: Now immortal, Sigma and Harold share a tender moment as they plan the next stage of their lives together.

Read it here on or AO3. You guys can also find me on twitter @alphawave13.

If you like my writing, please do support me by buying me a ko-fi, becoming a patron on Patreon or requesting a fanfic commission from me. Especially with COVID, any little bit helps me out a lot.

Sigma awoke in a cart of all things, travelling along an abandoned road. There was patches of green amidst the drab yellow sand, the sun setting over the horizon. What looked to be a winding river of crystal blue rolled over the flatlands. He glanced down and noticed that his clothes had been changed, replaced with something more similar to what the Oasis locals wore. His hands were bandaged and bruised, the golden jewelry of the priests now adorning his fingers but otherwise he was fine. A donkey was pulling the cart slowly, led forward by a man in familiar clothes.

Sigma shifted, catching the man's attention. They turned around and smiled warmly. Sigma could not see their face clearly, but he didn't need to. From the warmth that enveloped his core at the sight of this man, he already knew exactly who it was.

"Welcome back, Siebren," Harold said softly.

Sigma sat up slowly, only to smack his elbow into something. There were a lot of jars in the cart he was in, as well as a few boxes with rattling coins, as well as some baggae filled with extra clothes. They all clinked around within the cart, making their contents known to anyone who dared be near them. "How did we not get attacked by bandits?" Sigma's eyes wandered the horizon. "Where are we?"

"I pulled a few favours from your guards to sneak us out, and I paid them for their trouble. As for where we are, well…I'm not so sure about that." Harold glanced at the sunset. "We're heading East though. Away from Oasis."

"So this is it then. No turning back," Sigma said. He felt for the spirits' presence and was relieved to find that they had settled down somewhat, their strength renewed. Sigma focused his power and was surprised to feel the presence of something else inside of him. A new well of energy, vast and limitless and brilliant and destructive like the sun. He'd felt this energy before, every time his skin ever made contact with Harold.

He turned to Harold, eyes wide and mouth agape. Harold let go of the reins to the donkey and reached out for Sigma's hand. Their energies swirled around each other before combining together. It was one and the same. This power was one and the same.

"You're immortal now," Harold said. "Just like me."

"Immortal?" Sigma whispered.

"That was the only way I could save you. I saw your lifestream, and it was broken to pieces. If I didn't do it, then you'd be dead. I couldn't save you either way, I had to, I…" Harold took a shuddery breath in and out. "I'm sorry. I panicked, and I didn't want to let you go, and now you're cursed like me."

Sigma stared deeply into Harold's eyes. They appeared almost golden in the dying sunlight. "You didn't want to let me go?"

"I didn't say I love you because it was the heat of the moment," Harold chuckled bashfully. "Or perhaps you didn't understand me then. Would it make more sense if I said ik hou van jou?"

Sigma's cheeks went crimson. "Y-you didn't…"

"I never did tell you I used to live in the Lowlands myself for a bit." Sigma could hear Harold's smirk even if he couldn't see it all that well. "I might have picked up the local language during my stay."

Sigma turned his head away. "So ever since the night of the full moon, you…"

"I know you love me, Siebren. For a long while now," Harold said. "And if we're being honest, I've probably loved you for even longer than that."

Sigma went silent for a few moments, taking in the sunset, the slight breeze, the soft bushes and the flowing river and the skittering animals. He must have passed through this place at least once. He didn't just stumble into Oasis with no memory, he was guided there by maps and equations, back when he was still blessed with the sense of sight. But did his younger self, with crystal clear vision and a sharp mind, truly see this sprawling, beautiful landscape? Did he appreciate the chaotic beauty of nature? Did he see the magic in life? Of course he didn't. The grass was greener on the other side. Only when he lost his vision could he truly see the world for its tragic beauty.

The cart was still steadily moving, the donkey not slowing one bit. Sigma’s eyesight was still horrendous, but he saw the teared edges of Harold's clothes, the purple knuckles and scratched red arms, and the lethargy in Harold's movements. It must not have been an easy feat to sneak out of Oasis. Talon had its clutches on the city, and they would not rest until they had the ultimate power of limitless life. Harold would have fought, but the idea of Harold fighting his battles was not a pleasant one. He wanted to protect, not be that had to be protected. But then again he could not see this coming. He suspected not even the spirits did.

Sigma floated up and out of the cart, moving side by side with Harold. He turned to Harold and nodded his head sharply. Harold let out a quiet sigh as he rested his head on Sigma's shoulder. In turn, Sigma wrapped his arm around Harold's waist and floated him up, letting both their feet hover just above the ground. A small comfort, but it might be enough.

"So what do we do now? Now that we're immortal, I mean," Sigma said.

"I don't know," Harold admitted. "You?"

"I'm…I'm not sure. I don't know what is out there anymore. There are humans and animals, but also other beings in a realm just beyond our reach." He reached his hand out to the sky. "They're watching us, even now. Waiting to make their move, for good or evil or none of the above. Now that I've been uprooted from my home, I might never know who or what they are. My greatest experiment might never be solved."

"Again, I'm sorry," Harold frowned.

"Don't be," Sigma said, letting his face soften. "You saved my life."

Harold rubbed the back of his head bashfully, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. "I didn't give you the elixir just because I've got feelings for you. I've seen the way you pour yourself into research, the joy it brings you, the structure it provides. Given the gift of infinite life, you'd make great things, I'm sure of it." Harold's smile faded. "If I'm lucky, I might be able to tag along for the ride. Make my mark on the world—a good one, that is. So far all I've done is bring disaster to everybody around me."

"You don’t bring disaster," Sigma said.

"Then what about this situation? We won't be able to know peace. We each have our own ghosts chasing us. We can't die naturally, but that doesn't mean we can't be killed. Soon as our enemies find this out, they will not rest." Quieter, Harold said, "I don't want you to fight my battles, Siebren. Just as I'm sure you don't want me to fight yours."

Sigma turned his head away, frowning deeply. That was the big thing still. They may both be immortal, but they may not necessarily be immortal together. Even bound together like this, they could still drift apart. Their demons were still chasing them, and they'll follow them both to the ends of the Earth, possibly for all eternity.

"You saved my life," Sigma repeated slowly.

"You said that already," Harold remarked.

"Because you saved my life more than once," Sigma replied. "I've done horrible things, Harold. Unspeakable monstrosities commanded upon me by both Talon and the spirits. They feed on my weakness, both of them, like leeches to the jugular artery, and I barely escaped with my life. I could've squatted at any abandoned building, but I chose the temple because it was far away from everybody. Nobody would judge me for the monster I was. Nobody would ever be harmed by me. When rumours of the Oracle emerged, I had enough money to hire some guards, but most obey me because they fear what I can do. You were the only one to see me as a man."

"Siebren," Harold whispered.

"I don't know what you see in me, I don’t. You see me as something capable of so much good, even though I’m not. You believe that I am special, and that I am worth loving." Siebren frowned. "Maybe if I hear it enough, I’ll believe it myself. Even without any evidence.”

Harold smiled softly. “This is what I mean.”

Sigma tilted his head. “About what?”

“About loving you for all eternity.” The strings reappeared between their chests, and Harold plucked one gently. A wave of warmth caressed Sigma from the inside out. “You really are my soul mate.”

Sigma felt for one of the strings and stroked it. Heat collected near his lips. From the way Harold's eyelids fluttered, the same occurred on his lips. “And you are mine,” he said.

“Is that a promise?” Harold whispered, eagerness and trepidation and hesitation staining his voice.

Sigma smiled shyly. “Only if you will let me.”

Harold giggled, his hand rising up to hide his gorgeous smile and his crimson cheeks. “I’m holding you onto that promise. I don’t wanna let you go that quick.”

Sigma gently guided Harold's hand away from his face, pulling it down so they could entwine their fingers together. “I think you’ll find I’m very hard to get rid of once I’m attached to someone.”

“Good,” Harold squeezed back. “So am I.”

They took turns walking the donkey and the cart, conserving their strength for a journey of untold length. A small town was just in the distance, with light and food and drink, and most important of all, an inn they could shelter in. As they entered the inn, Sigma noted the scent of cooked meats and the clink of jugs of warm beer. The local drunks were lounging in a corner while a couple of men smoked from an Argilah. Between the two of them, they had plenty of coins, not that it would do much for them once they passed the border. They might as well be frivolous tonight. This might possibly be their last night in relative comfort, at least for a while.

They ordered the best food and drank the local beer, chatting freely about anything and everything that came to their mind in a quiet corner of the inn. It only seemed right that Sigma opened up about everything. It was the least he could do, to repay for all the times Harold had opened his mind up for Sigma's probing. The very first thing that they both learned was that Sigma was a lightweight and Harold evidently was not. Sigma cradled his first and only beer, not even a quarter empty, while Harold had already finished half of his second. For every story that Harold weaved with his words, Sigma did his best to reciprocate with a story of his own. When Harold talked about his studies, so too did Sigma. When Harold spoke about his travels, Sigma recounted the perilous journey he took to get to Oasis from the Lowlands, and his inability to pick up the local accent. When Harold said he first fell in love with Sigma less than a week after meeting him, Sigma shyly admitted that he loved him since the incident at the springs, but only acknowledged it after that moment they shared under the full moon.

They laughed and smiled, their worries and fears gone for this fragile moment of peace they shared together. Maybe the beer had intoxicated him and clouded his mind, or maybe he was drunk off Harold’s presence, but Sigma felt bold as he conspired ways to touch Harold. A hand on a shoulder. A thumb to wipe away the beer foam from plump, kissable lips. A teasing little nudge with his foot to Harold’s knee.

Harold chuckled coyly as Sigma's toes rested on his leg. “Bit forward, aren’t you?”

Sigma smirked as he pulled his toes up, trailing over Harold’s inner thigh. “By my calculations, if I stimulate this erogenous zone for approximately two minutes more, our trajectory will be towards the newest bedroom.”

Harold spluttered with a laugh. “OK, first of all, that’s a horrible pick-up line.”

“I am assuming there’s a ‘second of all’,” Sigma raised his eyebrows

“Second of all,” Harold grabbed Sigma’s foot under the table, massaging the sole lightly, “you are a jerk and you’ve severely underestimated how much I want to be alone with you.”

“We were alone on the cart for hours today. Unless you're worried the donkey was going to blab to its friends,” Sigma smirked.

Harold slapped him lightly on the arm. “Get a room already.”

“Alright, alright,” Sigma laughed.

The process of getting a room was rather simple. They paid the money for a single room and were given a sign to hang, a number that matched the number of their door. The bed was decent, and the view outside their room wasn't spectacular, but it was theirs for this brief night, and that was all they needed. They dropped their belongings carelessly on the floor and then collapsed onto the bed side by side. For a few minutes Sigma stared at the empty ceiling, trying and failing to glimpse into the future. The spirits were displeased with him, but even if they weren't, they couldn't see what his future held anyway. He was unbound from time, an array of infinite possibilities at his fingertips, extending far beyond like branches from a tree. And his tree would continue to grow for as long as he still lived.

He could ponder more on this question, but for once he didn’t want to think. He found Harold’s hand beside him and squeezed. Not a moment later, Harold shifted so he was lying on top of Sigma, placing a small kiss to his lips. This simple kiss escalated to something more as their mouths slid open and their tongues darted out, tasting the cooked meats from each other's mouths. Sigma gave, and Harold took, letting himself get washed away from this simple, worldly pleasure as Harold stole his breath away. By the time they finally separated, only minutes had passed, and yet it felt like an eternity. What Sigma wouldn't give to spend an eternity touching and kissing Harold.

Sigma ran his thumb over Harold's bruised lips, staring up at the most beautiful man in the world. A smile peeked out, and then Harold parted his lips slightly and took Sigma's thumb in, sucking lightly.

“Harold…” Sigma whispered.

The thumb slid out from Harold's mouth with a pop. “How far do you want to take this tonight? I’m up for anything and everything, if you’ll let me. We could sleep, we could kiss until morning light, or…” he leaned forward and kissed Sigma's neck, “we could do something more daring.”

“We'll do it all,” Sigma laughed. "One step at a time."

“Then what do you want to do first?” Harold asked.

“Kiss me,” Sigma sighed. "Please."

Harold grinned. “My pleasure.”

He took Sigma’s face in his hands, cradling his jaw tenderly before kissing him with unspeakable passion. First with their lips, and then with their tongues, swirling and exploring, drawing out as many groans and sighs as possible. Sigma leaned forward and slid his lips to Harold's jaw, then the shell of his ear, then the soft junction between Harold's neck and shoulder. He bit lightly until the skin was tinted pink, and Harold gasped lewdly. Sigma took mental notes of the places he kissed that drew the most vocal reaction from Harold, certain in the fact that he will need to use this in the very near future. Whatever the future held, he was going to make sure this was not their last time together in bed.

Sigma moved to take the belt off Harold’s robes, pausing for a sign that this was not wanted or that he was moving too fast. But Harold sighed happily, lifting his arms up high. With Sigma’s strong hands, he delicately pulled the robes off and away, exposing Harold’s naked body.

His lips trailed Harold’s collarbone reverently, sucking on the soft flesh lightly. “You’re so handsome,” Sigma hummed.

“You can’t see me,” Harold pointed out.

“Doesn’t that make it more special? That a blind man like me knows you’re handsome?”

Harold giggled bashfully. “Perhaps.” His fingers found the edge of Sigma’s own robes and pulled them up and over his head. Sigma gasped lightly, making Harold giggle again. “But I’m not the only gorgeous one here. I’ve got you, don’t I? And I get to have you all for myself.”

Harold’s lithe fingers felt his soft pecs, his toned stomach, traveling lower at a snail pace. Heat blossomed from his touch, making Sigma’s breathing quicken. Harold leaned forward for another greedy kiss with his greedy tongue while his hand brushed over the thick bush of hair near his groin, trailing down to the base of his throbbing cock. Sigma was quick to surrender as the now-familiar wave of love and lust overwhelmed his senses, moaning to the ceiling.

Harold let his other hand hover in the air as the strings between their bodies re-emerged. He began to tug on them lightly but Sigma enclosed his hand around Harold’s wrist, dispelling the spell.

“Siebren?” He whispered.

“No magic,” he said, just as quiet. “No spirits, no magic, and no strings of fate. Just you and me.”

Harold nodded slowly, and then he leaned backward for a second to take his glasses off. When he couldn’t find a place to deposit them, he slid them into Sigma’s face, earning a quiet chuckle from his lips. The glasses, as Sigma suspected, did nothing to help his eyesight. Sigma wrinkled his nose, the glasses tilting with his movement, earning another laugh.

“You done?” Sigma smiled.

“Any more requests before I not-so-magically find the lubricant, oh great Oracle?” Harold said in an exaggerated voice.

“Actually, there is…one thing,” Sigma glanced away. It was just a thought but…no, it might not work. It’s been too long. Why ruin what might be their last comfortable night like this with such an experiment?

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering if I could, um, be on the receiving end tonight.” He cleared his throat loudly. "Only if you'd want to, that is."

“O-oh. I guess that explains why you didn’t eat much dinner.” Harold frowned microscopically. “That takes something out of the books.”

“What is it?”

Harold opened his mouth, paused, then headed out of bed to a small trunk. Within it he got what appeared to be the jar of lube and something else that Sigma couldn’t describe. It looked long and thin and pale as the snow. What it was, however, Sigma could not tell.

By the time he returned to bed, Harold’s blush seemed to have multiplied. In his hands were the jar and the mysterious object. Noticing Sigma's curious gaze, he held the object close so Sigma could see.

Sigma's cheeks crimsoned. “R-rope, Harold?”

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to get tied up. I was going to ask if you could tie me up or something, but if you want to bottom for once, I understand this might be too much. We can do it some other time."

Before Harold might say more, Sigma cupped Harold’s face, interrupting him. “Harold, whatever you want to do, I’ll do it. I love you.” Softer, he added, “I trust you.”

“G-good,” Harold breathed. Despite his nervousness, there was no denying the excitement in his voice. He took his glasses off Sigma's face and slid them to the edge of the bed. “R-right. Well. I best get you prepared, shouldn't I? Sit up and turn around.”

Sigma did as Harold instructed. His wrists were pulled behind his back, the rope gliding over his skin. A well of fear and anticipation filled his chest. He’d never done this. Not the rope, not the bottoming, not running away to start a new life, not immortality. They were scary but they were also new, and they were luxuries he couldn’t afford to waste. If he shied away from scary, new things, he'd never be here in Harold's arms, with infinite power and life in his bloodstream. And after all, wasn't that the purpose of experimentation, to learn from these scary, new things? He could accept it easily enough if he just thought about it as an experiment.

Harold’s deft touch assuaged some of his fears, working steadily as he guided the rope over his arms and wrist. His fingers would often pause to rake down Sigma’s backside or reach lower to squeeze his ass, making Sigma shiver in delight. When Harold was done, he gently guided Sigma down onto the bed, his chest flat on the mattress and his ass held high. Sigma glanced over his shoulder to find Harold staring at the body, seemingly in a trance.

Sigma smiled shyly. "Earth to Harold."

"S-sorry, it's just...wow." Harold chuckled nervously. "I can't believe my luck that I have you like this. Can't believe I have you for all eternity."

"I'm not going to wait all eternity," Sigma said. "Could you please get on with it?"

"You're so impatient," Harold teased as he opened the jar and spread the glistening lube over his fingers. He leaned forward and pressed the tip of a finger into Sigma slowly. In an instant a cold shock zapped both Sigma's mind and body, making him shiver again. When Sigma recovered slightly, Harold began to slide his finger in and out, coating Sigma's ass with the slippery, wet lube.

"Harold…" Sigma gasped.

"I'll be slow," Harold said, voice laced with lust. "I want you to feel good."

"D-don't just say things like that," Sigma blushed. "You don't need to be slow for me. I can handle it." Maybe, he added but didn't say.

Harold chuckled lightly as he pressed a second finger in, pumping at a slightly faster pace. Sigma tugged at his restraints, his eyelids fluttering. This tight wetness was such a new but wonderful sensation and it was making him dizzy in ecstasy. Harold's magic was coursing through his touch, shooting up into Sigma's brain. Sigma was sure this magical bond between him was making him far more sensitive than he should be, and yet he didn't want to stop. He wanted more, more. As long as it was Harold he'd always want more.

A third finger went in, pumping a little bit faster. Harold's fingers curled up inside Sigma, and he swore he could see the stars as those fingers brushed against his prostate. Harold's other hand trailed down his back, round his hips to enclose around Sigma's leaking cock. A shameful moan dripped from his lips as Sigma rolled his hips against the palm of Harold's hand, his desperation growing. It felt like he would tear apart if he wasn't given what he craved, if he wasn't filled, if he wasn't stroked. He knew Harold felt this desperation, but he never imagined it would be this intense. Now, right now, he needed to be defiled now.

Sigma glanced over his shoulder, his entire body tinted rouge. "Harold, please."

"Already? But I haven't even got the fourth finger in." Harold said in an amused tone.

"Harold," Sigma said in a more commanding voice.

"Alright, alright," Harold giggled lightly as he took another coating of lube and slowly stroked his cock, slicking it. Sigma could feel Harold shift forward, his wet cock rocking against the cleft of his ass. He inhaled deeply as Harold's love flooded his mind, spiking in waves with every roll of his tantalising hips. He rolled his hips back to the same rhythm as Harold's hips, hoping to coax Harold to hurry up, to give him what he craved.

Harold's hands gripped onto his hips tightly, steadying him. Sigma's balled fists shook against his restraints in anticipation. Harold drew his cock back, letting the tip kiss against Sigma’s entrance.

"Ready?" Harold asked softly.

"Yes, please," Sigma whimpered. "Please. I want you now. I need you."

Harold sharply inhaled, dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Sigma’s ass, and then slowly pushed his cock in.

Sigma bit on his lip to stifle his moan, but it didn't work, a soft "ah!" escaping his lips. It felt so glorious and wet and warm. Harold filled him up so perfectly, sliding in and out of him languidly but fluidly, slow but powerful, as if Harold already knew exactly how he wanted to be fucked. Harold was moaning too, whispering soft little things that made Sigma’s skin prickle with need and desire. From their shared minds, Sigma could feel Harold’s magic stroke the corners with the same speed and rhythm as his hips, as if Sigma was being pleasured both physically and mentally.

Sigma could barely handle it. Being pleasured in two different ways simultaneously, everything felt much more intense. Everything felt so much better. “Mmm, Harold…”

"You're handling it so good. And it's your first time too." His hot breath tickled Sigma's ear. "Maybe you can handle a little bit more." Harold snapped his hips, driving his cock harder into Sigma. He groaned lewdly, knowing all too well he was completely and utterly at Harold's mercy.

He wanted to ask how Harold knew this was his first time when suddenly Harold shifted the angle of his cock, making him moan deeply. Harold's magic had seeped into his mind, making his brain spark and flicker with the light of a thousand fireworks. Sigma's fists shook, trying and failing to break free from the restraints.

"Ah ah ah," Harold teased, not slowing his brutal pace down a single bit. "Not yet, Siebren. Not yet."

"Harold, please, ahhh." Without his sense of sight, his other senses were already heightened, but with the additional loss of his sense of touch, it felt like his remaining senses were working on overdrive. The scent of Harold's sweat was driving him wild. The sight of his cock gushing down onto the bed was undeniably arousing. The sound of Harold's strangled moans of pleasure as his hips crashed into Sigma's ass was the most beautiful chorus. His body was so sensitive to every little touch. If Harold just hit his prostate a bit more, if he just angled his cock at the perfect spot, Sigma might unravel completely.

"You're doing so well. You can take it so well," Harold whispered. "You let me know if it's too much."

"It's not enough, I need more. I want more. Please."

Sigma heard Harold chuckle lightly as he slid his cock out. Before Sigma could react, Harold's hands gripped tightly onto his waist, turning him around and sitting him on his lap. It took a second for Sigma to figure out what had happened. He rocked his hips slowly, sliding his ass against Harold's cock.

Harold placed a tender kiss to the lobe of Sigma's ear. "Is this good enough for you, Siebren?" He whispered.

Sigma leaned forward and kissed Harold eagerly as he felt Harold line himself up. He opened his eyes for a second and stared into the dark void that was Harold's eyes, waiting for the light, the signal, the go ahead. Harold's eyes shimmered for a second as he let out a quiet, pleading sigh. Sigma smiled softly as he descended, filling himself with Harold's cock once more. Harold wrapped his arms around Sigma's chest, moaning.

"Gosh, Siebren, yes. Yes, yes."

Sigma slid up and down at a brutal pace, giving the both of them little to no build-up. Not that either of them wanted or needed it. Harold's mind was screaming for more, and Sigma was sure his mind was screaming the same thing. He adjusted himself, angling his body until he felt the head of Harold's cock hit his prostate. It felt incredible, addictive, amazing. He had to hit it again and again and again, milking that indescribable pleasure for all it was worth. Just a bit more. He was so close, so madly close.

He angled his descent badly and Harold's cock slipped out of his ass. They groaned loudly.

"Siebren," Harold warned.

"S-sorry. I've never done this before," Sigma blushed.

"I know, but you don't need to rush it," Harold smiled softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sigma let out a quiet chuckle as he descended slowly until his ass was touching Harold's thighs. He bit down lightly on his lip, suppressing a moan. "We are not going anywhere."

Harold grinned brightly as his fingers traced the rope bindings. With a sharp tug, the rope came loose and Sigma's hands came free.

“H-Harold?”

“Bondage doesn’t suit you. I know you want to touch me.” Harold pressed a chaste kiss to Sigma’s cheek. “Let me be at your mercy this time.”

With his arms free he could do whatever he liked. Push Harold down and take him from the top, touch him in all his sensitive places until he came, torture him with his caresses. He could do almost anything and Harold would eagerly go along with Sigma's whims, but Sigma had a different plan in mind. He let his hands settle on either side of Harold's jaw, cupping it as though he was holding the world in his hands. In a sense, he was. Harold was his world, and he would always find his way to him. He closed his eyes, imagining Harold and all the things he had done for Sigma. There were almost too many to count. Harold had been so good to him since the very beginning.

Tears began to bead at Harold's eyes, which he hastily wiped away. "Y-you know I can read your thoughts, right?"

"I know," Sigma hummed. He kissed Harold on the lips, on the cheek. His hips slowly began to move again, almost lethargically, sensually, just enough to keep them on the edge.

Harold huffed. "You really are a jerk." But he was smiling while he said it, gripping Sigma's shoulders tightly when their hips pressed together. His thoughts were all focused on Sigma, and his love and adoration for him. From his intellect to his wisdom to his weird little jokes, Harold transmitted it all back to Sigma.

Sigma chuckled bashfully as he pressed another long kiss to Harold's open mouth. He imagined all the wonderful things about Harold—his beautiful voice, his constant optimism, and open mind— and watched as Harold’s face broke out into a breathtaking smile.

"I love you, Siebren," Harold said quietly.

"I love you too, Harold. Till the end of time,” Sigma whispered.

Harold kissed Sigma's lips softly. "Till the end of time."

The heat of their orgasm ebbed and flowed as Sigma slowly rode Harold. When it did came, it trickled up their bodies, less an explosion and more of a wave flooding over them. They kissed through this indescribable bliss, and when they were spent, they kissed some more, collapsing back into the bed in each other's arms. They did not speak, just let their slowing thoughts do the speaking for them, telling their life stories and their greatest triumphs and greatest fears for them. What their thoughts couldn't speak, their wandering fingers did, breathing new life into their every touch, expressing countless untold stories.

With a wave of his hands, Sigma summoned two cloths to wipe them both clean. Harold initially relaxed into it, until Sigma plucked the invisible strings between their obdies. Harold let out a surprised gasp as he felt something warm and wet and invisible enter his hole.

He looked down at Sigma, his expression quickly turning lustful. “I thought you said no magic tonight.”

“That was when I thought I only had the energy for one time.” Sigma tugged at the strings, making the invisible lubed-up finger press deeper into Harold. “I might have the energy reserve for at least one more go.”

Harold grinned mischievously. “At least?”

“I paid good money for this room, and I plan to maximize my usage of it.” He reversed their positions, pressing Harold back into the covers. He smiled indulgently. “I hypothesise that I can get you hard again without even touching you.”

“That’s some hypothesis,” Harold breathed. “Do you have the evidence to back up that theory?”

Sigma smirked. "I've got just the experiment in mind."

That night, Sigma fucked Harold himself, becoming one in both mind and body. By the end of it they were sweaty, sticky, and very much dehydrated, and absolutely and hopelessly in love with each other. When they both finally fell asleep in their arms, there was nothing they didn't know about the other. They slept peacefully that night, the marks on their palms glowing, perfectly content just to have each other, for now until eternity. They will find each other. That, they promised one another.

—

In the morning, they ate the breakfast the inn provided. They were downstairs, dressed in more unassuming clothes. Despite Sigma's best efforts, he couldn't stop grinning. It was a honeymoon phase of sorts, because they had already pledged to stay with each other for as long as time would let them, but that was all they had figured out in terms of their plans. Where they go from here, what they do, it was all up in the air. Anything and everything was possible. They had almost nothing to hold them back.

"We could head to the Safavid Empire in the West," Sigma suggested. "Ardabil is not unlike Oasis. Considering all the different dignitaries that visit there, we would not look out of place."

But Harold shook his head. "What business would we have in Ardabil? The Dutch East India Company own all the major trade routes so there's not too much business there. They're also not too keen on foreigners at the moment, especially English speaking foreigners."

"I know languages other than English and Dutch."

"So do I, but English seems to be the one we're best able to communicate in. I wouldn't take my chances," Harold said. "Why not Georgia instead?"

"Not Georgia. I'm not wanted in those lands."

"Why would they not want you there?" Harold asked.

"The Tobelsteins wielded far more power than I expected," Sigma frowned. "They messed with the fabric between reality and the spirit world far too much and I objected. I wouldn't be surprised if they end up floating into the heavens for their hubris like I did when I was a young, stupid fool."

"Don't put yourself down, Siebren. You shouldn't be ashamed of your powers.” Harold sighed. “So not Georgia then. Somewhere else. But where?"

As they began to rack their heads for ideas, two men stumbled through the entrance and plopped themselves down near the bar. One was tall and thin, with odd machinery on their right arm and leg. The other was fat and menacing, a mask hiding away their features. Their skin was pale as snow. They were definitely not from this land. The thin man ordered a beer, while the fat man ordered water.

If their appearance was hard to ignore, the thin man's outbursts were impossible.

"Can't believe th' Overwatch Guild is a thing. Always thought it was some legend going round those parts. Here, Roadie. You hear about it?" The man said in accented, but fluent English. It was definitely his first language.

"I was there with you," the man known as Roadie huffed.

"I mean, I know I'm supposed to be the comic relief, but how is a bloke to believe that an enchanted gorilla's its new leader? And don't get me started with the automaton, mate. In our lovely lil' collisseum we had a glorious champion, and then it just buggers off to the middle of nowhere, Gibraltar?"

"The queen wants us to get 'em back," Roadie gruffly replied.

"Assuming some mage's piloting it, and not like…I dunno, a hamster. That'd be a real kick , wouldn't it? A hamster rolling a ball automaton? But what kinda hamster would have that much smarts and magic? Not any that I know."

The man known as Roadie turned his head toward Harold and Sigma. Even behind his mask, they could feel his deathly glare. "Junkrat, shut up."

"Hey, don't interrupt me, I—oh." Roadie forced Junkrat to turn his head.

The two strangers stared at Sigma and Harold for several seconds, as if gauging them. Then, after a minute of uncomfortable silence, Junkrat rolled his eyes and nursed his beer.

"Don't bother, Roadie. They're just wizards." The man known as Junkrat spat out the word like it was poison.

"Least they don't have golems."

Sigma could've picked a fight, or perhaps even correct the two men on their technically incorrect use of the word 'wizard', but he didn't. Instead, he stared at Harold. They shared the same knowing look in their eyes, their faces lighting up. A path had been unveiled to them, glorious and brilliant and full of potential. It was almost as if it was fate guiding them along.

"Winston?" Sigma asked, and Harold nodded eagerly.

“And Hammond.” The descriptions matched. There were no other super-intelligent gorillas and hamsters that they knew of. It had to be them. Winston and Hammond had to be alive, and members of this Overwatch guild.

“You’re aware of what the Overwatch guild is?” Sigma asked, even though he knew Harold would know by now. They shared all their memories, their feelings, and their knowledge. They had nothing left to hide anymore.

“A ragtag bunch of adventurers bent on saving the world, one magical disaster at a time.” Harold stuck out his hand. “What do you say, Siebren? Ever wanted to join a guild?"

"I've joined enough guilds in my day, thank you very much." Sigma's lips curled up into a grin as he took Harold's hand. "Although I must say, I'm awfully curious as to how you've enchanted a gorilla and a hamster with the gift of intelligence. You know I’m up for another experiment.”

Harold grinned. "An adventure, you and me.”

"Oi, I heard that. You two!" The man known as Junkrat suddenly stood up, his expression becoming dangerous very quickly. He muttered something to Roadie, who took out an enchanted hook.

"But first, maybe we should get out of here?" Harold smiled nervously.

"We should probably do that," Sigma said.

With the wave of his hand, Sigma summoned the barrier as they raced out of the inn and ran toward the sunrise together, a world of untold possibility and struggle and wonder all ahead of them, just beyond their fingertips.

#Sigrold #Sigma #Siebren de Kuiper #Harold Winston #End of an era and end of an AU #I had fun writing this #Who knows I might explore another AU or another smutty situation in the near future #Until then if you guys could support me it'd really help me out #Times have been tough for a lot of people myself included #If you like these fics I'd appreciate any and all support financial or otherwise

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sasorikigai · 4 years

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Send 😊 for a random fact about the mun || @cryomistrss || accepting

😊I have lost more than 50lbs (roughly 23kg) in a year with kickboxing when I was living in New York. I dropped from a size 12 to a size 2 (wearing plus-size clothing to wearing small), but I stopped ‘dieting’ when I literally passed out and didn’t wake up until the next day and had to miss work. Since then, I have probably gained about 20lbs (9kg) back. I plan to lose that sooner than later, but the metabolism in thirties isn’t the same as the metabolism in early twenties, so I will have to see how THAT goes.

This is what I looked like when I was about 23-24 (still wearing glasses. I had LASIK surgery done now). I wanna go back to back then.

😊Helix is the only series I’ve managed to watch more than once. It’s THAT good, and although Science Fiction isn’t one of my most loved genres, I really love the complexities of characters, especially between Sanada’s character (Dr. Hiroshi Hatake), Daniel (Miksa, who is Hatake’s adopted son), and Julia Walker (his daughter, but she doesn’t know that in the beginning of season 1). You all should watch it to understand where my obsession of this verse comes from. It’s just too damn good and I’m salty it got cancelled.

😊I have been donating blood ever since I was eighteen, and have donated more than 50 times by now. I plan to do it until I can’t do it anymore.

😊I now wear dresses more frequently, but before I turned thirty, I never wore skirts/dresses (unless it was a school uniform) and never had one in my wardrobe.

😊One of the earliest memories I remember is travelling around South Korea and hiking mountains during the weekends (almost every weekend). Thus, my favorite outdoor activity is hiking and trekking. I am only salty about Florida being a boring-ass flatland, as I really miss Great Smoky Mountains and other mountains I’ve climbed up north. Now I make up my addiction with running 5K/10K in Florida. I just ran a 10K the last Sunday of the last year, and have another one coming up this Saturday.

These are all the 5K & 10K finisher medals I’ve accumulated so far. Almost all of them are 10K, except the one with the American Flag and an eagle in front of it.

#✗ breathing iron and rust (outofkombat)#(while I can't go back to my twenties)#(I believe I am more healthier because now I run)#(but my knees and back hurt lmfao)#cryomistrss

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2d-dreams · 1 year

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My Flatland TTRPG!

so i been thinking about this a lot and im like hmm.. I read both of the Flatland ttrpg rulebook thingies [what i could find for free so barebones basic stuff.. really wish I was allowed to buy one of them (arguably the best of both ttrpgs) because it has a section on Flatland science that i wanna see so bad...]

And well I'm not super sure on them. Like, they could use some work.. One is pretty good though. but could be better i think. I did make Bill, Pol and Madelyn character sheets to test it a bit [I'll try to play it solo mode maybe] and that was Fun.

I'm planning on making my own Flatland ttrpg though despite/because of these. Definetly taking a lot from them but. still. I will also make perhaps a very rudimentary playable game version [as in, like a computer game] if y'all want.

I'm pretty confident in my attempt at this but I want some input from the Flatland Fandom dwellers themselves.

If you want, and i kinda beg that you consider it, please let me know if you have any ideas you'd like to see in the ttrpg or even if you would be able to try to playtest eventually.

Here are just a few questions if you have the time to help a bit by answering. For now, that's all! [can answer them through reblog, asks/anon, PMs, replies, etc i just wanna see em]

What kind of stories do you think are more appropiate to tell in a Flatland RPG? What stories would you want to see/play?

Do you think magic could work in Flatland?

Would you be able or willing to playtest?

Any ideas?

#flatland #gravity falls #ttrpg design #ttrpg dev #ttrpg #flatland rpg

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solivar · 5 years

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WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66

In which there is an unexpected and troubling revelation.

“Team Tokki, report.”

“On station, sorry for the delay.” Hana replied a nerve-wracking ten minutes later. “Took us a minute to get all our cables in order but Kozy Kot Motor Inn Basecamp is now online.”

The topographic holomap hanging over the dining room table rippled gently as she proved it, pulsing their location in the scrubby desert flatlands between Mesa Prieta and the ruins of Albuquerque, turning their basecamp icon electric pink-and-green.

“In an amusing sidenote,” Hana continued on breezily, “You know those MiBs -- the TALON guys? Their base may be in Albuquerque Sunport but they’ve got mobile units all over the place in the immediate vicinity and some kind of stationary observation post up on the mesa itself. So yes this is me formally blaming my tardiness on avoiding the notice of scary goons who may or may not be employees of the federal government.”

“Mesa Prieta is an archaeological preserve -- it has been for decades, the petroglyphs there are thousands of years old.” Ana, seated at the opposite end of the table with stacks of airtight herb containers, a mortar and pestle, and a digital scale, observed carefully, pausing in her work. “Ownership yielded back to the Federated Southwest Tribal Government after the Crisis.”

“Meaning?” Hanzo asked, inclining a questioning brow.

“Meaning,” Ana gave the contents of her pestle another thoughtful turn, “that either the FST is acting in direct cooperation with TALON or else their actual employers kissed considerable quantities of ass to access that site for reasons other than advancing the cause of cultural preservation.”

Hanzo blinked at her. “That feels extraordinarily bad.”

“It is what it is, my young friend. Until we have better intel, we can only take matters as they come.” She spooned the contents of her pestle into a little tin container.

“I’m not so sure I like Team Tokki’s proximity to a potentially hostile unknown quantity,” Hot Vampire Jack’s tone was significantly less philosophical. “Maybe you should relocate?”

“Their base doesn’t directly overlook ours -- it’s on the far northern point of the mesa, closer to the Chamisa Wilderness Area than to us.” Jesse replied, calm and even. “We can set a drone on stealth observation if you want, but hauling off and moving again might get us seen by one of their mobile units. They’re putting up those pylon things they’ve got on the UNM campus all over out here.”

“I tried getting a look at one of those the other day but campus security waved me off.” Hana added, aggrieved.

“Whatever else they are, they’ve got a pretty hefty sensor and communications package on them -- I can see their output on our own passive monitors.” Lucio added, and the map rippled as he pushed data, added clusters of red-white-black pinpricks representing the pylons’ locations, easily a few dozen spread across the desert basin between Albuquerque and the mesa, many of them concentrated just above the Red Line along old Route 40. “I can try hacking one of their transceiver modules and skimming the data to see what they’re monitoring but that might attract some attention if they’ve got any kind of intrusion detection capabilities onboard.”

“No unnecessary risks. The pylons likely aren’t going anywhere and they’re extraneous to our own mission.” Terrifying Smoke Gabe rasped, his voice on the comms a weirdly metallic echo. “We can always try that if we can’t get intelligence from other sources.”

“Speaking of which,” Zenyatta interjected smoothly, “Team Tattoo reporting perimeter secure at Four Daughters Basecamp -- we are about to begin deploying our sensor and visual observation drones and begin transmitting.”

“El Malpais Basecamp likewise secure and ready to begin deployment.” Jamie added. “Team Helicopter Parents on perimeter patrol.”

“God, I hate that name,” Jack muttered.

“Who gave the lecture about appropriate comm discipline last night?” Gabe asked sweetly.

“Oh, shut up.”

Actual comm discipline immediately dissolved in jokes and back-and-forth smacktalk, a release of tension that even Jack recognized as necessary before any real work could get done, especially since they were waiting for Team Tokki to get up to speed. Hanzo, recognizing at as well, went and fetched tea and cakes and fussy little finger sandwiches for himself and Ana and, eventually, Reinhardt when he came in off his own perimeter patrol with the members of the pack left on guard duty. She accepted the cup he poured and the plate he delivered with a gracious smile, setting aside her work for the moment, while in the background nearly everyone they loved pretended not to be afraid.

Four days they’d been in the field -- four days of hunting the monster haunting him, four nights of sleeping rough, fanning out from Cerrillos in a gradually expanding search pattern enabled by Jesse’s practical maintenance of multiple gasoline-powered vehicles and Jamie’s purpose-built technology. Hana had dropped her presentation and then bagged the rest of her classes to assist in the physical construction of the drones, displaying a level of mechanical skill that Hanzo at least had never suspected. (“When I was a kid, my cousins and my friend Dae-hyun and I built hovertech for competition before I got into gaming -- seriously, aniki, it’s like falling off a bike, you never really forget once you know how to do it.”) Genji and Lucio had done likewise with the programming, following Jamie and Roadie’s careful instructions, working late into the night on stress-testing up until the day before their departure. Hanzo, relegated to a support role, had helped prepare the supplies and the vehicles for departure, packing MATILDA and the largest of Jesse’s off-road capable Jeeps with military surplus rations and bottled water, three fully stocked first aid kits, the heavily warded four-season tents and camping gear going with Team Helicopter Parents and Team Tokki, and extra warm clothing for everyone. He forced cardigans and sweatshirts on all of them at breakfast the morning they departed, a meal he crawled out of Jesse’s warm embrace to make for them and to which he returned before he allowed them to leave.

Jesse had taken his face between his hands, his kiss sweet and soft, and Hanzo had exercised enormous restraint by making only a few rude gestures at his brother and friends as they whistled and shouted suggestions and encouragements ranging from the mildly obscene to the outright pornographic. Jesse’s husky laughter had warmed him almost more than the kiss as he drew them together and murmured against his ear, “I’ll bring Hana and Lu back safe and sound, I promise, and Roadie won’t let anything happen to Genji and Zen.”

“I know.” Hanzo replied, soft and low against his shoulder. “I just wish...I wish I could do more.”

“You’ll have plenty to do when we find this thing. For now, you’re our lifeline. Don’t forget that.” Jesse pressed a last kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be back before you know it, darlin’. Never fear.”

But fear he did, despite Jesse’s assurances, despite his knowledge of all their skill and ability and competence, because he also knew the cruelty and viciousness and above all else cunning of the thing that they hunted, a cunning that had concealed what he had become from their entire clan, from the sister raised at his side, from the Dragon of the South Wind himself. That concealed him now, still, even as they found the telltale traces of his passage through the world, marked on the holomap in a particularly vile shade of bilious yellow, twisting tracks that appeared and disappeared without apparent pattern, growing gradually denser as the search teams moved west. Fear moved him to carry an inflatable camping mattress down to the dining room, where the communications nerve center was set up by virtue of adequate work-and-table space, and built a nest where he slept, light and restless, alert to the slightest twitch of sound on the comms, the tiniest hint of distress, which mostly came in the form of bodies shifting in their sleep and a terrifyingly vast assortment of snores.

“Drones airborne and headed to optimal scan radius,” Hana reported. “You want me to send one of our spares up to keep an eye on the MiBs?”

“Couldn’t hurt to gather a little intel at this stage of the proceedings.” Jesse opined.

“It could if your drone is detected.” Terrifying Smoke Gabe pointed out. “If you send one up, I recommend passive visual observation only.”

“Doable. Lu, you wanna handle that while I get these puppies where they need to go?” A clattering of equipment on the line as Hana and Lucio moved about in their working shelter.

“Gotcha. Temporarily disabling the drone’s sensor package just to be on the safe side.” Lucio came on the line for the first time that day. “You want me to stream footage back to HQ?”

Hanzo glanced at Ana who nodded slightly and murmured, “If they can detect our drone sensor data streams, a video stream will hardly make matters worse, and if they cannot, we will have fresh information of our own.”

“True.” Hanzo replied as his stomach tried gamely to twist itself into a Lemarchand cube of pure dread. “Go ahead, Lucio.” He clicked his own comm off and looked back to Ana, meditatively sipping her tea. “If they -- if TALON -- detects our data streams, could they trace them here, to Cerrillos?”

“Theoretically? Yes. In practice, Jack and Gabriel and Jesse have all exerted considerable effort to make this place as difficult to find as possible for outsiders.” Ana smiled dryly. “And, in any case, they may be the least of our concerns at this juncture.”

“Point.” Hanzo muttered and clicked the comm back on, applying himself to his own tea in an effort to wring some calm out of his digestive tract.

“Team Tokki’s drones on station, optimal positioning.” Hana sang.

“Team Helicopter Parents, ready to begin scanning.” Jamie replied.

“Team Tattoo, likewise prepared.” Zen added tranquilly.

All three Basecamp icons flashed and Hanzo set the countdown timer. “Ten second timer.”

At ten, the holomap blossomed as the drones’ sensor packages and associated data streams came online, populating it with a picture of local reality that overlaid and intertwined with the topography in ways that would make a cartographer’s eyes bleed. In the corner, a secondary pane opened with Lucio’s camera drone feed as it climbed out of basecamp, view panning out across the remains of the Kozy Kot Motor Inn and its eight identical “log cabin” cottages plus the motel office, set around an inner courtyard that had once contained picnic tables and grills and now held two four-season tents linked by a vestibule, a camp sanitary structure, and a warmed, weatherproof work tent, where they also ate their meals. As Hanzo watched, Jesse made is way between two of the cottages and looked up, waved for the camera as Lucio panned and zoomed away, over the cracked and crumbling remnants of a paved road, through the remains of the little tourist town that had sprung up around the motel, as fully abandoned as it was, and into the desert beyond.

There the ground was rucked up and rugged, split by arroyos and tumbled spits of dark, jagged stone, blanketed in tough, autumn-browned grasses and scrubby, wind-tortured trees and shrubs, elevation rising steadily until the drone was climbing vertically along the wall of the mesa. The top of the mesa itself was so flat the TALON installation was clearly visible miles off, a crescent of four dun-colored prefab structures clustered together, their communications uplink arrays pointed skyward, the rest of their camp’s perimeter delineated in those pylons, spaced neatly exact distances apart. Lucio dropped the drone to a few inches above the mesa hardpack and brought it in behind the largest of the structures, up the back avoiding the windows, and settled it into place on the edge of structure’s roof, cameras trained down into the camp itself.

Ana moved to join Hanzo, teacup in hand, and settled to watch. Within the relatively compact confines of the camp, technicians in khaki jumpsuits were working with obvious care among the basalt-black rocks, scanning the petroglyphs with handheld devices, taking photographs and video, neither moving nor touching anything if they could avoid it.

“I’ll be damned,” Lucio muttered. “Maybe they are doing archaeological preservation work?”

“You have to admit, we’ve seen stranger things.” Genji remarked dryly.

“But if that’s the case, why are they crawling all over the school? And why’d they interrogate Hanzo about Professor Flakes-a-Lot? And what’s the deal with those pylons? And --” Hana’s stream of questions was cut off by the sound of smashing crockery and Hanzo’s involuntary yelp of pain as Ana gripped his arm with unexpectedly fierce strength.

“Pan back,” Ana snapped over his comm.

Lucio did so and Ana’s grip tightened another degree. “Jack, Gabriel...are you seeing this?”

The pair standing together before one of the largest single petroglyph displays in the camp were not dressed like technicians. One, scrawny and unshaven and bespectacled, dark hair going gray at the temples, wore an honest-to-gods white lab coat over his cable knit sweater and gray cargo pants, hands doing as much talking as his mouth as he conversed with his companion. That companion was a solid two, maybe as much as three, heads shorter, clad in rust red coveralls and heavy hiking boots and more toolbelts and their associated attachments than seemed possible, his hugely muscled and heavily tattooed shoulders uncovered and most of his face obscured by a genuinely impressive mass of thick blonde beard and mustaches.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack breathed over the comm, his quiet carrying the relative force of an explosion.

“Torbjörn?” Terrifying Smoke Gabe sounded frankly stunned. “But...he and Ingrid retired years ago.”

“Apparently not,” Jack replied, grimly.

“This...changes the complexion of many things.” Reinhardt said, heavily, from the door and came to lay an enormous hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“It does?” Hanzo asked. “How? Why? What does this mean?”

“Too soon to tell on some of those, kid.” Jack said into the silence that followed. “But as to what it means? That little Viking wrench-slinger there is Torbjörn Lindholm and, once upon a time, he was a member of the same UN-sponsored special ops unit as Gabe and I -- Rein and Ana, Yanaba and Nate, too. Helped us save the world a time or six. And, if he’s involved with this bunch, TALON? That likely means nothing good and we should probably figure out what it is sooner rather than later.”

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66

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aj-draws · 6 years

Text

Our Heartstrings

July 18th was the day Sly made the sacred post. I suppose you could consider this a one month anniversary for The Heart Squad!

So this is a short story that explains how it feels like being on Tumblr, and how lucky I am to have such amazing friends. Because I like mixing fantasy and magic with my writing to make it more exciting, there’s a bit of a...twist that you’ll see :)

If you wanna scroll past this, feel free to, I don’t mind! This is personal writing of mine that I wanted to share, and if you’re curious about me (since this reflects me as a person as well), then you can go ahead and read this.

(Note! Some things I write about not might be necessarily true. The way I describe things might not be accurate, but behind the screen, that is what I see and interpret. It’s just my way of seeing things, my perspective, so uhh don’t get mad if I’m wrong lol??)

(Another side note! This is completely related to the story involving The Heart Squad that we’re working on. Just wanted to make that clear)

Either way, have a lovely day, everyone! :D

@danyulsdimple @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @bubblseri @phlying-squirrel

(I’m gonna put a cut because this actually became really long? Whoops I still don’t regret a thing lmao-)

But first, an explanation.

I...have this weird habit. I guess it stems from me being a detail oriented writer, but whenever I meet someone new and get to know them after an extended period of time, I have specific ways to describe that person. Similarly, this also happens for characters from new shows that I watch. For Sanders Sides, well, there’s that ‘Describing Sanders Sides Ships’ that I wrote. For Analogical, I think of an evening sunset, or for Logicality, the sun and the moon comes to mind-things like that.

Writing has always been very personal to me. Most of my art comes without thought, you see, there usually isn’t some secret message hidden in it. But whenever I write, it’s always to tell a story. Writing has posed a difficult and unpredictable, but rewarding challenge for me. I haven’t been able to write something so passionately for quite a long time, so thank you for that. <3

You all are awesome. Creating this little group has been so much fun, and having you guys be there means a lot to me. Sometimes it’s hard to express that, so I hope I can make that a little more clear with this little story.

This is for my dear friends.

To Lea, whose openness and humor lets me smile and laugh with ease.

To Piper, whose positive impact on others has caused me to admire her from afar.

To Sly, whose fascinating, patient personality provides comfort and stability.

To Sienna, whose bright and kind nature has warmed my heart.

This one is for you. I love you guys 💜💜💜

The red string of fate.

It is said to be an unbreakable string of scarlet that binds soulmates. Just like how fate is more than what people make it out to be, so are the strings.

I’d know.

Because love comes in so many different forms, I’ve already had several strings when I was little.

On my left hand was the comforting kind of love. The kind that gave me a small, soft smile when my mother kissed my head. Or when I couldn’t stop laughing over something my father joked about. Not just that, but even how proud I get when my sister compliments my art. Two strings tied to my parents wraps around my index finger, to lead me in the right direction. On the other hand, a string from my sister is looped around my thumb, which assured me that I could do anything.

I’m glad the strings are weightless, because my right hand would feel as heavy as a dumbbell if they weren’t. My right hand symbolizes platonic love. A string instantly becomes attached the moment I interact with someone. It first starts around the wrist, and as you get to know the person, the string moves. The middle finger is where hatred for that person resides, the thumb for those that are simply acquaintances that cheer me on from afar, and the index finger is reserved for good-natured, honest best friends that bring out the best in me.

My ring and pinkie fingers remain untouched.

Now, the ring finger, I understand. If I were to feel affection toward a friend, perhaps a string might find a home around my ring finger. But my pinkie? What does such a tiny, trivial finger represent?

Now back to the myth. As you can see, there is truth behind what is only known as a legend.

But there is one thing that they got wrong.

Tapping the power button on my laptop, I lean back in my chair. I sigh, long and quiet, all the while tugging and massaging my fingers. Faint aching at my joints causes me slight discomfort, but it’s nothing unusual. After finishing seven drawings in a hour or two, what do you expect?

I rest both hands atop my keyboard and let all of my fingers stretch in front of me, admiring the strings. I smile, I really do...I can’t help but flinch when I feel my grin dissipate.

The strings are a fading white, completely empty of color.

All the rich, vibrant shades of red that they talked of was untrue. Seeing the strings makes my heart soar, but their colorless, bleak nature is bound to bring a bit of gloom from time to time.

I constantly wonder why. Was I supposed to see color? Do I see colors when I reach a certain age? Am I broken? Why-

The screen comes alive, and the light that radiates from the letters on the keyboard bring me back to reality. Clicking on the blue logo that I know all too well, I find myself smiling right away.

Online friends are an interesting case. Since I’ve never physically met them, they don’t have strings. I can leave asks on as many people’s blogs as I want, but not a single string appears.

...There were four exceptions. Let me tell you about them.

She is the countryside.

She is the short walk to a nearby town, where the buildings huddle together and lights reflects off each other’s windows. There are quiet voices, the occasional booming cackle and the clinking of glasses. The streets and roads are mostly empty, but it is inside the stores and shops where laughter and chatter belong.

There is a homely feeling to this small town. You could always find her wandering around, going from building to building leaving smiles and bright faces. Whether it’s complimenting others or joining a protection squad, she is there with the town, reveling in the closeness of their companionship.

And then you are home. You are where the houses become scattered and the concrete roads become gravel or sand. Gazing out over the horizon, there is only the gentle swaying of tall crops and a setting sun.

You remain outside, sitting down and watching the sun fade away. Light falls and darkness rises, covering you with a blanket of constellations and glittering stars. With no factories or skyscrapers close by, the sky can breathe.

When your back drops against the ground and the grass meets your hair, she grins beside you. She laughs along when you point out the constellations, remarking that they look like things they definitely aren’t supposed to look life. She is the lift of your lips, the sparkle in your eyes.

Lying down with the smell of fresh grass and cool air lingering upon my nose, I feel calm. Her presence, though it is not entirely familiar, is peaceful.

But she is not always peaceful. In a place where there are nothing but fields and flatlands, you are bound to find something to liven things up.

When the colorful leaves drop from trees and a chilling breeze settles in, you could be chatting with friends in that bustling coffee shop in town, or be in a library, immersing yourself in an interesting book. Even indoors, you are sitting by the fireplace or watching movies. You could be smelling the blooming flowers and morning dew, visiting gardens and climbing trees. Then all of a sudden, you’re dancing, barefoot, with the stars hanging over your head, a popping firecracker in your hand as you take in the warmth of July.

Whatever it is, it is new and exciting. Taking something so simple and making it worthwhile is an admirable feat.

You do not know this place well, that is for sure. But you wish you do. You wish you could. The countryside is filled with wonders that you hope to explore and learn about in the future.

As you sit upright, you glance down. That faint swish on your wrist was indeed not the grass, but a string.

All you can do is hope she feels the same.

We are connected, the countryside and I.

She is a city.

Sometimes she feels distant, just like how New York City is to me, but I don’t mind. She isn’t constantly a part of my life, and yet every time I drive down that bridge, look into the river and see those shining buildings, I’m filled with excitement.

The city is an acquired taste, something that you maybe wouldn’t enjoy unless you’ve visited it on multiple occasions. Even for me, a person who was born and raised in such a place for most of her life, the city takes some getting used to.

In some parts, the buildings glitter like gold. With its polished glass windows, allowing sunlight to grace its surface all too perfectly, and elegant architecture, you are almost fooled by its facade.

Then you could turn your head and see tired, drooping eyes, voices yelling into phones and people crossing streets with a red traffic light hanging over their heads.

Insecurity disguises itself within beauty.

And she is always there.

The sun begins to set, bringing upon the shadows, the people and the lights. I’m stuck within a crowd of people, and I’m still alone.

After not being in the city for several months, things don’t seem all that beautiful anymore.

Suddenly the echoing footsteps of the people around me doesn’t sound so soothing. The buses roar, lions that snarl and growl intensely. Cars screech to abrupt stops, paying no attention to the rapid honking or the blinking stoplights. Above me, the trains let out bellowing cries as they bang against the rickety steel tracks.

She is there, pulling me to safety. Away from the dreadful noises, from the crowd, until there is tranquil silence. In order to ease the tension, she cracks a small joke.

Now, just for a moment, I can laugh in peace.

There is a tug at the corner of her lips as she sets off into the city. I follow alongside her. For a little while, things don’t feel overwhelming anymore. There are no due dates, no drawing requests to get done, no stories that are begging to be written. I can see the city for what it truly is.

Just like her, the city is real. Its raw, imperfect magnificence is bound to stun anyone, as long as they take the time to get to know its delighting qualities.

She is the embodiment of stupid, but brilliantly amusing conversations in the middle of the night. She speaks in the language of references, using words in a way that will make you giggle. Her words come quickly, in a rush that ends as soon as it appeared, but that refreshing feeling of a car speeding past you will never stop being exhilarating.

She tends to change a lot. One moment she’ll be bubblegum pink, a rose dripping in paint. Then the warm tones of golden sunflowers, or even a cat stalking through the night. All the colors and scents shift from one theme to another-her love for aesthetics never ceases to impress me.

She moves quickly and easily, but she will never completely abandon you. If she disappears for a couple of minutes, you can rest assured that she’ll come running back bearing a smile and a funny story. As fast as a subway train, she will jump from one topic to another, whether it’s about crazy school stories or cantaloupes.

Her relatable humor will lift a chuckle from one’s throat, lightening up someone’s mood like how the lamp posts along the sidewalks come alive at night. Light pours in through the windows of buildings, illuminating the jet black sky. In the same way, she, with her exciting personality, is able to brighten one’s day.

Only when you’re sitting on the roof of a building will you be able to appreciate her. When you sit still, taking in the view, just listen. She will be there. Not everyone enjoys the city the first time around, but I promise you, there’s always something there that’ll make you smile.

She doesn’t even live in a city, so for all I know, she could have no idea what I’m talking about.

But as a person who has lived in one and loved it with all her heart-that’s saying a lot.

She smiles softly, saying goodbye before turning her head to the city. She stares, almost in a daze, at the skyscrapers and flashing lights. She rises, jumping off the ledge, hitting a metal staircase attached to the side of the building. Rushing down the steps, she doesn’t look back once.

You aren’t worried. She will return, one way or another.

The wind picks up, a light breeze that mirrored her swift movements. I stand up and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, noticing the tingling sensation that momentarily crossed my wrist. I look down and grin.

We are connected, the city and I.

They are a forest.

Personally, I haven’t spent much time in forests, so I think of them are rare. Unique. Where I live, there’s always been random patches of trees here and there, but never forests.

I think forests have plenty of hidden beauty. There’s just something captivating about entering a forest in the midday, seeing the light filtering in through the trees. Every tree’s branches spreads out far and wide, their long arms stretching out to embrace the glorious, radiant sun, but also weaving together to create a blanket of protection over the forest floor.

Forests means freedom. You could run, run, run: fast, far and even a little careless, but the support of the forest is always apparent. As you dash through the woods, you notice everything you could ever love about being able to express yourself. There’s the scent of pine cones and dirt, the gust of air that blows your hair into a tornado, and the babbling brook that you easily soar across.

But when the night fell-everything all of a sudden became more terrifying.

It isn’t the forest itself that frightens you-it’s what surrounds it. There are howls of stalking predators, jaws snapping wildly. Voices come from the swaying trees and whistling wind, rapidly increasing whispers that made your legs tremble. Their vile words yank and snatch at the remnants of my sanity, draining all of the energy and hope out of me. The sounds are not there to hurt you necessarily, but sickening feeling persistently tugging at your stomach isn’t the most comforting thing either.

They tell you that you’re not supposed to be there. Maybe you don’t deserve to discover any of the forest’s intriguing mysteries, or experience the gorgeous lights of a city, or even the simple excitement of the countryside. What if you’re being bothersome, or overbearing? What if-

The forest does not like ‘what ifs’. The forest does not mean to scare you, or make you feel out of place.

The wind begins to ease up, the steady breeze soothing your shaking hands. As you look down, you close your eyes and listen once more. To the faint chirping of the cicadas, the rustling leaves and swishing branches.

They appear at your side in your moments of unexpected, excessive doubt and panic. When your eyelids flutter open and you see them beside you, you are grounded. Safe. You start to talk to them, their tone hushed and quiet, as if they’re afraid of scaring you. You could never be scared of them. Perhaps worried that these conversations might be too time consuming for them, yes, but never scared.

They show you the forest as it is: fascinating, patient, understanding and even showing a bit of fear from time to time. The forest is as welcoming as it is calming, and you enjoy that.

You never expected that you would ever experience happiness from a night as horrible as that one, but you did. The thoughts never destroyed you because the forest was there to protect you.

Within the pitch black, there was light. Fireflies danced throughout the forest, their luminosity making me smile that night.

When your eyelids felt heavy and your yawns grew longer, they told you to sleep. It was late, they spoke, and you need rest. You reluctantly gave in to this request.

Just before you were pulled into a deep slumber, something brushes against your wrist. The ghost of a smile graces your lips as you lose consciousness.

We are connected, the forest and I.

She is a meadow.

I wish with all my heart that I could travel more often. I’ve only seen meadows through videos and pictures, but as an introvert that appreciates nature, I’d love to see one someday.

All I can imagine is light and beauty. The ground dips into smooth, elegant valleys and rises in the form of rolling hills. The sky mirrors the sun’s movements, changing its colors as it dances across the heavens. If you only you were there to see it-the dazzling, radiant meadow at work, stunning you with its abundance of warmth.

After wandering around momentarily, you shiver, turning around and stiffening. The wispy, cotton-like clouds that were just drifting through the sky had transformed into something worse. You tremble in sync with the ground beneath your feet, feeling your breathing become choppy and unsteady. The loud, booming, angry noises sink into your mind, not giving you a chance to recover. All you can hear is the regret, all you can feel is the doubt and all you can see is the fear.

You see her. Never once had she not been there for me.

Hearing her footsteps, the noises disappear. The grey clouds linger for a second, before giving in to the blue skies and sunshine. The storm does not come for the meadow, whose genuine joy is something that cannot be easily purged.

She comes with words-happy, lovely words woven together in the dandelions that surrounded her. She sits down, a smile on her face as she invites you to pick the flowers with her. The flowers’ colors are grounding and gentle to the touch.

For every flower that you take, her kind words flood your eyes. One tells you that you are amazing, the second that you are talented, and another that you deserve all the happiness in the world. Each one carries laughter, brings excitement and makes you grin. One after another, as the dandelions fill your lap, her compassion fills your heart.

There is one more dandelion. Once your fingers brush against its petals, you can hear it right away.

It reminds you that you are loved.

Pressing that one to your chest, you can feel your smile grow, which was almost impossible considering how wide it was beforehand. You like that specific flower a lot, you admit. Sometimes you forget.

Her arm rests along your shoulders, her smile comforting you. She knows, and that is precisely why she says it.

The meadow, in all of its glory, embraces you. She whispers, telling you how sorry she is, and how much you are loved. You can smell it in the dandelions, and you can feel it in your heart. You do not deserve her.

Are you okay, she asks with worry still lacing her voice. Upon spotting a string twirling around your wrist, you giggle and let yourself breathe. Without a doubt, you are alright, you answer.

We are connected, the meadow and I.

You might be asking, what about me? If one’s the countryside, the second’s a city, another is a forest, and the other is a meadow, then what am I?

The thing is: I had no idea.

I never saw myself as anything extravagant, or special. I don’t have the brightness of a city, the homely feel of the countryside, the soothing nature of a forest, or even the warmth of a meadow. What do I have?

A tug on my wrist. Faint, but urgent. I glance up at the screen.

I am...wanted...? Hm. I wonder.

I’m walking, blind. My eyes are closed and I cannot will them open. But the four are by my side, so I know all is fine.

The darkness clears, bringing in light.

Dunes of soft sand spreads out in a blanket of golden as far as I can see. The sunlight casts its rays over the shoreline, causing glittering, hidden shells to reveal themselves. I stare in utter awe at the waves-at how, with every passing second, the colors seem to change. First, it’s turquoise, then azure, and suddenly cerulean. The shades of blue shift and churn peacefully, emitting the scent of salt.

A beach.

Maybe...Maybe I do belong. I don’t doubt it as much anymore.

I stretch my hand out to the sea. I long for it, after all. Then, instead of focusing on the ocean, my gaze travels to my wrist.

Four strings lift from their place and begin to move, following the movements of the gentle breeze. Once unfurled from my wrist, they leap-

And find a comfortable spot around my pinkie.

Each string is filled with a color.

Green for the city.

Pink with flecks of gold for the countryside.

Red for the forest.

Yellow for the meadow.

Purple for the beach.

Once upon a time, five colors met. They have never been the same since.

They made a promise. It wasn’t too real or serious, just a dream that they hope with all their might would come true. They wish to one day meet each other.

When this dream was made apparent that all five of them shared, purple smiled. Purple’s heart sung with joy, for she was once again reminded that she belonged. She sits, in front of her screen, closing her eyes and extending her pinkie. Purple wishes to meet the four vibrant, wonderful colors.

One day, purple hopes. For now, she will remain at her screen: pencil to paper, fingers to keyboard. She is content with sharing herself this way, but...perhaps, with time...she will not be afraid of posting that picture.

They all have their differences, yet they are still friends.

They are The Heart Squad. ❤️💚💖💛💜

#the <3 squad #personal writing #the <3 squad anniversary #I'm tempted to do like?? Short stories for every month on the 18th??#Just because this was super fun #Who knows? :3 #fave

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herdingcampers · 3 years

Text

'I still think it’s pretty sus that your bosses made you work the day they hired you.’

“I know, I know, but they seem like pretty chill folks. Pretty desperate too, I guess, and I can’t really blame them with the kids they’ve been handling.”

‘I’m just saying, when payday comes, and if they just drop a wad of cash in your hands--no tax deducted--book it asap.’

“I-I know, I just...well, aside from the handful that the campers can be--and, hoo boy, it’s only Sunday, so camp activities and stuff really start tomorrow--they-they seem like...uh...nice? Friendly folks?”

‘...yeah and you remember when I worked at that pizza place, right?’

“I know! I know...I just...wanna give them a chance. Give THIS a chance...”

‘...-sigh- yeah I know...’

......

‘Well, it’s day one up there. You said it’ll be about a month?’

“Yeah, that’s lookin’ like it.”

Chuckles.

‘You’ve got plenty of time, then. Not too long, not too short, so enjoy it up there in the mountains for me while I’m dying over here in a hundred and stupid degrees flatlands.’

“Yeah...yeah I’ll--I will...and...and hey, can you give my boy all the cuddles he’s missing for me? I know Lyta can’t stand him, but I know he’s very lonely.”

‘Of course~ And you know you can call me anytime, right?’

“Pfft! Even at ass-crack of dawn?”

‘I mean I’ll tell you to fuck off, but sure.’

Laughter.

“Alrighty, Mags, I’ll remember, so long as I can find a decent signal.”

‘Yeah--oh--oof! I don’t envy you there.’

“For real though...”

...

‘Feeling a little better now?’

“Ye-Yeah--” -sniff-

“I am...thanks sis.”

‘Love youuuu’

“Love you too...talk to you later...’night...”

-End Phone call-

#lamb log

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betterdaysareatoenailaway · 3 years

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Out on the Interstate: S’more Thoughts on Neil Young

I don’t have any fentanyl stories today, so I’m writing another Neil Young post. (Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to mention heroin. You’ll see.) I still have a ton of fent stories, don’t worry bout that. I just don’t feel like mining my memory for any right now. Instead, I wanna talk about my favourite Neil Young song ever. It’s called “Interstate.” This performance was recorded at Farm Aid 1985. Young’s backing band at the time were called the International Harvesters, which is a funny joke (International Harvester was a company that manufactured tractors and other agricultural equipment). Young was on a roll in the 80s with clever band names. Later on he would front Neil Young & the Restless. Anyway whoever is playing piano with Young was the perfect choice, plucking individual keys instead of slathering big chords all over the descending minor chord progression. Young’s guitar is tuned to drop D, a favourite tuning of his throughout his career, from “Cinammon Girl” to “World On A String” to “Be the Rain,” and you can hear the low D buzzing throughout, giving the song a raw off-the-cuff feel. Of course, Neil Young is known for his raw performances, especially on albums like Tonight’s the Night, but by the time the 80s rolled around he was making albums with a lot of processing and production like Landing on Water, along with silly genre exercises like Everybody’s Rockin’ and Old Ways.

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Young would eventually be sued by his own record label, Geffen, for making “uncharacteristic music.” David Geffen would eventually apologize to him, but he wasn’t wrong that Young’s early 80s records were a bit of a disaster. This performance, however, shows that Young hadn’t lost a single step when it came to live performance. His vocal is clear and convincing, world weary but still kinda defiant, like all his best songs. And whether those are real or synth strings, they sound great, and really tug at one’s heartstrings. They have the spook, that high lonesome train whistle feel. To my ears, all the best Neil Young songs are haunting and plaintive. There is a loneliness at the heart of most of Young’s best work (ever hear “Albequerque”? Prolly the saddest song to ever mention the eating of ham?) Neil Young doesn’t write carefree party music. Hell, he once recorded an entire album about the death of his friend and former bandmate Danny Whitten - and to a lesser extent, former roadie Bruce Berry who was fired for pawning instruments to buy heroin...told ya I’d find a way to mention the drug ;). What I’m saying is, Young is no stranger to sad songs. As to which song is his saddest, there are many contenders, but as Young’s biographer himself admits, “Interstate is Neil Young’s loneliest song.” I agree.

Young’s longtime producer David Briggs, who knew damn well that “Interstate” was a rare gem, tried to get Young to record it for 1991′s Ragged Glory, but in typical fashion, “[Young] acceded, but perversely,” eschewing the full-band format and recording a solo acoustic version instead. That particular version would eventually see limited release on the vinyl version of Young’s 1996 album Broken Arrow, a forgettable affair that was hammered by critics and disavowed by most members of Crazy Horse. You can find the solo acoustic “Interstate” on YouTube but I’m not gonna post it, simply because it is so freakin’ disappointing.

I love the line “I can hear a soft voice calling...telling me to bring my guitar home.” In the tradition of the Rolling Stones’ “Moonlight Mile,” "Interstate” is one of the all-time great I’m-A-Lonely-Rock-Star-On-Tour song. A more modern version of this idea can be found in Kurt Vile’s unimaginatively titled “On Tour,” a song where Young’s influence can be identified, especially in the way Vile tunes his lower strings to let them buzz, a technique pioneered by Young in the abovementioned song and most prominently in “Bandit.”

Thank God for YouTube, so that you can hear "Interstate” in all its gorgeous majesty. You can hear Young play the same guitar solo he’s been playing his whole career in minor key masterpieces like “Hey Hey My My,” “Like A Hurricane,” “Goin’ Home,” “Be The Rain.” Every time Young returns to it, you can feel the long shadow of his past, echoes of former greatness, the shambolic glory of his band bashing away at the chords, always emphasizing emotional delivery over technical proficiency. It’s a really really beautiful song, a song I treasure, and I hope you like it.

I’m also posting a rare version of “Shots.”

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In “Shots,” Neil Young returns to a technique previously used on “Cortez the Killer,” where he switches from a third person omniscient voice describing trauma and violence to a first person voice describing personal emotion. In Zuma’s “Cortez the Killer,” Young spends two or three verses describing the endeavours of genocidal explorer Hernan Cortes, and also the Aztecs: people worked together/they lifted many stones/they carried them to the flatlands/they died along the way/but they built up with their bare hands what we still can’t do today/and I know she’s living there and loves me til this day. Now, that’s not Shelley, but it’s an effective and jarring switch. Young tries it again in “Shots,” and for me, the effect is even better. For whatever reason, maybe his sharp right turn when he became an outspoken Reagan supporter, or maybe because of the Iran-Contra Affair, Young’s lyrics took on a particular preoccupation with crime, border zones, and desert iconography in the 1980s, manifestations of which can be heard in “Crime in the City (Sixty to Zero Part I)” “Rockin’ In the Free World,” “On Broadway,” and “Eldorado,” all songs that ended up on Young’s last album of the 1980s, Freedom. But because of the remarkable internal consistency of Young’s discography, you can also hear such sentiments in one of his first 1980s releases: “Shots.” Children are lost in the sand, building roads with little hands Trying to join their father's castles together again Will they make it? Hey, who knows where or when old wounds will mend? Shots ringing all along the borders can be heard Striking out like a venom in the sky Cutting through the air faster than a bird in the night But I'll never use your love, you know I'm not that kind And so if you give your heart to me I promise to you Whatever we do...that I will always be true To jump from depictions of border violence to gooey Hallmark card sentiments shouldn’t work, yet it does. The words might look silly written down, but the sheer conviction they are sung with, and the sheer power of Young’s loon-like vibrato, is what sells them, at least to my ears and heart. I’m not the first to make the loon comparison, Young’s biographer Jimmy McDonough has done so too. Young’s father Scott was the first writer to compare his son’s unique voice to the sound of the loon cry, a very Canadian sound, associated with Muskoka nights in summer, nights often soundtracked by Young’s vast and varied discography.

Disappointingly, the album version of “Shots,” which appeared on 1981′s Re-ac-tor, is pretty fuckin annoying, with its overblown machine gun affects (done by Young on the Synclavier), and Ralph Molina’s incessant marching beat. The song is already called “Shots,” Neil. You didn’t have to add machine gun sound effects. This isn’t audio verite. I’m not gonna post the album version here but you can find it easily. The album iteration has its fans though. Canadian blue-collar rockers The Constantines would cover “Shots” on a vinyl-only release with The Unintended, in which the Cons covered Neil Young and The Unintended covered Gordon Lightfoot. The Cons picked some weird songs, “Shots” among them, and you can tell they are referencing the Re-ac-tor version, not the superior one posted here. I’m not sure why Young slathered so many effects over the album version of “Shots.” The 80s definitely saw him taking his heavier music in an unpalatable direction. The Eldorado EP, in particular, has one of his most savage recordings ever, a song called “Heavy Love” where Young blows his voice out completely by the end of the song in an attempt to sing louder than the savage pulsing thrust of the band (the abovementioned Young & the Restless). The drummer on Eldorado was Chad Cromwell, not Steve Jordan who’d played with Young on his legendary SNL appearance where he played “Rockin in the Free World,” the definitive performance of that song, where Young tore all six strings from his guitar at its denouement. Unfortunately, SNL guards its content as jealously as a rabid guard dog, so I can’t post it. Maybe one day I’ll find a gif. I’ll leave you with two strong cuts from Eldorado. The first is “Heavy Love,” which is obviously a sister song to “Rockin In The Free World,” with its similar sonic texture and E minor riff. Listening is worth it just to hear Young’s voice go to pieces a la “Territorial Pissings” at the end (3:58 if you don’t wanna wait).

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And this is the title track “Eldorado,” which ended up on Freedom. Young employs a fingerpicking style redolent of 80s megastars Dire Straits, and he sings of mission bells and senoritas and golden suns rising on runways and Mariachi bands while playing the A minor chord, a chord strongly associated with Mexican music and Mariachi styles. It’s a cool verite approach, one that works much better than the machine gun effects of “Shots,” especially when the gun violence Young has been hinting at the entire song finally explodes in a shower of distortion at 4:40. Have you ever heard something so loud compared to the backing track? I remember showing “Eldorado” to my friend/bandmate James, and I told him to prepare himself for how loud it is. Afterwards, James said, “even though I was ready for it, that scared the shit out of me.” It is so fucking loud. Check it out @ 4:40. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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One last point I’ll make...the Spanish-influenced guitar lick you can hear at 1:06 is really similar to the pre-chorus guitar riff Young plays on “War of Man” from Harvest Moon. I don’t consider stuff like that to be self plagiarism. I think it shows a consistency, but also it’s a way to reward fans for paying attention. Frank Zappa was known to do the same thing, re-introduce little musical nuances he’d recorded years or decades before. It’s cool. It’s what makes a discography live on long after the artist has burnt out or faded away. If you’re interested, here is a wonderful live early version of “Eldorado” titled “Road of Plenty” recorded with Crazy Horse in 1986: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By6_oLYfrYk

#betterdaysareatoenailaway #neil young #interstate #shots #ronald reagan #1980s #re-ac-tor #1981 #David Briggs #Scott Young #ralph molina #synclavier #steve jordan #SNL #bruceberry #danny whitten #heroin

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imeugene · 6 years

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That above was my first real bike. It was an early 2000′s Hoffman Condor. I was dead set on getting it instead of anything else. Even as a kid, I was really into researching things for the sake of researching and the conclusion I came up with is that I needed to get a Hoffman Condor. It wasn’t based on real empirical evidence(some things never change) but I liked the idea of running the same type of bike the Condor did when he did the no-handed 900. It was such a mystical trick. It was pre Youtube, in the dial up days where people would post a scanned sequence online cause the idea of creating gif was beyond the skill set of the majority of internet users and even a few second video clip uploaded by someone who isn’t a professional of sorts was mind blowing. I still have the Hoffman Super Fork lying around somewhere in the house. Peg bosses and all. I bring this up cause I have nothing but respect for the Condor and in BMX with it’s heavy us verses them mentality, any point of argument will automatically be shut down. And it’s not even an argument really. It’s just a difference in thought I noticed. I’m gonna try my best to be objective which I think I can maintain cause I honestly don’t know what to think about all this.

https://digbmx.com/dig-this/why-we-need-to-keep-the-uci-out-of-bmx

https://www.reddit.com/r/bmx/comments/82x7kd/why_we_need_to_keep_the_uci_out_of_bmx_matt/dvdjg3i/

Those are the two reading sort of required to understand all this. Both opposing views. One made by the largest legend in our lifestyle/hobby/sport/art/whatever you wanna call it and another is an anonymous commenter who seems to have a pretty well thought view.

Mat Hoffman’s word in BMX is truth. Regardless of whether he’s right or wrong, it doesn’t matter cause he’s built up a legacy and reputation that has upheld the tenants of what he believes is right for BMX. Throughout the years, it’s never been questioned his motivations or his adherence to his own views. Whethers it’s pushing the rider-owned brand and then further into Taiwanese factories to keep BMX cheap for the masses or being there when BMX was ready to blow up with the whole “eXtreme sports” hysteria. There is a whole book called the “Ride of my Life” that documents him that elaborates on all this further (or check out this Albion interview which is just as informative). The Idea is that the Condor is a stalwart of BMX and in world where there aren’t conclusive answers to the questions the BMX industry asks, Hoffman’s word has every right to be spoken and heard. He’s like that old grandpa you ask for life advice cause he saw so much and experienced that much more. Just cause he’s a grandpa don’t make him always right but... he definitely knows more and has a higher chance of being right than most..and Mat Hoffman is against the UCI. Understandably so.

The UCI is an international organization that governs all forms of cycling. All the avenues of what it exactly does evades me but the big thing to understand is the various cycling entities is given a larger corporate identity that can involve itself with actual corporations for money. Even if all of BMX was run by a singular company maybe like.. RideBMX or Danscomp or S&M. It’d be a laughable presence for companies compared to companies like Pepsi to sponsor their events in a serious way. On one hand it’s a high level of bureaucracy that very few in BMX are truly capable of, and BMX isn’t a blip in corporations like thats radar. The UCI is an organization that can possibly make it a blip.

I don’t know how the UCI is directly directly run by but I imagine it’s a bunch of suits who do not have cycling industry experience.. probably some business degree from some fancy company. Maybe they did well with some regional juice company few years before and got a better offer by the UCI so switched jobs. They’re numbers people and that’s what they understand and the language they speak.The reputations these numbers people get proceeds them. At one point a company like Breyer’s probably made really good ice cream, then they went public, then these numbers people came in and looked at the numbers, they realized if they changed sugar to high fructose corn syrup that they’d save a lot of money at the expense of some taste, then they did that to a lot of other avenues which cut costs like amount of milk or changing from handmade to factory made, increasing the budget for marketing verse quality control, which leads them to being sold them in every supermarket in the United States. Now Breyer’s is a household item which makes millions more than it ever did but is half the product it ever was. I think Mat Hoffman is afraid that this kind of snowball effect will happen if BMX was to be controlled by the UCI. For BMX to involve themselves with numbers people who honestly don’t care about the means just the results. It’s completely understandable too.

I think the people who involve themselves with the UCI that are riders are all well intentioned. I think they see that the UCI has something to offer and that in a way real BMX will never truly die. Something like the music industry. Music is a multi-billion industry that has Grammy’s by so called best artists, album sales, song plays, all these number based things but in the end real music continues to exist cause the need for real music continues to exist. I think the riders who involve themselves with the UCI see BMX in a similar fashion. Sure there is going to be A CHANCE in BMX being changed but it’s only on superficial level and only exists to fuel the rest of BMX that will continue to be what it is. To think of BMX expanding, I think a lot of people would think that instead of complete corporate takeover of BMX, that this would be how all this pans out. If all this happens in the first place.

The fact is that BMX doesn’t have money. For growth to happen, it needs money fueling it. The UCI and this whole Olympic situation is the best chance BMX has in growing in a drastic way. Plenty argue against the growth but that’s cause a lot of BMX is anti-social and a bit elitist like that. Which is honestly part of BMX that I love the best cause BMX created a video where some suburban kid ate his own poop and it was celebrated. That’s pretty cool. Seeing some banner in the background of the X-Games ramps that will be watched by millions in hopes that there is gonna be more clicks for that company’s website, hopefully creating more sales all directly tying back with that egregiously expensive spot for that $10 banner. It’s like Breyer’s ice cream. It’s a complete corporate mentality. Like there is probably gonna be a spread sheet of some sort predicting sales based on banner placement and tv screen time to explain all this for the number’s people. It’s not really BMX.

The reason the counter argument on Reddit brings up Fise is cause there is numbers that can be directly generated from that. Which in turn makes it an easier sell for the UCI, to sell to the larger corporations who have that real world money that can make a difference. Art is not supposed to be quantifiable, that’s why people always make big noise when some weird abstract art ends up selling for millions. Well.. there’s countless others that are equally as weird that will never sell for a dime. What I think some people worry is that can be as expressive and abstract as BMX will fall into the later category. It has some type of understood value but ultimately still worthless in real world money. If we’re gonna try to quantify things I can say right now the type of risks that Sean Burns takes does not equate the amount of money he probably makes. I don’t Yhe tricks he’s doing and the potential harm he can do for himself and buildings around him is probably gonna be a heavy risk burden for insurance companies. You hear big name professional riders take a bad fall and go on GoFundMe, it’s cause BMX is not paid nearly as much as the risks involved in that sense. But then we get into artistic argument of whether Sean Burns should be paid more cause he’s risking more compared to someone like Mathias Dandois who does flatland which is definitely less risky but seems to be able to generate good numbers by being ranked number in 1 flatland(not sure if it’s true). BMX is not something you can easily put money value into and any larger corporate entity will probably just avoid it all together cause it’s a headache to understand. They’ll take skateboarding cause the money that they generate is easily understood and in their opinion just as appealing if not more than BMX. There aren’t numbers people in BMX often so people who organize FISE would be conduit for the UCI and it’s BMX program.

What Hoffman and DMC did is not something that can be understood by numbers alone. How can you put a number on respect or what they achieved cause you can’t and that’s why the UCI is so easy to disrespect them. It’s not like they don’t have any real world value, they certainly do and their experiences also but for something as foreign as BMX can be, it’s not easily transcribable for something as large as the UCI, Olympics, large corporations or anything on that level. Numbers are their only language, the accomplishments of Hoffman and the DMC will fall on deaf ears. On one hand it does seem like Hoffman is willing to compromise but once again, to us Hoffman is all, to them he’s more or less just an overdecorated lobbyist.

It goes back to the whole question on how to grow BMX cause a lot of our industry certainly wants it. Whether to grow it slowly in an organic fashion which seems at times truly fruitless or cut a deal with the devil and do what it takes it to really make some changes. Cause it seems like every single time the corporations start having a hold in BMX, there certainly are noticeable changes people always bring up. For better or worse though. I don’t know though. No one does. That’s why were in this situation.

#bmx #uci #mat hoffman #dmc #dennis mccoy #olympics

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