#I think I will print out my mutuals’ art and put it on the fridge like a proud parent

[jutsuuu]

I am no longer experiencing

[marbledaesthetics]

Only on Principal | afi | part ii

masterlist part i

pairing: ashton irwin x ofc

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, mutual pining, fake (semi-coerced?) relationships, injuries, implications of anxiety

word count: 4.4k

a/n: sorry this took so long, I just recently restarted classes and I never have the time to write. I wish I could say the next one will be sooner, but I haven’t even started it (oops). I do have an idea of where this will go moving forward, so hopefully, once I can get around to writing, it will go quickly. 

~~~

It’s nearing 10 o’clock when Ashton pulls up to the building Hylla described, a brick building with tall windows, two stories high. The sign above the front door reads The Ink Pot, but he passes it by in favor of following the small alley to his left, as per her directions, where he found a small side door.

He hesitates before knocking, knowing he’s a few minutes early. He’d spent the past week kicking himself over the way he had treated her, and he was anxious to see if she would still be upset by it.

The door swings open, snapping him from his thoughts, to reveal Hylla, holding a mascara wand and small, squirming dog. “Hi, you can come on up, I’m not quite ready, yet.” She motions for him to follow him up the stairs just inside the door. “You can chill wherever while I finish up.”

Hylla disappears after setting down the small pup, who immediately scuttles over to Ashton, at the top of the stairs. He crouches down and scratches its ears lightly, giggling when it attempts to climb into his lap. “Well, hello there.” He moves to sit on the end of her couch, leaning back down to continue petting it.

Hylla comes back a minute later, shaking her head in amusement at her dog, who is now lying on Ashton’s foot while he scratches her stomach. “Are you being needy, Karma? Worst guard dog I’ve ever seen,” she teases, laughing as the dog gets up and barrels into her shins.

“What breed is she?” Ashton asks, brushing a bit of dog fur from the bottom of his jeans.

“A mini Australian shepherd. She’s super smart, but she’s also a total brat.”

Ashon giggles, and she immediately yearns to hear the sound again. She mentally scolds herself, reminding herself that she needed to keep their relationship amicable for the next eight months.

“Are you ready, then?” Ashton asks, breaking the slightly awkward silence. He stands and slides his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, I just need to put this little one somewhere she won’t cause trouble.” She herds Karma into a corner of the kitchen full of dog things, closing a baby gate to keep her there. Upon watching this, Ashton notices that most things he could see are baby proofed.

Gesturing to the nearest baby lock, he asks, “Do you have a kid?” then quickly backtracks. “Wow, that was really blunt, sorry.”

Hylla just laughs, brushing it off as she pulls on her shoes. “No, like I said, Karma is super smart, but she loves causing trouble. She knows how to flip light switches, open cabinets, doors, the fridge, so: baby locks.”

Ashton laughs, a full sound from deep in his chest. “That’s amazing. In theory, that would be great, but I could see how she could make a mess, though.”

Hylla makes a small noise of affirmation, and they head out. They make small talk on their way, allowing the radio to fill stretches of comfortable silence.

Ashton parks a few blocks from the coffee shop, giving them a chance to be spotted before they enter. He gives Hylla a small, reassuring smile before hopping out of the car, opening her door. He helps her out of the car, lacing their fingers together as they make their way to the shop.

A handful of fans recognize Ashton, but none make a fuss about Hylla’s presence, being kind without prying.

They choose to sit at a bar along the front windows, keeping an eye out for the paps that were bound to arrive. They continue to keep their conversation light, occasionally speaking to fans that approach.

After some time, they notice the herd of paps outside had grown to a size plenty more than sufficient for their purposes. They meet each other’s eyes before rising from their seats in unison. 

Ashton takes Hyllas free hand in his, squeezing lightly. “You ready?”

She smiles back and nods, using her drink to gesture for them to leave.

As soon as the door opens, they’re overwhelmed by flashes. Ashton makes a point of ignoring the cameras, leading Hylla toward the pier, where it would be more difficult for the paps to follow.

Hylla tries to keep her head down, knowing there are already enough pictures of her face for Twitter to find her. The noise was overwhelming, with questions being shouted over each other, and Hylla is forced to press closer to Ashton to keep her balance as they fight their way through the crowded sidewalk.

One man pouches forward, gripping her arm tightly and asking a question she doesn’t quite hear. She freezes, eyes going wide as the man’s grip grows tighter. Immediately, Ashton puts himself between the two, dropping her hand in favor of pulling the man’s off of her and pushing him back. As soon as she’s freed, she stumbles back, heart still racing, and watches Ashton shoo away everyone who hasn’t already taken their cue to leave.

Once they are gone, he turns back to her, concern pinching his features. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, lightly brushing his fingertips over the bright red marks left on her elbow. 

“I’m okay,” she says quickly, “just a little shaken up— I wasn’t expecting that.” Her reply comes almost too fast for Ashton to believe her, but he just nods, drawing her closer to him, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before continuing toward the pier. 

Their silence is comfortable as they walk, filling the long stretches between bits of small talk.

Occasionally, a fan will ask Ashton for a picture, and Hylla happily takes the photos, opting to stay behind the camera, despite several invitations to join them.

They eventually find themselves at a picnic table, their gazes drifting between each other and the water.

“I’m actually kind of surprised we didn’t get more questions today,” she mentions, absentmindedly running her nails through the groves in the worn wood.

Ashton shrugs, drumming his own fingers on his thigh. “They usually aren’t the type to pry, but those pictures are probably trending by now.”

“I suppose it’s nice how they don’t track you everywhere. I imagine that would get old.”

“It can when it happens a lot, like when we’re on tour. Usually, it screws up plans more than anything.” He pauses for a second, taking in the sounds of the boardwalk before looking back to her. “So, I still don’t know much about you. Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Long Beach. My mom grew up in the LA area, but my dad is actually from Puerto Rico.”

“Puerto Rico, I think you might have mentioned that last week.”

She raises her eyebrows a bit, shocked he remembered. “Yeah, I did.”

“Does that mean you speak Spanish?”

His voice is genuinely curious, but Hylla can’t help but tease, “How original, no one has ever asked me that before. But, yes, I speak Spanish.”

“Well, I’m sorry I asked,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I feel like you mentioned your mom, too. Are you a family-oriented person?”

“Yeah, my entire family is pretty close.”

“Mine, too. Do you have any siblings?”

“Two brothers and a sister, plus a few cousins I’m super close with.”

Ashton gave a quick glance around, making sure everyone was out of earshot before speaking. “This whole thing must be hard then, not being able to talk about this.”

“A little, but I’m honestly so busy I don’t get to see them half as often as I’d like to even have to avoid talking about it. I assume it’s gonna get even harder with this being public now.” Hylla spoke quietly, also concerned about potential eavesdroppers. “This probably isn’t the place for this conversation.”

“You’re probably right,” He said, standing up from the table. “Should we move this somewhere more private?”

He held out a hand, which she took, lacing her fingers in his as they made their way back up the pier. “What other things should you know about me?”

“Well, apparently you speak Spanish. Any other fun talents you’ve been hiding from me?”

“You already know I do art. That takes up most of my time.”

“Other than tattoos, what kind of art do you like to do?”

“Uh, a little bit of everything, I guess? I do a lot of digital things because they’re the easiest to get to clients that commission me, and I can print them into stencils. I paint, sometimes. As long as I have a pen and something to write on, I’ll doodle. How about you? Any random talents you’re holding out on?”

“Nothing spectacular. I can whistle really well, but I suppose that goes with the music thing.”

They spend the rest of the walk back to the car chatting, talking just enough to fill the silence. They had almost made it back to the car when they saw a few more paps; though, they appeared to be less pushy than the ones they encountered earlier.

Hylla’s first reaction was to ignore them, avoiding direct eye contact, but Ashton smiled at them, politely telling them he would answer any of their questions. She was honestly surprised they left graciously, allowing the pair to go about their business.

Ashton opened her door for her, allowing her to climb into the passenger seat before getting in the car himself. Neither of them spoke until Ashton pulled into traffic. “Are you doing okay? I know all of this can be overwhelming.”

Hylla shrugged, running her fingertips over the seams of the center council. “I’m fine, I wasn’t really as prepared for dealing with them as I originally thought, but it’s something I’ll just learn with time, I guess. Honestly, the fact that they just left when you asked them to really shocked me.”

“They aren’t all quite as pushy as the ones this morning,” Ashton assured her. He made quick glances at her while he drove, debating whether he could hold her hand without people around. “The shoving and mobbing is something we hardly ever have to deal with around here, and security is usually with us in places where the pushy ones like to show. Speaking of which, how’s your arm?”

Hylla hadn’t really had much time to think over the morning’s events, so she was surprised to see how dark the bruises were when she looked down. “It looks worse than it feels. It’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow, though.”

“Once we park, I can take a look at it. I might have something at home that could take care of them.” He couldn’t help but feel guilty, partially responsible for what had happened. “We probably should have iced it earlier, stopped it from getting this bad.”

Hylla shook her head, shrugging off his concern. “It really doesn’t hurt, Ash. It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but I hate that they hurt you. I should have expected something like this.” He speaks quietly, shifting his eyes back to the road.

“This isn’t your fault, Ash,” she said, not even thinking as she put her hand over his on the gearshift. “You know that, right? I signed up for this. This whole thing doesn’t need to make me your responsibility.”

Ashton’s fluttering heart sank at her words, feeling pushed away. “I know that we really aren’t that close, that I don’t necessarily need to, but I’m still worried about you, and I still care that you got hurt.” His face is red as he pulls into a park’n’ride, catching her gaze before quickly averting his eyes. “Is it okay if I take a look at your arm?” His words are cautious, not wanting to overstep any boundaries or make her uncomfortable.

“That’s fine, Ash.” She twists slightly in her seat to face him more and whisks the knuckles of her uninjured arm over his cheek to bring his attention back to her face. “And, thank you for caring, even if you don’t really have to.”

“Of course, Hylla. I’m not about to just ignore you as soon as we aren’t in public, even if I technically can.” He speaks softly, but with a tone of finality that affirms his words. 

Hylla hums softly in response, taking more reassurance from his words than she realized she had needed. 

He takes his time inspecting her bruises, softly grazing them with his fingers. Ashton sighs, his tone softer when he continues. “I know I wasn’t particularly pleasant when we first met, scratch that, I was a total douche, and there isn’t an excuse for that, but I really would like us to be friends, to be able to enjoy each other’s company if we’re going to be spending so much time together.”

“I completely understand why you acted the way you did that first day; I probably would have reacted the same way if our roles were reversed. You didn’t get a choice in the situation, and I was the person they were forcing onto you, so you lashed out. I’m not upset about you having feelings, Ashton, and I also want to be able to enjoy each other’s company throughout this.” She paused in a way that suggested she wasn’t done talking, but couldn’t bring herself to suggest that their relationship could go further than just friends.

Hylla was snapped from her thoughts when Ashton’s gentle hold on her arm trailed, taking her hand in his, drawing her gaze back to his. “I’m glad we both want that.” He wore a light smile on his face, gently stroking her hand with his thumb as he spoke. “Those bruises are getting kind of gnarly. Want to maybe get some food and head back to mine so I can clean them up?”

His tone is meek, bracing himself from the rejection he feared, expecting her to ask him to just bring her home. Despite her reassurance that she understood, he still was worried he had screwed over anything that could have ever possibly happened between them with his behavior.

“That sounds good.” She squeezes his hand, smiling at him. He sighs lightly with relief, taking her acceptance of his offer as a good sign. With a small, mischievous smile, she mutters, “Feels good, too.”

Ashton barks a loud, sudden laugh and throws his head back, completely caught off guard by the change in mood. He continues to giggle as he pulls back into traffic, heading toward his house. “A pun at my expense? Already?” He trails off into a fit of giggles, his smile growing further. “Oh, you are just gonna love the guys.”

Ashton falters, worried he’s jumped too far ahead of himself, despite the fact that they both knew that she would be meeting the guys sooner rather than later, but Hylla's unfazed. “It’ll probably be even harder for you to keep this from them than it will be for me to keep it from my family.”

Her comment throws him— he hadn’t even considered the fact that he couldn’t tell the guys about the nature of their relationship. “I guess we never did finish that conversation, did we?”

She shrugs off the question, hiking one knee to her chest and leaning against the door. “I don’t really know what else to say. I mean, it’s going to suck keeping this from them, but what more is there to dwell on, really?”

Ashton takes a quick glance over at her, sensing that the situation bothered her more than she was letting on, but decides not to push the matter. “Tell me about them.”

Hylla tilts her head just enough to stare, quirking her eyebrow at his request. 

“They’re clearly important to you, so, tell me about them.” She smiles, shaking her head as she thinks.

“Well, Kendall is the oldest, she’s 28. She loves to tease, and is bossy as hell, but her heart is always in the right place. Micah’s 26. He can be a little protective, but lets me get away with everything because he’s a total softy. Kian’s only twenty, but protective to the point of overbearing and likes following the rules. He loves playing tough guy, and hates acknowledging that I can handle myself. Issac and Lydia are my cousins, but we spent so much time together as kids that we’re practically siblings. Lydia is 27, and Issac’s my age— actually, he’s two days younger than me and I will never let him forget it.”

Ashton smiles as she rambles, listening attentively to her stories with the people she cares so much about.

She trails off in the middle of a story from her childhood, blushing when she realizes they’ve stopped in Ashton’s driveway. “Sorry, I got a little carried away.”

“Don’t be. They sound amazing.” They both exit the car, walking up to the house. “I wish I got to see my family more, but the guys are like my brothers, now.” 

Ashton opens the door for Hylla, stepping in behind her and dropping his keys into a bowl by the door. He kicks off his shoes, and Hylla follows suit before continuing to stand awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed.

Ashton shows her to the kitchen, telling her to make herself comfortable before disappearing upstairs to grab some things for her arm. Hylla perches herself on a stool at his counter, pulling out her phone to see the pictures of them starting to trend.

Ashton returns carrying an assortment of first aid supplies. He chuckles lightly when she shows him her screen, mildly impressed that they’ve already seemed to have identified her, along with several of her socials.

“Twitter really is better than the FBI, aren’t they?” He nods, pulling a stack of takeout menus from a drawer.

“What are you feeling for lunch?” he asks, flipping several of the menus to face her.

She glances up from her scrolling, returning her phone to her pocket. “I’m not picky, but I’m always a sucker for Thai.” She pulls a few menus from the stack, allowing Ashton to pick from those.

Once they’d placed their orders, Ashton sits facing her, inspecting her bruises again. He holds her arm gently, careful not to put more pressure than necessary on the sore area. He rubs a balm over it before wrapping it with a soft ice pack, smiling at her gently.

“You really need to stop feeling so guilty about this, Ash.” Her words stun him, and he meets her eyes again. “This is not your fault, and your guilty face is making me sad.” She jokingly pouts at him, earning herself a giggle.

“I know,” he sighs lightly and sits up straighter, twisting to face the counter, “but I can’t help but feel bad that being around me got you hurt.” He has his own small pout, fuming over the incident.

“It’s a bruise, Ashton. It’s not even that bad.” She moves the compress, poking it harshly to prove her point, but the small wince she makes nullifies it. “Okay, maybe it’s a bad bruise, but I’ll be fine. I’ve probably given myself worse bruises running into tables, so you can stop worrying so much.”

Ashton resituates the compress, holding it there to keep her from moving it again. “Was awful to you that first day, and now this happened. I can’t help but think that you're gonna hate me if this sort of thing keeps happening.”

“I’m not a dog, Ash. A few bad days aren’t gonna train me to hate you.” She chuckles a bit, smiling warmly. “I already told you that I’m not mad about you being in a mood that first day and that this isn’t your fault. You don’t need to be so hard on yourself.” She reaches out to cup his face, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone soothingly.

Her touch feels natural, and Ashton has to restrain himself from leaning into it. “I’ll try to stop worrying so much, but you need to leave your ice pack on so it actually starts healing,” he teases, placing his hand on her knee, brushing the inside of it with his thumb.

“Deal.”

They remain in a comfortable silence for a bit, enjoying each other’s touch within their own little bubble, until the doorbell rings, startling them both. They jump apart guiltily, breaking their worry free bliss, and they both flush. Ashton sighs lightly before moving to answer the door, already missing her touch.

Hylla readjusts in her seat, trying to process the moment they shared. She ached to return to it, to pursue a romance outside of their contract without regard for the consequences, but she chastised herself, unable to push her worries from her mind. No matter what happened between them in private, they would be forced to regularly see each other until their contract expired, and she wasn’t sure she could keep something like that to herself for so long.

Ashton comes back with their takeout a minute later, firmly refusing to allow Hylla to pay him back for her meal. Once they are both settled with their food, he rekindles their conversation for a third time. “Tell me more about your family.”

Hylla thinks for a moment on what she should start with, surprised at how interested he is. “Well, my dad’s family is from Puerto Rico; They moved here when he was eleven. My mom’s family came over from Southern Europe before the first world war. They’re both deeply connected to their cultures, so we have a lot of strong traditions. Between running the shop and now this, I don’t get to see them half as often as I’d like, but we try to make a point of doing big family dinners as often as we can— which you will most definitely be getting dragged to at some point in the near future. There is no way they will let me get away with not bringing you around more than once, now that we’re public.”

Ashton chuckles, heart fluttering at the prospect of meeting the people that were so important to her. “Well, I’ll give it a week at most before the guys start showing up here unannounced to try and meet you, so I guess we’re even there.”

“Speaking of meeting people, we’re going to need a solid story of how we met because my family will pick up on anything that doesn’t quite match up, so our details need to be on point without seeming rehearsed.”

“The guys won’t necessarily need details, but if the situation seems weird, they’re gonna start asking questions we probably won’t be able to answer.”

“So we need details and a vibe.”

They sit quietly, only the sounds of their chewing disturbing the thoughtful silence as they run through scenarios. They occasionally bounce a few ideas off each other, shooting down the ones that would spark too many questions, before settling on meeting at a farmers market they both occasionally shop at.

They discuss the details of the meeting, occasionally jotting down details to remember, until long after their food has been finished. The conversations strayed frequently, and Hylla longed to hear more about the man beside her, who she suspected was holding something back, giving few details of his own life when she tries to reciprocate his curious nature.

Even after the details had been arranged, their conversation flowed easily, but Ashton remained reserved, worried if he shared too many of his own experiences, he’d lose sight of what he has in common with Hylla. He could recognize so much of himself within her— valuing her connections to her family and culture, the strong sense of creativity she pursued— despite the fact that they led completely different lives, and he clung to that connection, terrified she would lose what little interest in him he hopes she has without it. 

What Hylla does learn about him is mundane, but she adores the knowledge, nonetheless, They exchange random favorites— foods, movies, authors— and other small things, keeping their conversation light until Hylla decides she’s stayed her welcome.

Upon arriving home, she immediately takes Karma for a walk, taking some time to think over the predicament Ashton presented. She’s close with her family, and has never been good at hiding things from them. If one of them directly pointed out something was weird about the couple, she isn’t sure she will be able to keep up the act.

Her worries continue to pester her as she sets things up in the shop for the next morning, and while she attempts to sleep. Eventually, after giving into her insomnia, she pulls a sketchbook from the pile on her desk and settles back on top of the comforter to draw.

She doesn’t pay as much mind to what she’s drawing as she does to blending each part into a single piece. She starts with thin line work, dainty lines flowing to the edges of uncompleted figures, but quickly switches to thicker, bolder marks, all but overtaking the delicate start to the piece. When she comes back from her place deep in her thoughts, and takes the time to examine what she’s done, she is shocked at the wholeness of the piece. Even without the detailing of a finished piece, it seems cohesive and clear-cut, as though it told a story.

The upper half of a wolf vaguely encircles the dainty, loopy outline of a girl holding a flor de maga, a Puerto Rican hibiscus flower, as though using it as a pen. The wolf’s teeth are bared, but its expression is soft and curious as it faces the girl, who appeared to be unbothered by the beast’s presence, focused on the image below them. In roughly the shape of a tiara, vague figures of half sketched people struggle toward a man holding a flag, standing firm against strong winds. The piece bleeds with emotion, feelings of passion, admiration, understanding, and inner strength.

Hylla stays up until the wee hours of the morning, shading and adding details to the piece until she feels as though she’s done it justice. It’s raw, and she doesn’t quite understand why the textures and patterns work together, but everything fits together in a way that satisfies her. Finally, she moves the sketchbook to her nightstand, sprawling out on the bed to get some sleep before she has to open the shop.

~~~

masterlist

wanna be added to my taglist? fill out this form or send me an ask (off anon)

[xplrerdolan]

13, 14, and 24 for the most recent ask game !!

thank you for asking angel!!! i’m sorry this took a while to get to! just know that i appreciate the ask, even when it takes me a while to get to!!

13. what’s something that made you smile today?

honestly, finally being on tumblr again after a while. i love all my mutuals & even my non-mutual followers, y’all all bring so much happiness into my life & i appreciate every single one of you.

14. if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like?

it really depends on which of my best friends i’d be living with! if i lived with kaitlyn, it would be decorated with ironic quotes and the most chaotic things we could find. empty alcohol bottles would serve as center pieces, we’d get a banner that reads “it’s a boy!” & replace it with “it’s aborted!”, we’d print and frame cursed images in place of family photos, we’d put those glow in the dark stars on the ceilings of every room, and we’d have a bunch of live, laugh, love decals just for the laughs. if i lived with nicole, the whole house would be set up to cater to animals that we’d rescue. we’d have a million plants—like, enough to save the earth and close the hole in the ozone layer. we’d only ever have art that we made or that we bought from local artists, and the walls would be covered in vines and clippings to make collages. the floors would be covered in rodent droppings because we both love all kinds of rats, and we’d have to switch off on poop-cleaning duty. if i lived with archita, we’d have yellow walls and sunflowers growing on our balcony. we’d live in organized chaos, our environment a manifestation of two girls with adhd who try their absolute best to keep it together. we’d have a ton of posters, and we’d hang up art from our arts & crafts sessions—i’ll make her even if she thinks she’s bad at it. we’d leave post-its on the fridge for each other, and we’d have a fridge full of bread and cheese and an oven that always seems to be in use. we’d have a shared space for our shrines to our gods, and we’d probably pray silently together and just enjoy a shared but diverse sacred space. if i lived with vincent, we’d have maps lining the walls, and all our furniature would be crowded with labels from different languages as we both try to learn dying languages and preserve them. we’d have at least one wine bottle in the recylcing every week. we’d have a dozen book shelves with hundreds of half-finished books. we’d have completely mismatched furniature, and all our silverware, cups, and dishes would be handmade by people from different countries. we’d have a cork board with the quotes we both get stuck in our heads, and a shrine to britney spears. separately, these all sound wonderful, but the ultimate dream is to mix them all together :’)

24. is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets?

yeah, all of the people i mentioned above! they r collectively the loves of my life :’) <3

[secretshinigami]

Author: @translightyagami For: @kratqa Pairings/Characters: L, Light Yagami, Kiyomi Takada, Sayu Yagami, Kyosuke Higuchi Rating/Warnings: T for, you know. Murder happening off screen but its still gross. Prompt: Roleswap AU between L and Light. Author’s notes: I hope you like junior sleuths Light and Kiyomi, L and Ryuk having a mutual candy-and-TV = Death Note agreement, and letter-writing, because when I write a fic…you know there’s gonna b letters. i also appreciate your patience with any typos; I am a human with sticky fingers.

To-Oh during spring made Light’s skin crawl: love notes proliferated the campus from students not quite grown out of youthful notions; heat creeping beneath his sweaters, tugging at them as if to say short sleeves begged entrance; and the anniversary of his father’s heart attack—one year past—hung over all the landmarks no matter their relation to cardiac health. In that way, he noticed the newspaper story of the murderer who died of a heart attack blaring on a nearby kiosk. Without any real eye of the bizarre, Light didn’t notice things unless their relevance was near to his own life or those around him. Dark ink stared back at him, a jack-knifed business man laid out next to a graphic discussing murder statistics in the Kanto region. It was of no surprise or consequence to Light, whose policeman father made him all too aware of how life flitted from a people every day.

Slipping payment to the newsstand worker and stalking off to his next class, Light read through the story: a well-liked business man succumbing to a heart attack mid-quarter projections meeting and was found—after a house search was requested by the detective L—to have four intact human skeletons buried in his backyard. The wife, a woman with a name that flew in one ear and out the other, claimed no knowledge of her husband’s cruel hobby of picking up young men and then poisoning them with club drugs concocted in their garage; however, the great detective was said to still hold her in suspicion and no innocence was assumed.

A woman bumped into Light, who flicked his newspaper down and apologized for not paying attention. His thoughts were scrambled between happiness for a murderer slain and a stomachache—born not of bad food but an innate strangeness to what he’d just read. The newspaper went into his bag, the story out of his mind, and Light continued classes at To-Oh without much more than passing conversation devoted to “that criminal who died of a heart attack, can you believe it?”

Which, of course, wasn’t his last thought on the case. He chewed the flavor out of the incident, but in quiet. Light never liked to burden people with more than they could take and while his own voice was his favorite song, he knew people had limits. Off-hand, he mentioned the report to his father at dinner, whose murmured response left Light’s trap shut tight to further inquisitions.

“How troubling,” his father said. “We must treasure every day, and live our lives as honestly as possible.”

Three weeks later, in a smaller column, another criminal’s heart attack was reported; this time, Light didn’t pay for the newspaper as Kiyomi put her copy down in front of him. Her near-despot rule over the school’s journalism outfit drove her to often drop stories in front of him, asking for his interest and time to discuss various dictates of law enforcement. For this story, however, she asked not for his expertise, but instead to prod in tandem with her at the curiosity of it all.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” She traced a finger over the meager profile shot of the victim, who was discovered post-death to have been collecting severed human fingers in his fridge door. “That one guy dies, turns out to be awful, and then another one?”

“Makes a person want to believe in patterns.” Light looked at her through his lashes, fork to his lips as he took another bite of their shared tart. Whenever they discussed important issues, Kiyomi liked to do it at cafes; Light suspected it was out of journalistic habit, since she took all her interviews to the same place they sat now. “Or even luck, I guess.”

“Luck?”

“Well,” he said, “luck for anyone who would have been those guys’ victims. Luck for the rest of us. Not so much for them.”

Kiyomi took a larger piece of tart, shining with a glazed cherry, and chewed it in vigorous gnashes. “Do you believe in patterns?” Her question was idle, almost absent between chews.

Light shook his head, fork placed down on a napkin and his hand now free to fish his phone from his pocket. “I don’t think there’s anything to this random stuff besides a few jerks getting their comeuppance,” he said. “Nothing but justice, you know. I have to go; my sister texted me.”

Sayu sent him a string of texts, to be honest, about how his mom needed him to come home and help with dinner. Of course, when Light arrived he saw the situation for what it was: his sister needed to watch a TV drama premiere; his mother needed onions chopped; and both of them were unwilling to compromise. Fortunately, the best brother and good son arrived home in time to accommodate them by chopping onions and fending suggestions that he was on a date with Kiyomi.

He fell into his computer chair, swung himself around in lazy circles until his brain became dizzy—one word thoughts all that remained. Onions. Kiyomi. Death. Patterns. Luck. Sticking his foot out, Light halted his movement and froze. In two scoots, he was at his keyboard, and he typed in his query to the Internet as quick as he thought it: Recent Murder Investigations Detective L. After a second, he added quotations around the phrase Detective L and pressed enter. Floods of pixel results washed over him as Light took in link after link to articles covering the great detective who solved any case put on his desk but never revealed himself to the public.

Three articles spoke of specific cases L solved: the Monkey Thief Theory (a jeweled monkey stolen from a well-loved heiress, ultimately found to have been absconded by her own hand); the Pit Viper Peril (a man who used viper venom to poison his business associates); and the Beautiful Woman Break-ins (a woman broke into several of the world’s richest mansions but stole only their fresh fruit. The woman was caught, but no details on her arrest were ever given to the public.) Two articles called L the single most important person in criminal justice history. One article mentioned, albeit as an end note, that L had worked on both cases whose solving had more to do with sudden heart attacks claiming the perpetrators than his own prowess.

A headache formed at the horizon of Light’s skull after reading too close to the screen, so he tried to print the articles. Only one printed all the way—on the second, he ran out of paper and went to Sayu’s room to bug her for using all the printer paper, which she insisted she needed for art.

“You print off pictures of that actor guy in full color and paste them onto your binders,” Light complained. “I need that paper for important stuff. You can’t be so wasteful.”

“It’s the art of collage,” she intoned. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have passions like I do, otherwise you’d go out with Kiyomi.”

Light took a third of her printer paper as revenge for the comment and brought in the articles to show Kiyomi. Her eyes were luminous when he arrived at the café table, arms similarly weighted with information which they swapped. She gave him a newspaper with intriguing, if distressing, updates: another man killed by cardiac arrest, revealed to be a secret killer.

“Do you know who was pursuing this one’s death?” He paused, pushing the paper away to give the waitress his full attention and order: black coffee and banana muffin, if they still have some. Kiyomi ordered ahead of him, and her meal sits in front of her pock-holed by her absent bites. In answer, she shakes her head and takes another minuscule clump of her rolled omelet.

“Nobody special was named, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “These articles are pretty good, but it’s hard to know whether L has been involved in more without knowing how many heart attack deaths like this have happened.” She gestured with her chopsticks as she continued, pointing at the highlighted National Police Association in the paper’s text. “From what I can gather, the Japanese police are the ones that found the posthumous evidence in the man’s apartment, same as with the other ones.”

“What’s the rub is how would they know?” Light tapped his chin, wristwatch catching café lamp glow and projecting a jiggling circle down on the laminate table. “A heart attack happens, you can just rule that as someone’s poor health, or maybe just a sad stroke of fate. But someone must be alerting police to these people’s suspicious nature for them to be investigating in depth.” He coughed, his next sentence making his throat close in embarrassment, but continued. “Listen. I support the police, you know that, right?”

“Sure,” Kiyomi mumbled around more egg. “You support your dad, at least.”

“Yeah. Well. I know the guys he works with, and while they’re not stupid, there’s no way they got this intuitive so quick.” His muffin slipped in front of him and Light nodded his thanks to the waitress, waiting until she left to pull over one printed article. “Here’s what I know: at least one of these cases was under L’s purview. Who’s to say the other ones aren’t also?”

Discarding the article, Light reached for the condiment caddy and snatched up two creamer cups, while Kiyomi set her chopsticks down in contemplation. Her eyes—dark blue to the point of midnight—scanned both the newspaper and articles. With her mouth pressed together, red lips shining with waxen smoothness, Light could see why she held sway over so much of the school’s masculine consciousness: a beautiful woman who thought before anything. His own attention settled further from attraction and more into an approach toward admiration; she would’ve made a good rival, were he still seventeen and looking for the challenge.

“How would we find out what cases L has worked on?” Kiyomi’s gaze darted from the papers to Light’s coffee, swirling ever more auburn with the creamer added. “Why didn’t you just get a latte, if you’re going to make it so sweet with cream?”

“I like to make things myself.” Light waved his hand to dispel her remark. “I don’t know how to find all the cases lining up to this particular situation, which also have L’s involvement, but I think I can get us to a starting place.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. But I’ll need my computer.” Light took a sip of his coffee and couldn’t resist the pleased smile it brought to his lips: the satisfaction of something useful and pleasurable mixed into one cup. “And about an hour of time, so I’ll probably skip contemporary law today. You don’t have to come, but you can if you like.”

“I should stay, go to class to get notes so you don’t fall behind.” Kiyomi ran her finger around her own teacup, liquid no longer steaming but cool and green with tea leaves solidified at the bottom. “Can I ask you something?” Her voice wavered and Light couldn’t catch its true colors—only flashes of uncertain purple, vulnerable red. “Is it silly to be excited about this? Trying to figure out a mystery together?”

Swallowing, Light pretended not to hear the word together as he knew she meant it: you and me, an item, a duo. “No,” he said. “It’s exciting to solve mysteries, in any case. Every time I’ve worked on stuff like this with my dad, I feel changed, uplifted. Like,” he paused, rubbing his fingers together, “someone just turned on the lights in a pitch-dark room, and now I get to see all the secrets around me.”

“I understand,” Kiyomi said, and in that moment, Light looked at her midnight eyes and saw that she did.

…

It was easier than expected to hack into his dad’s account on the NPA intraweb, although Light knew he used the same password for everything: ssl226. He wanted, in a strange way, for his dad’s heart to be harder to crack—to know less about the key and earn it fitting in the lock—but couldn’t dig into why he felt such a way. Not with Kiyomi sending him text after text from class, each one a more urgent call for updates on his progress. His attention snapped from phone, to computer, to an odd hole in his stomach after their earlier meeting.

He never enjoyed when people tried to get close to him, as though they wanted a piece of Light the same way a child wants a piece of adulthood—desperate without knowledge of what lay beneath. While a social creature, thriving on connection, he cringed from women’s fumbled confessions of attraction and roamed away from their asking mouths toward men, who wanted silent partners to their escapades and were willing to return the favor. In many ways, those interactions left Light cold as well: tacky plastic bandages peeling off at the slightest friction.

The truth was it was easier to want what was right in front of him and not consider the far off. So, Light’s fingers flew across his keyboard with the neon flash from his cell phone ignored. He flipped through files labeled in long numerical defaults—a mark of his father’s tech-illiteracy—with time ticking away. When he finally alighted on the correct documents, his phone inbox was full. Without reading any of the messages, he deleted them all and texted Kiyomi to meet him later at the library.

Armed with a large stack of paper, he weighed down his backpack and left, waving off his mother’s question about why he was skipping class. On the television, a reporter spoke about rising stock in the Yotsuba Corporation’s new make-up company. She laughed after her speech and admitted to wearing their lipstick during the segment. Both Sayu and Light’s mother laughed along too. Light ran out the door, his bag smacking on his side.

The library was quiet except for a few students banging on keyboards, their faces shining with essay-deadline sweat. Light found Kiyomi lounged on a two-seat bench, her legs propped onto the low table and a style guide opened over her face. She sat up when he dropped in beside her, pushing the guide off and starting into an interrogation on why he didn’t answer her texts. Holding up a hand, Light pulled out his papers and set them on the table, smacking a finger on them.

“I know who he’s attacking next,” he said.

“What?” Kiyomi pushed his hand aside and flicked through his findings. “Okay, so these are the last, what? Twenty or so cases the NPA worked on with L?”

“Yes, about twenty,” Light agreed. “But we don’t usually call on him, unless it’s a difficult case. I mean, it’s pretty rare he takes any case at all unless it’s big news. But look at the cases he’s worked on since 2002.”

“Heart attacks.” Stopping at the top page, Kiyomi drew her finger along the chart labels—suspect name, suspect location, case title, behavior—and ended on the final column of conclusion. “Not all of them, though. Only a few scattered ones.”

“I know!” Light couldn’t stop a little eagerness leaking in; his sleuthing was about to pay off. He took out another stack of paper—thinner than the last—and handed those to Kiyomi. “I looked at those cases. All of them had victim counts lower than ten. Some of them were even cases the NPA didn’t put much resources behind. But,” he raised his finger in emphasis, “these ones had interesting details. Like the guy who had skeletons in his backyard? He was some kind of cannibal who left organs behind. The finger guy was notorious, even though he was pretty low activity.”

“You sound like you have a theory.”

“I might. Check out the most recent listing.”

Kiyomi flipped back to the case chart and narrowed her eyes. “Do we know this guy? Kyosuke Higuchi?”

Light sighed and tapped his finger to his knee. “He’s some kind of executive, at the Yotsuba Corporation. I tracked the case listed to one about a bunch of their new make-up brand’s younger interns going missing. The count is five right now, but one of them was the niece of a big government person so the NPA got told to ask L about it.” He smiled at Kiyomi. “Do you want to hear my theory?”

She tapped the paper stack and set it on the table, turning her full attention to him. “Someone is picking off the small fries,” she said, “with heart attacks, and the link between cases is L.”

A frustrated puff of breath exited Light. “Well. Yeah. I guess,” he said. “But it’s pretty smart, right? Getting rid of the guys who you can find, but can’t super prove anything about, before they get to higher numbers.”

“He’s still killing people,” Kiyomi said. “I mean, isn’t that just like what they’re doing? These guys are victims too, in a sense, and this L guy is offing them before they get a trial. What if he’s wrong?”

Light folded his arms across his chest. “But he hasn’t been wrong,” he said. “Not yet.” Shuffling in his seat, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took a deep inhale. “I want to send him a message.”

“What? A message?” Kiyomi laughed, her long earrings shaking with her clipped hair. “What’re you going to say? We’re on to you, buddy. Better watch out.” She shook her head, laughter making way for a more serious expression. “It’s not a good idea,” she said. “We don’t know how he’s giving people heart attacks, other than by magic or something. It’s dangerous.”

Air lifted and deflating from Light’s chest as he mulled her response around inside. It burned a trail through his soft meats, where enthusiasm continued to grow through whatever scorch she inflicted with sense and caution. His body was a garden growing thicker at just the idea of communicating with the person who had such a power, who made such a decision as to end someone’s life when they ended someone else’s.

Headless of his contemplation, Kiyomi stood and took the papers. “It’s interesting, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But we shouldn’t contact L directly. It will alert him to our own knowledge; we’d give more ground than gain. Let me look over what you have, and later this week, we’ll pool our thoughts and start to put together a better case.”

He handed over his print outs, not too precious about them since he had the real digital versions at home. As she left, Light’s eyes danced away from Kiyomi’s prim stride and toward the tall bookcases. His mind brought to him a scenario where he, and everyone else in the library, was crushed by toppled bookcases and the ceiling caving in. A tragedy without a pinpoint reason behind it—only a god who wanted to see something destroyed. Or maybe it was some kid who leaned too hard. Life was so random in how it could be taken or given, and that thought propelled him further into whatever L’s powers were.

Somehow, there was a man out there able to control death and Light, despite Kiyomi’s warning, wanted to know the shape of his tools.

…

L counted three red candies from his pack and collected them into his palm. They rattled against each other like gemstones, gleaming under computer-haze lights until long black claws pinched one away.

“Red ones are best,” Ryuk said. “Except for cherry flavor.”

“Cherry flavor is fine if you get the right brand.” L turned back to his laptop, nabbing a pink hard candy for himself and sucking its watermelon flavor into a slow, sugar liquid. It subsumed his entire mouth, coated his tongue and teeth. His hand stayed outstretched as Ryuk one-by-one crunched the red candies into his toothsome mouth. Clattering shards collected at his lip corners only to be wiped away by his skeletal hand.

At the moment, both occupied the same opulent hotel room despite their aesthetic pairing more implied them existing in different realities. L had laid out over his hotel desk his laptop, a bowl of packaged sweets, and a thin notebook—opened to a page half-filled by his scrawl. Methodical in his fingers, he looked over the most recent reports sent in from Japan, his interest waning here and there into an intense focus on whatever candy he opened next. Ryuk, on the other hand, was taken up by the television, which L left on for him in most hotel rooms, and all the small colored blotches fizzled together on the screen. He laughed as one blotch fell down a flight of stairs.

Their relationship often balanced on this mutual agreement for entertainment—it flowed between them as Ryuk received TV, movies, and candy from L and L, of course, got the Death Note. While this arrangement meant they were in constant contact, Ryuk did fly between the human world and Shinigami realm on his own whims; he told L human poker wasn’t as good as the death gods played it, which L couldn’t argue being he wasn’t too fond of poker either way. At one point, L asked why he—of all people on Earth and beyond—received such an unholy tool of death and Ryuk responded, “Oh, yeah. The thing sort of fell out of my pocket. I need one of those chain wallets, keep that on me.” As if to prove his point, the next time Ryuk showed up to see how L and the Death Note were progressing, he had his personal Note hooked to a thick metal chain.

“Made it myself.” His voice smacked of undue pride, although L complimented the chain without trace of sarcasm. “Not as good as the human ones, but pretty cool.”

L didn’t care if the Shinigami made a thousand ugly chain wallets, or watched TV all day. What he cared about was the ease the Death Note brought to his work. So often fissures of stress cracked along his psyche when dug into cases which were clean cut—to him, at least—but couldn’t get traction enough with local enforcement to make arrests: to bring justice to people who screamed their guilt to L’s careful crow eyes. But with the Death Note, all he had to do was write a name, wait and assign a search team to the killer’s home posthumously.

Spread in front of him, he tapped a pen end to the blank Note page. All that was left in the Higuchi case was to find a time to kill him while he was alone; for that purpose, L wormed around several important forms and decision-makers to install camera into the vile businessman’s home and office. Blue connective fuzz overlaid the images displayed on his laptop and made Higuchi, idling behind his large desk, appear alien. To some degree, L felt the man was alien to him—in thought, in action (or lack of it), in intention—and had no interest in learning a scrap about Higuchi. He cared more about the space beneath the man’s home, which would be unlocked and unloaded of its human prisoners once Wedy got her go-ahead; keeping a successful thief on his payroll benefited L tremendously.

“He’s been alone for two hours,” L said, to himself and also Ryuk, if the Shinigami wanted to hear. “If I kill him now, how long before someone finds the body?”

“Weekend,” Ryuk piped back. L looked over his shoulder to see his long ebony chicken legs crossed on the bed while yellow eyes stared at the television without blinking. “He might just rot there over the next two days.”

“Oh, I think so—,” L stopped mid-speech at Higuchi’s secretary and her brown ponytail bobbing into frame. She stood at near two inches taller than the man, who sneered as she spoke. At the very least, L knew she was not in danger of kidnapping. He sat straighter and leaned to hear their conversation over the microphones, the secretary’s voice soft and faint from many miles away.

“A young man left this for you.” She held out an envelope; even at his angle, L saw no address or marker beyond Higuchi’s name. “He said he needs you to give it to someone.”

“What?” Higuchi’s nasal intonation pinched his words. “I’m not some kind of messenger. Tell him to just send it by post, if he needs someone to see it so bad.”

“He sounded urgent that you give it,” the secretary said, and dropped the envelope down. “I’ll tell you something, he was very handsome. Seemed like a smart young man. This is probably his resume, you know.”

“Ah.” Snake oil slithered through Higuchi’s response as he took hold of the envelope. “Well, who am I to keep down a young upstart? Anything else he said?”

The secretary taped her finger to her lip and hummed. “Just that it was important someone get this message,” she said. “Someone powerful, who knew what you’d done. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

L’s eyes lit up; Higuchi became pale. “Ah yes,” the businessman simpered. “I’m not sure I know either. Well, why don’t you go home? I’ll see you on Monday.”

The moment the secretary left, Higuchi threw the envelope into the trash and L whipped around to Ryuk.

“Can you fly somewhere for me?” he asked. “And pick something up?”

“Dunno,” Ryuk said. “Depends what I get in return.”

After an hour and a promise for several all large candy purchases, L held a faintly sticky gold envelope in his hands. His hands, covered by white fabric gloves, turned the item over and over in curious rotation. Thumbing the corners, he admired how thick the stock seemed, how elegant the adhesion of the close seemed to lay, and upon opening it, he was sorry to mar the lines. Out fell a quarter-folded page with lines as crisp as the outer shell. L unfolded the page, smoothed it with both hands with delicacy he hadn’t practiced on something non-confectionery in years. Across the fine surface was hard-black typed words, struck out in small font but for some reason read to him like slow cream—a voice L never heard before but caught him, easily, by his mind’s tongue.

Dear L, the letter started. I know what you’ve been doing, but I don’t know how. I’d like to know. I’d like to know you and what tools you’ve picked up that let you wrack such havoc inside cruel men’s bodies.

Are you like them? A cruel man? I can’t say; but I’d like to be able to reject the sentiment.

Each word dropped into L’s consciousness as water on a garden and flourished greenery within him until his interest became a full forest. Someone caught on to him; their fingers brushed his toes but couldn’t quite hold the tiger. Still, the letter’s writer was unknown and on this front, L couldn’t abide. He took to his laptop and rolled back footage upon footage until video of a man at Higuchi’s secretary’s desk showed. At all times, the man’s face was out of view and his voice so low, L couldn’t make out his exact words. Had the letter writer known he’d been watched? A subtle tingle wormed through L’s chest: he knew about the cameras, or suspected them; he knew Higuchi was next; and he knew L was listening, in some capacity.

But how much did this man—who still carried handsomeness in his stature, turned head or no, and had a whisper coated by sugared familiarity—actually know? L frowned and turned back to the letter, scanning it again. He then turned to Ryuk.

“If someone wanted to send a message with the Note,” he said, “how might they do so?”

Ryuk laughed, throaty and amused. “Few ways,” he demurred. “You’re a smart guy. You figure it out.”

L raised an eyebrow, but not an argument. After all, he was the world’s greatest detective; a smart guy who could figure it out. He set to work and by nightfall had a plan. As he finished, he imbued his last pen stroke with some warped hope—that the letter writer saw what his message truly was: not cruelty but a hand beckoning him closer. An invitation.

“A challenge,” L said, to himself, to Ryuk, to the young man whose face he didn’t know. “And an answer.”

…

“Is that the newspaper?” Light slipped in next to Kiyomi, who held ink-covered pages in front of her face, elegant nails curled against headlines like red slashed wounds. Their first period literature class—a dreaded requirement on their degrees which neither enjoyed—found him harried from waking up late. He was unpracticed in disordered sleep and didn’t know how to control panic when it seeped from his pores and into his routine; ever since he gave the letter off to that Higuchi, Light was aware to his core something might happen—something deadly, even.

Kiyomi tilted the front page down enough to show her disappointed gaze trained on Light’s perfect smile—beguiling by practice, not nature. “You can buy your own,” she said. “After all, you don’t want anything from me, much less information.”

“Don’t be like that,” he countered. “You know, I didn’t make any moves.”

“Don’t lie,” Kiyomi said. “Look,” she flattened the newspaper to the desk, and after glancing around, pointed to a large headline, “your little love note found its recipient.”

Light leaned over the paper and scanned the article. Phrases floated forward—a sex dungeon with the women freed by an unknown accomplice—and others were faded but intriguing—Higuchi succumbing to cardiac arrest after consuming an energy drink, a large latte and a bottle of caffeine pills. His eyes froze on one paragraph, detailing a letter found in Higuchi’s handwriting and tucked inside his pocket.

“Experts say the letter was written within an hour of the man’s death,” the article read. “It’s contents are, however, not addressed to anyone known to the victim but instead a mysterious figure called ‘letter writer.’ Beneath we have listed some of the letter, which was confiscated by police and edited for clarity.”

Kiyomi sighed. “You’re in real danger now,” she said softly. “We’re both in danger.”

“He responded,” Light said, breathless. “He wrote back to me.”

Dear letter writer,

I don’t want to alarm you or make it seem as though I am on a crusade. Far from it. This is just my job, and I am good at my job. I get rid of people doing terrible things, but time and resources don’t always play on my side. This is my way of prioritizing.

I’m not a cruel man; and I hope you never think of me as such. But understand I can’t tell you what my methods are. After all, where’s the interest in that for me? But I can give you something small, something to hold onto: without your face, I can’t harm you.

Speak to you soon,

X

Light’s heart thudded in his throat. “Do you still have that chart on you?” He asked Kiyomi, who brought out the papers with eyes warmed by the prospect of research.

“Of course.” She laid them out and shrugged in closer to Light. “What are we looking for? What do we do next?”

Light couldn’t answer. Around and around in his head echoed Speak to you soon in a voice he didn’t know. Yes, they’d speak again soon enough, but he just needed to find out what they’d talk about. Right now, the room was dark; it was all a matter of turning on the light and seeing the secrets in the room.

[lookatthedawn]

“Home, Home Again,

I like to be here when I can...”*

It's bittersweet to come home because I feel like a great adventure has come to an end.  But perhaps it's not so.  Perhaps a greater adventure is to live life with dignity, courage, and authenticity.  Many issues expect me at home, from a personal level to total national chaos.  There's much work to be done.  After an uneventful flight, I land on JFK.  The immigration officer peruses my passport and says, with a smile, "you're a world traveler!" "Not exactly, not yet," I answer, humbled by the thought of my friend Anush, who really is a globetrotter.   Through the app Find Friends my son JeanLuc finds me waiting for my luggage.  He has grown in my absence, his beard has thickened and he looks more mature overall.  I hug him, smell his scent, listen to his heartbeat -- resting my cheek on the best place of the Puniverse, as I used to say when he was tiny.  We meet my daughter Katrina in the car, and she's driving and that's good, because she's not into hugging.  She does make an exception for birthday and Christmas, though, sweet thing that she is.   In the car, we share stories of the last two months, but not much, since I don't want to repeat everything I want to say when we're finally all together.   After three hours or so I'm home, seeing the rest of the family, which includes four new pets!  It's when I hug my oldest son Marcelo, though, that I break down and start to cry because I'm so happy to be home and I've missed them all so much!  Knowing his mother as he does, he has a surprise for me, which is a huge map on the wall, where we have fun placing color-coordinated thumbtacks on the places we've been.   During my time away I didn't allow myself to be homesick, because that would only take away from my experience abroad, but being around them all is like heaven -- or maybe heaven is just another word for home. Key Takeaways: 1) An internship reveals as much about ourselves as the path we're contemplating taking.  Sometimes a job is more glamorous from a distance than in the thick of it.  Interning at the company of one's choice allows for an inside look at the day-to-day business.  What did I learn at The Gioi?  I learned that editing is hard, not only for me but for everyone.  It takes work, and it's not always fun, but if making a messy paragraph shine appeals to you, then the time sitting and staring at a computer screen is worth it.  However, -- and here's the takeaway -- now I know that I can do it.  I can write and I can edit.  Maybe that's not as surprising to anyone as it is to myself.  I don't like to write all the time, and I don't like to edit always, but the work satisfies in me a deep need for connection and self-expression.  I could say that I write to understand, and I edit to be understood.  Or something like it.   Working at The Gioi showed me that the final product on a magazine shines because of hours of intense, laborious and boring work the staff is willing to put into a piece.  Editing is work done both alone and in collaboration with a team.  I worked alone at my desk, but I was just one of the many hands those texts passed through before becoming ready for print.  Although separated, we had the same goal; make a text as good as possible. 2) The pros of living alone.  I think everyone should live alone at least once in their lifetime.  If not completely alone, with busy roommates.  I did not live alone before getting married and starting a family of my own.  I wish I had.  By living alone you learn to become self-reliant.  If you fail, you deal with the consequences, and the next day you do better.  If you leave your bed unmade or a carton of milk outside the fridge, when you come home it's there, just the way you left it, or, in the case of milk, spoiled as a consequence of your negligence.  No judgment from anyone, but no helping hand either, so it functions like a straight look in the mirror when we contemplate ourselves and all our shortcomings.  Being so, living alone teaches humility, self-reliance, and confidence.  

Another great thing about living alone is that you have a better chance of following your plans without being derailed.  If you decide to sleep instead of reading or watch a movie instead of sleeping, that's up to you, and if you regret your choice the next day, that's also your problem, and you know you can't peg it on anyone around.   A subtler aspect of living alone is that you learn to manage your emotions, as there aren't people around to distract you from your feelings.  Nobody makes you mad, for example, you get mad all by yourself, with thoughts you choose to have.  That, I believe, is always the case, but when you're alone that becomes undeniably clear.  You must rely on yourself as a source of wisdom, comfort, inspiration, entertainment and anything else you need.   3) Perspective.  We have to leave sometimes.  Leave a relationship, leave a house, leave a job, a country... in other to see it better.  If by diving into something we take a closer look, by moving away from a situation, we see it in an entirely different angle.  While in Southeast Asia, I didn't hear about Trump's latest tweets.  It wasn't news, it just didn't matter for them what the POTUS said, did, or said he did or didn't do.  It was so refreshing! I also learned that most people in that part of the world are not as scared of North Korea as they are of the United States.  Well, considering our mutual history, can we really blame them? This same bird's-eye view I can apply to enlighten aspects of my personal life. 4) Traveling is an art, and, as with watercolor, writing or pottery, the more you practice the better you get at it. There are many kinds of travelers, and internship, work, or studying abroad have its own implications, but overall, leaving home reveals your identity as a traveler.  What places are you attracted to, what do you want to see, what do you want to do?  Do you travel to escape, to rest, or to learn?  Do you find a cozy place and make yourself comfortable as you watch the natives from a peephole? Or do you mix with the locals, learn a new language and try new things?   I admire the latter, but I'm not an extrovert, so I don't throw myself into a new situation.  I also don't hide from the wonderful opportunity to see new things, meet new people, eat different foods and do different things.  Whenever I travel, though, I realize that I need to do so more often.  Since traveling, by definition, is a state of transition, I want to learn to move more gracefully from one point on the planet to another.  That's the art in it, the dance in the storm, so to speak. And as in every art, if you do just what you plan, what's the art in that?  More important than following through some preconceived idea, is to be present in the moment.   5) So, there's the saying that "if you cut too many corners, you end up going in circles".  Another reminder says that when you cut a corner, you end up with two more.  In Brazil, we say that, by trying to avoid taking one step, we take two.  That relates to my attempts at cutting costs.  No matter how much one plans, when traveling there are always spur-of-the-moment decisions -- or there should be if you're living in the moment -- and cutting costs is an important practice if you're on a budget, but not every dime saved makes sense.  Sometimes it's okay to take a cab, even when there are buses available. Sometimes it's okay to go to a restaurant, even when you can cook at home or get an inexpensive meal on the street. 

6) Skin Shedding.  Closely related to this new perspective, is the shedding of skin, the throwing out -- or letting go -- of what is no longer working for you.  I got sunburnt in Phu Quoc Island, which led to probably the worst itch I ever had and later, to skin shedding. Although the process was far from pleasant, it symbolized a very special time in my life, when I'm letting go of much that I thought was part of my identity. I'm renewing myself.  The process is both painful and beautiful.  You cry for the skin to which you were once so attached which now brings you more discomfort than anything else.  So you let it go.  Then one day you look at your shoulder and see that the new skin is clear, healthy, and beautiful.  You've been born again! 7) Completely different, but just as good. By the time you travel alone, be it for an internship, to study abroad or any other reason, you're probably over the age of eighteen and might have developed a philosophy of your own. But as you immerse yourself in another culture you realize that other people do things differently, sometimes exactly the opposite of what you think is right.  That's a great opportunity to develop some humility.  Yes, your philosophy is great, but mostly for yourself.  If people in a different part of the world do things differently it's either because it's the only viable way in that environment or because it's working for them.  And here's the takeaway: study different angles of your own idea.  Learn, expand your views, enlarge thine soul. 8) Think Abundance. I have spoken extensively about it while talking about what I call scarcity mentality.  This experience was a great way to immerse myself in a culture that prides itself on making do with less.  It is a fact that in the United States there is too much waste, and better management of resources is something that we must learn, but sometimes that scarcity mentality can become a way of life, part of the culture and it stops making sense. To think abundantly is to understand that resources are always available, but if you go to the ocean with a spoon, that's how much water you'll get.  Saving is good and must be encouraged, but shouldn't be the modus operandi.  A better goal, in my opinion, is to do the best you can with what you have.   9) Order and Progress. It's pretty clear that basic organization leads to better planning and better execution.  Traveling through Southeast Asia constantly reminded me of that.  Some schools teach this but it must be reinforced by the culture, with social expectations and policies in public places. Brazil, for example, dwells in chaos.  The culture deals with that aspect of its people, reinforcing it with cliches like "o jeitinho brasileiro", (the Brazilian way), which allows for creative loopholes in every sphere of society.  Other cultures, such as the Japanese and Chinese, pride themselves in cleanliness and order.  Good fruits come from such values.  And that's what this trip reminded me to do; better observe organization in my own life.     10) I've always believed that people should leave their country of origin and live in another place for at least a year.  This experience only reinforced that belief. I can't think of anything else -- except, maybe, parenting -- that changes one's perspective as much as immersing into another culture.  Everything you know and take for granted, like the language spoken around you, the food, the currency, social values, all that changes but you, at first, remain the same.  It's like taking a piece from one puzzle and mixing it up with pieces from another puzzle.  At first, there's no place for that piece in that society and you feel extra and useless.  Little by little you learn to assess your surroundings and learn new things.  Learning happens when we modify ourselves. Without change, there is no learning.  And this learning reshapes you, so soon you find that you do fit into that society. People count on your presence, on your input, and on your contribution.  You don't stop being who you are, you just enlarge your worldview to accommodate new perspectives.  

"It's all worth it if the soul is not small", wrote Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa.  However, the soul, like the body, needs food for growth.  Traveling, reading, experiencing life in all its colors, shapes, and sounds, broaden our existence and deepen our understanding and therefore must be highly encouraged.  I'm proud of Mount Holyoke College -- and immensely thankful -- for the college's efforts to provide students with experiences of this kind.  

[dearsleyart]

different forms of zines and publications

I set out in this project to explore forms of multimedia but also a more 'traditional' word and image appproach to storytelling. In this i meant thing ssuch as storybooks and picture books that we most commonly associate with 'storytelling' as well as verbally storytelling which i am exploring in my audio. This idea of using written word and image creation has evolved into these zines which ironically are actually quite an alternative form of distributing information and stories, i wouldn't consider them typically traditional.

In my exploration of zines i have been focussing on the youthful, anarchic, rebellious feeling they have associated to them , harking back to eras of social change and roit aesthetic that popularised them. these are typically cut and stick method of zine making, very bedroom DIY vibe and then mass produced. this style  came from the necessity to spread a word and gain momentum to movements that required widely dispersed information. the fact that photocopiers were becoming more popular at the same time meant that this was the most accessible, cheap way to self publish and share information - in the days before we could share a post or weblink. The link between the evolutions of our technology and the ways we disperse information are undeniable and i think i'd like to research this more - are zines becoming archaic when we have something like instagram posts that are essentially digital zines?

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/19/style/instagram-activism-graphics-zines.html [Artists, activists and academics are publishing mini-guides on Instagram  — swipe-through galleries of text and visuals that help people find local businesses to support and fund community fridges; learn about mutual aid efforts in their neighborhood and the global effects of climate change; locate Black healers and wellness spaces; and nourishthemselves, among other things.Though these guides are digital, they borrow from the analog art of zine making. “Zines,  you know, it’s a democratic way to share information,” said Barbara  Calderón, 32, an intersectional artist and librarian and a founder of Colectiva Cósmica,  an art collective that hosts art workshops, publishes zines and  organizes within creative communities. “The zine has always been about  providing access.”For several creators of these posts, aesthetics are just one design consideration.

Haleema Bharoocha, 21, a volunteer for @southasians4blacklives,  an account that aims to educate South Asians about anti-Blackness and  explore South Asian identity, said she often considers ways to include  alternative text and image descriptions in her designs and posts. “I  always think about those kinds of things as I’m developing graphics and  content, just to make it as easy as possible for people to digest,” she  said. Such methods resemble the way that zine makers, like those in the riot grrrl movement of the 1990s, built networks through D.I.Y. publishing. “The  emergence of zine history and the way that we understand it now is  really thanks to the riot grrrl movement who were writing down their  words, their experiences, their images and sharing it with the  community,” said Catherine Feliz, 28, an interdisciplinary artist and a  founder of Abuela Taught Me, a pop-up botanica. Feliz  said that “proto-zines,” educational and activist-minded pamphlets that  preceded the ’90s heyday of zine making, could be seen as a precursor  to today’s digital mini-guides, and that such documents should be  archived“So  much of what is shared and distributed is information and content that  isn’t published anywhere else,” Feliz said. “Because it just wasn’t  allowed, or we didn’t have access, because all of the things that  silence and that erase our voices and our experiences.” A  proto-zine made in the 1960s by the Black Panther Party and the Student  Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, for example, was reprinted in a recent issue of The Comics Journal,  with an introduction by Aaron Dixon, a civil rights activist and former  captain of the Black Panther Party’s Seattle chapter. The pamphlet was a  comic that explained the responsibilities of a sheriff and other public  officials, aimed at informing Black voters of their ability to effect  change.] As a species we've been telling stories since our creation in different ways. From cavemen using spit and pigment to stencil their hands onto walls telling visual stories of hunts and life, to then learning how to speak and stories becoming tradition passed through generations around campfires, to learning to write to put those stories down on papaer so we wouldn't forget them. Back in the 1400's when William Caxton brought over the printing press, this caused a similar link to technology changing the ways we distributed and told stories. Before the printing press was invented, usually the only literate people would have been monks who wrote down every word by hand creating these huge volumes of history that was passed down by word of mouth.

Their spelling and language differed from scribe to scribe but when the printing press cam eover the period of Standardisation begun. Everyone had to decide on a 'correct' way of spelling things so that words would be mass produced through the printing press and everyone would recognise what the word was and what it meant by its spelling.

Because of the evolution of a piece of technology, our ways of distrbuting stories adn using language was forced to change and i think this is evident within zine making and how we tell stories now. our attention spans are much shorter so sitting down to listen to someones story feels more intimate than it would have thousands of years ago - we have an obligation and duty to show we are listening and commit to that person we are listening to. Reading a physcial book or publication feels different to reading  a story on social media etc.

Going back to what i was saying about the vibe of cut and stick DIY zine making, i've been looking at more varied versions of publication too. I think this broadens my perceptions of how to tell stories still in a written word and picture combination, and its really interesting seeing the different aesthetics that have now evolved from that same idea of an easy to create and distribute physical publication.

GOOD PRESShttps://goodpress.co.uk/writing-zines Super eye opening seeing so many different ways of publication that still capture the essence of a short sharp publication in a zine style. The aesthetics vary so much and i has no idea written word could feature so heavily and still somehow be art in its own way. I think sometimes in acting you can be scared of the pauses ina  piece of text, scared of the silences and you try to rush them or hide them and it makes your performance worse and in a similar way i think with publications i am scared to leave blanks, to leave space around words or images and give them room to settle on a page and breathe. i think my initia exploration of one style of zine is that the cut and stick style is a bit chaotic - it captures tht need to spread the word about something with a sense of urgency and vigour, but seeing these publications a lot of them are much calmer nad much more still - maybe this would fit more cohesively with the tone of my audio interviews?