#and see incoming texts without ever touching my phone then i tend to be able to avoid getting sucked into my phone lol

[parasolids]

im trying this thing where i hide my phone when i work and its insane im actually getting things done

[love-fireflysong]

Day 9: Pet

Fandom: Until Dawn Character(s): Chris Hartley, Ashley Brown  Words: 3506 Rating: General  Author’s Notes: Fucking hell. This is so late. I am so sorry. I didn’t expect this to get nearly as long as it did. But to make up for the absolute horror I wrote yesterday Monday, here’s just the worst pining. Like the worst. It’s awful. Nothing but the purest, free-range Chrashley pining here folks! There isn’t even a plot, or at least there wasn’t supposed to be. Apparently I can’t write fluff without a build-up. 

Neither couldn’t place exactly when it all started. Or at least, when something changed between them. Really changed. They had always been more obvious about their affections then either would have liked, not that the other had ever noticed of course. Fond smiles when the other had said something even a little bit endearing. Longing looks when backs were turned. Touches and hugs that always tended to last a linger or last longer than what would have been appropriate for friends who absolutely did not have a crush on each other. 

Each day they spent together was a torture, a reminder that no matter what, there was no way that they felt the same way about each other. But it was always better then the alternative, feeling like a dagger was being shoved into their hearts every moment they were apart. So they endured, hoping in equal turns for either the feelings to fade (it didn’t) or for the other person to finally look their way (they always had).

And while they don’t know when things changed, they can pin point the two singular moments when it shifted.

-----------------------------------------

"Just use a pillow, Chris.”

“I would love to Ash, I really would. But I seem to recall that you stole all the pillows and are holding a monopoly on them right now.”

Chris wasn’t lying. He and Ashley were hanging on out on the couch in his and Josh’s dorm room, and she had shoved every single pillow (all two of them) in the dorm behind her on the couch.

“It’s not my fault that your couch has the worst lumps I have ever felt before. And some how only on the back and arms of this thing. Seriously, how do you two sit on here?”

Chris poked at one of the said lumps as he regarded Ash with a flat look. “We don’t. Unlike you, Josh and I don’t read on the couch—”

“I have never once seen either of you read a book that wasn’t a comic.”

“Really not the point, Ash. Also, rude. You’re not wrong, but you’re also being very rude.”

From where she had curled herself up in the corner, legs tucked under her, Ashley stuck out her tongue at Chris. “I still don’t understand why you or Josh haven’t replaced the thing yet. It’s not like neither of you could afford it.”

Chris gave a short snort. “It’s not like Josh couldn’t afford it. Do I look like I have a couple of hundred chilling for a couch? I barely have enough money to pay Josh when he gets back with the pizza. Anyway, it came with the dorm so it would be a big no-no if we tossed it.”

“I still don’t understand why Josh had to go to get the pizza in the first place.”

“The place doesn’t like to deliver on campus. Apparently a delivery driver got their car completely covered in spray paint or something when they had to deliver during frosh week a few years back.”

“...How much longer till he gets back with the pizza?”

As if knowing that he was being talked about, and honestly with Josh, it was entirely probable, Chris’s phone went off with a beep of an incoming text message. “Uh, hold on. He just texted.” Chris looked at the screen for a moment, and groaned. “Shit. He says that something happened at the restaurant and they managed to lose our pizza. Gave it to the wrong Josh W. apparently. So they’re making us a new one.” 

“Are you serious? Really?”

“Unfortunately. Wait. He’s sending something else.” Chris’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Oh fuck yeah!”

“What? What?! You can’t leave me hanging like that Chris!”

“He says that as an apology, the place is giving us a free order of garlic cheese breadsticks!”

“Ooooh. That is good news.”

Chris nodded excitedly. “It’s gonna be another half-hour or so until they finish making it though.”

“That’s fine.” Ash shrugged, and then sighed happily. “It’s worth the wait for some of the cheesy garlic-y goodness coming our way. Plus, I’ll be able to finish another chapter or two of my book while we wait.”

“Gee thanks, Ash. Glad to know that you would rather read a book then spend your time with me.”

“Oh, Chris,” she smiled brightly and reached out to pat his leg comfortingly. “You’ve always known that.”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. Fine then, if that’s the way you want to play it...” Before he could think it through, or she could react, he flopped over onto his back and placed his head onto her lap.

“Chris! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

He shrugged as he shifted around a bit to make himself more comfortable. You stole all the pillows to read your book, so I decided to do the same. You’re my pillow now.”

“Oh my god. You don’t even have a book.”

Chris waved his phone in front of her face. “Newsflash, I don’t need a book. Got all the things I could ever read right here. Twitter and facebook and tumblr and games all at my fingertips. God. Join the 21st century Ash.”

She didn’t say anything, just smacked him lightly in the forehead with her book.

“I don’t think pillows are supposed to fight back.”

“Then get off, dingus.”

“Too late, I’m comfortable now. And I don’t think pillows are supposed to talk either.”

Conversation between the two of them trailed off after that, Ash opening her book to where she had last left off with an long-suffering sigh, and Chris turning on his phone. Except, as he mindlessly scrolled through whatever social media app he had randomly clicked on, his mind was not on the phone. Not at all. Nope, his mind had suddenly realized that his head was in Ashley’s lap and it was all he could think about.

It shouldn’t be awkward though! Friends did stuff like this all the time, using each other for pillow, right? At least, Josh certainly did. He was liable to sprawl across anyone’s unguarded lap if they weren’t careful. Hell, he had done it to Chris just this morning! But Josh didn’t have a huge, stupid crush on the person’s whose lap he was sprawled on (or at least, Chris didn’t think so?). But this was fine. It was normal and he could do this! He would not panic and turn into a blushing moron! Which was the mantra he kept up in his head, over and over to distract himself from the realization that she really did make a good pillow.

Which was why he didn’t notice that Ash’s fingers had been running through his hair for the last couple of minutes.

The moment he did though, Chris froze like a statue. His eyes slowly moving so he could look at her in the face. But her eyes were on her book, moving back and forth as she continued to read, and she flicked a page one-handed with practiced ease. She had no idea what she was doing. Probably thought she was petting a cat or something. Yeah! He thinks he remembers her mentioning once or twice that one of her cats at home likes to curl up into her lap when she reads. So she probably just thought that she was petting her cat! That was a thing, right?

He catches her lick her lips when she flicks another page, and averts his eyes, face turning a shocking shade of pink. Only to completely forget that when one of her nails lightly scrapes his scalp by accident and he sucks in a gasp between clenched teeth. It hadn’t been a gasp of pain though, no siree Bob, not at all! It was almost scary how intense the jolt of pleasure that shot up his spine was. He nervously chances another glance at Ash to make sure she hadn’t caught that,  only to watch her wet her lips again and swallow. 

Chris can honestly say in this moment that stopping her is the last thing on his mind. In fact, if he were to make a list of all of the things going on in his mind right now, stopping her isn’t even on it.

So instead, he closes his eyes, phone long forgotten, and just centers on the feel of her fingers running methodically through his hair. On her nails catching every so often on his scalp to scrape at it.. On the sound of her peaceful breathing. On the rustle of a page turning every so often in semi-regular intervals.

He decides that if Josh takes a little longer to bring the pizza, then that’s fine. Chris is more than happy to just stay here like this.

---------------------------------------------------------------

She really hoped that one of them was home. Really, really hoped as she banged on the door to the boy’s dorm with her fist. She was ready to admit that maybe she should have texted them first, but well, today just really hadn’t been her day so far.

Finally, finally, she heard movement on the other side of the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Hold your goddamn horses!”

Chris. Part of Ash was really, really glad that it was Chris. Another, just as large, part was really, really bummed that it was Chris.

Yup, it really wasn’t her day. She continued to bang in hope that it would get him to the door faster anyway.

“Holy fuck, I said I was coming! If this is you Brian, then I swear to God—” the door swings open inward and Ash gives a bashful smile. “—Jesus H Christ Ash! What the hell happened to you?!”

She knows that she’s a sight. Dripping wet and covered in mud, and dripping all of this onto their entryway. She sneezes and smiles weakly.

“Hey Chris. Mind if I steal your shower?”

Chris doesn’t even answer her, pulling her into the dorm room and yelling over his shoulder towards the bathroom. “Josh! I need you to get your ass out of the shower! Now!”

She makes out Josh’s voice muffled through the shower and the door separating them. “What the hell, dude! I just got in here!”

“Don’t give a shit! Ash needs it more!” Chris moves to grab her unsurprisingly also soaked school bag and begins to hurriedly remove her thankfully still dry textbooks and binders from within. He places them carefully on the nearby table and she finds herself falling further in love with him all the more for it.

“Ash? What’s she doing here? Doesn’t she have her own shower? She can go home and use that one! This one’s got my name all over it for at least the next twenty minutes!”

Cold and miserable and soaked to the bone, Ashley finds she just doesn’t care anymore. “Joshua Washington! You get your goddamn ass out of that shower in the next five minutes or I swear to God I will rip you out of there myself!” She catches Chris staring at her in a mix of fear, awe, and something else she can’t quite place but makes her stand just a little taller despite the fact she’s shivering and literally looks like a drowned rat and creating a puddle the size of Moscow on his floor. 

There’s a stumble and what may be the sound of a bottle dropping onto the shower floor. “I’m moving, I’m moving! Fucking hell, can’t a guy even shower in peace anymore?”

To his credit, Josh is only in the shower another two or so minutes, and when he opens the bathroom door he stops to stare at her stunned. “Holy Hannibal. What happened to you?”

Ash growls as she pushes past Josh (or would have, if he hadn’t jumped out of the way) and into the sanctum of the bathroom, already dreaming of the hot water on her skin. “I’ll tell you after. Shower first, story second.” With that, she slams the door behind her.

She’s also ready to admit that she spends an altogether too long amount of time in the shower. But she’s covered in mud and cold so really, who can blame her? She also spends a far longer amount of time staring at the bottle of body wash that she knows is Chris’s as she debates whether to use it or not, but she’s less likely to admit that one.

Finished, her skin and hair no longer a muddy brown, but the usual pasty white and dull auburn, Ash feels better then she has in hours. Refreshed and ready to take on the world, or at least the asshole in the Chevy. A hesitant knock at the bathroom door startles her, and with a grey and green striped towel wrapped around her, she opens the door a crack and stares out into Chris’s face, eyes upturned and face pink as he resolutely does not look at her but at a dark stain she knows is just above the doorway. Before she can say a word, Chris shoves an old grocery bag at her and a set of dry clothes.

“Here. Put your clothes into the bag and I’ll throw them in the washer downstairs.”

Ash feels her face redden to match his and reaches out to carefully grab the bag and clothes (where did he manage to find some clothes for her?). “Just give me a sec.” Keeping the door open just a crack, she starts shoving her sopping wet and muddy clothes into the bag and hand it to Chris. “I don’t have my wallet, sorry. Forgot it in the English building earlier.” 

“It’s fine. We’ll figure something out.” With that, Chris grabs the bag and turns to  walk stiffly away,probably to go and search for some change she assumes. She can’t help the stupidly fond smile that comes to her face as she closes the bathroom door and starts to get changed. Only for the smile to drop when she realizes that the clothes she’s holding is a sleep shirt of Chris’s that she is able to recognize on sight, an old grey number with the classic PlayStation logo he had found in a game store years ago, and a pair of dark blue sweats with a waist cord. Oh. 

She spends a moment to debate even putting on the clothes, but realizes that her choices are either a: walk around the dorm in a towel (nope, not happening), b: confine herself to the bathroom until her clothes are clean (at least an hour’s wait, not ideal), or c: wear his clothes (towel is starting to look like a more attractive prospect honestly).

Feeling like her entire body is blushing, she puts on the shirt and pants, thanking the heavens that her underwear had managed to survive her unexpected bath relatively dry. The shirt is almost comically large on her, the collar keeps slipping to showcase one shoulder bare of any bra strap (her underwear may have survived, by the bra unfortunately did not), and the sweats she has to roll up at least five times so she won’t trip and break her neck. As she tightens the cord around her waist as much as she can, Ash stares at herself in the still foggy bathroom mirror, face as red as her hair and wearing her best friend/major crush’s clothes. 

She is suddenly really relieved that she opted not to use the body wash now. Wearing his clothes and smelling like him? She probably would have self-combusted on the spot.

Grabbing an extra towel on the rack, she takes a deep breath for courage and opens the door of the bathroom. She notices Chris’s back as he’s standing in front of the microwave and hurriedly starts to towel dry her hair as a way to hide her burning face.

“I’m making you some hot chocolate if you’re okay with that. Figured that you might want some.”

She sighs happily at that. “You figured right. Hot chocolate sounds like heaven right now.” She takes a moment to realize that someone is missing. “Where did Josh vanish off to?”

“He’s digging in the car for some spare change for the laundry room, should be back up in a—” he turns around and starts choking on nothing.

“You okay?”

Still coughing and face just as red as hers, he wave a hand though his voice is strained when he speaks, really, wheezes. “Fine, I’m fine! Just-just dust, you know? Really should dust more often.”

Ashley tilts her head to look at him in confusion. “I guess?”

“Yup. Just dust. Go and sit down on the couch, I’ll bring you the hot chocolate when it finishes.” His voice is still strained when he waves her towards their lumpy couch.

She sits on it, and abandons the towel to run her fingers through her hair to try and break up knots and get some degree of neatness without a brush. Barely a minute later, Chris walks over and hands her the mug of cocoa. Somehow, they manage to get the mug to exchange hands without their fingers brushing. Good, she’s already obvious enough with how red her face still is.

Slowly, Chris sits next to her on the couch, his fingers tapping a beat on his knees. “Why were you using your fingers?”

Ash blows on the mug, hoping that she can claim the steam as an excuse for her face. “Forgot my brush in the English Building, too.”

“Oh. Um.” she watches Chris take a deep breath, his hands now digging into the fabric of his jeans, holding on as if his life depended on it. “I-I can help with that?”

Ash blinks, not quite understanding where he’s going with this. “I mean, sure?”

To her absolute shock, instead of just leaving to go and grab her stuff from the English Building like she expected, he instead starts to comb his fingers through her hair. The only reason she doesn’t drop the mug in shock is because she immediately tenses at the contact and just grips onto it harder.

For a moment, both are silent, nothing but the sound of Chris running his fingers through her still damp hair, breaking tangles and knots as gently as he can. It’s all she can do to stop from flinching when his hand reaches the bottom of her hair and brushes her bared shoulder.

“So,” Chris’s voice is high-pitched and strained as he speaks, “what happened?”

“What?” Unfortunately, hers is just as strained and somehow pitched higher then his.

“You came here looking like you decided to take a walk through a hurricane, but it’s not even raining outside. What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh. That.” Hands shaking and face burning, Ash struggles to take a sip of the hot chocolate with dumping it on herself in the process. His fingers through her hair is entirely too distracting but she can’t bring herself to make him stop. “You know that huge puddle by the library? I was walking by it to get back to the English Building when some dick in a Chevy decided to drive right through it and soak me. I only came here because your shower was closer.”

“Are you serious? What a fucking asshole. Why didn’t you text though? I would have picked you up at the library and brought you to the campus.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately I left my phone in the English Building too, I was in such a hurry to leave and study, that I managed to forget an entire bag there.”

Chris gave a short, quiet laugh behind her. “Just not the one with the books of course.” His fingers catch on a particularly large tangle and her breath catches. She can hear him suck a breath in behind her. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t be sorry.” It is. It’s really, really fine. She kinds wants him to do it again, and her face somehow burns hotter at the the thought.

“Okay, If your sure.” He continues with with calming motion, conversation done as she just closes her eyes and decides to fully enjoy and embrace what will never ever happen again. Until that is, he accidentally rubs his fingernail along the back of her neck, the blunt edge scraping the skin slightly as it runs down. 

She can’t help the gasp that leaves her as it happens, her back arching a bit at the sensation. She turns around and looks at Chris, knowing that there is no explaining away her reaction just now.  Both their eyes are wide and and they’re breathing far too heavily for what had just happened.

Behind them, the front door slams open and they spring apart. “Hey Cochise! You got another twenty-five cents hidden around somewhere? We’re short a fucking quarter to run the dryer!”

--------------------------------------------------------

So yeah. While they don’t know when things changed. They sure as hell know when they shifted.

[welcometophu]

Not Your Love Song: Chapter 38

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 38

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I’m going over to see Noah.

Rory looks down at his phone, at the last text from Darrik sent at 7am on a Saturday morning. He assumes that Darrik didn’t head to the cemetery that early; it was still below freezing and dark at that hour. On the other hand, aside from the sun coming out, it isn’t much better at 10am when Rory walks through the gate from the main grounds into the small space at the back where Noah is buried.

He’s right, though. Darrik’s still there, sitting on a camp chair, a travel mug in one hand, gesturing as he speaks words that Rory can’t hear.

“Hey,” Rory calls out, and Darrik turns, hand lowering as he rises from the chair.

“Hey,” Darrik replies. He puts the travel mug into the cup holder on the chair, welcomes Rory with a warm hug.

Everything’s different between them now, but at the same time, Rory’s still fond of Darrik. And hugging him is still comfortable. He steps back finally, crosses his arms against the morning’s chill. “Having a nice long conversation with Noah?” he asks.

“Such as it is.” Darrik walks over, crouches down in front of the grave. “Your friend Dax has tried twice and said he’s not here. So I doubt Noah’s actually listening. But it’s still comforting to be here. It’s the only place I know to go.”

Rory feels like he should be able to say something else. To help. He somehow inserted himself into the middle of all this when it was only supposed to be a benefit concert back at the beginning. And now he feels like he’s somehow responsible for making sure it all comes out well in the end.

Except they’re done with that. Wednesday was their last chance.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t wake Lora up,” he says quietly.

Darrik twists to look up at him without standing. “Did you come here to apologize? Because I’m not upset about that. It’s a relief to know that she’s safe in there, that she’s healing, not dying. Besides—” He cuts off, puts his hands on his knees and pushes slowly to his feet.

“Besides what?” That sounds like a significant kind of pause, and Rory isn’t sure where Darrik was going with it.

“Lora said she’s not alone,” Darrik says slowly. When he meets Rory’s gaze, there’s a softness around his eyes, a vulnerability there. Hope, Rory realizes. It’s hope, and it’s even stronger than before. When Rory doesn’t say anything, Darrik smiles slightly. “I figure if Noah’s not here, he’s either gone wherever souls go, or maybe he’s with Lora. Maybe he’s keeping her company there.”

Oh.

Well.

“We could have Dax try—”

“No,” Darrik cuts him off. His expression immediately turns apologetic, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I just—I don’t want to disturb Lora anymore, and I don’t want to do that to her parents, either. I went to visit them last night, and while Jonathan and Ally have done their best, this has upset them. It’s hard to have hope, even if you don’t want to, and then have it taken away again. Until we know something more for certain, I don’t want to do any more rituals in her room. She asked for time to heal; we need to give that to her.”

“Of course.” Rory wraps his arms around his center. He feels strangely young right now, as though there are adult decisions being made and he’s not meant to be any part of it. “I just wanted to help. I hope it did, in the end.”

Darrik smiles at that. “It did, Rory. It’s… it’s easier to grieve when I know it’s just Noah. And I know that thinking that he might be out there, somehow, with Lora should make it harder, but it doesn’t. It just feels like the two of them are sticking together, like they always do. Like he’s watching over her. Or maybe she’s easing his path into wherever he has to go.”

Which reminds Rory that he hasn’t mentioned something to Darrik yet. It’s one of those things that doesn’t seem to be right to bring up on text. “Have you talked to Alex recently?”

“Katsoulis? She’s in my class every day,” Darrik says. “Impressively she hasn’t had an absence since the start of the year, which is more than I can say for most of her cohorts. They may be the top students in their grade, but they have a high share of sick days.” His expression shifts, growing curious. “But if you mean one of her cryptic messages, no, not since the last one I mentioned. Why?”

“She texted me to say she’s sorry we weren’t right for each other, because apparently for an old guy, you’re cute.” Rory grins, because this part amuses him. “Somehow I’m close enough in age to her, but you’re far enough away to be old.”

“She is closer in age to you than you are to me,” Darrik says dryly. “Can we not talk about me like I’m ancient and on death’s door, but look good anyway?”

“I think Alex really likes you. Not likes you—not like anything inappropriate,” Rory says quickly, because that conversation could get awkward fast. “But she seems to care about you. Or at least, her Talent does. She said that you’ll be happy again someday, and that I’m going to have something to do with it. Without actually being involved with you romantically, of course.”

Darrik furrows his brow. “What? How?”

Rory shrugs, hands spread. “I have no idea. I told her I can’t resurrect the dead, and she said she knows. Sort of. So… it’s as cryptic as Alex ever is. But that just means… according to Alex, it’s okay to hope.” He lowers his voice, tries to be gentle. “Even if hope sucks most of the time. I have no idea what it means, but there’s closure out there for you somewhere.”

“And for us?” Darrik says, a soft huff as he shakes his head. “This is our closure, right?”

“I’m not abandoning you if you want our help again,” Rory says quickly. “As long as you can promise that Ally’s not pointing her crossbow at me, I’m willing to help with anything you say you need. I still can’t figure out if she likes me or not.”

“Believe it or not, I think she respects you at least. And for Jonathan, that was actually very pleasant,” Darrik says dryly. “They’re a quirky group. I keep expecting them to push me away because they’re Noah’s friends, not mine, but they’ve kept me.”

“Ally seems like the kind of person that if she likes you, you can’t get rid of her.” Rory can see that high level of loyalty in her. And protectiveness.

“You may have trouble getting rid of her then, once she’s recovered from this last round,” Darrik says. “Give them some time to process. Give us all that time, but I think we’ll be back in touch. Remember, we’re all local. We’ll still be around in the summer.”

That makes Rory laugh, because summer is like a whole other world for him. “I’ll be on tour as soon as classes are over and Andy’s graduated,” he reminds Darrik. “My summer job involves a lot of travel. But also a decent amount of income, which is good. I have to go pretend I know how to be a rock star.” He makes a face. “I’d say I could emulate Thorne, but thanks, no. Still, it’ll be good. I like being on stage with the band. It’ll be a nice change from all the chaos of the school year.” He’d never thought going to PHU could possibly be more chaotic than being on the road, but somehow it has been. More happens here than ever does when he’s out with the band. It’ll be nice to get back to some kind of routine.

“Mm. And Kit?” Darrik reaches for his travel mug, makes a face when he takes a sip. “Cold.”

“Things are good with Kit.” Rory flushes, because this is definitely awkward. “I like him. Probably more than like him, but I’m not saying that yet. I want to give it time, since we had such a weird beginning. We’re both willing to wait and see if it works out.”

“Doesn’t that mean you’ll definitely work out?” Darrik gestures at Rory’s wrist, and Rory lifts his arm, pulls his shirt back to show most of the ink.

“This isn’t any kind of a guarantee,” Rory says quietly. “It’s a pointer. It’s an indicator that hey, this could be a good thing. And because the ritual was already screwed up, I can’t take it as anything definitive. The more I see about it, the more I can see good and bad in the whole thing.” He tugs his sleeve back down, crosses his arms.

“If it hadn’t been for the marks, I might not have thought about getting involved with Kit romantically,” Rory admits. “He’s a good friend. I really liked how our friendship was developing, and we were trusting each other, which for both of us isn’t something that comes easily. But I didn’t know that guys were an option for him. And I don’t think he’d really thought about it either. So it did help us see something that might be there. But it doesn’t say it’s going to work. It just holds up a sign and says hey, check this out. So we are. And we’ll see where it goes from here.”

“I hope it works out.” Darrik opens his arms, and Rory goes into the hug.

They both hold on a little too hard, and this one feels like the final goodbye. Like the awkward part is over, and they can finally both let go completely. Darrik doesn’t seem to be rushing the hug, and Rory lets it linger.

“Clan really does give the best hugs,” he says as he steps back. At Darrik’s confused look, Rory tries to explain. “My roommate’s Clan, and our friend Mac always says that he gives the best hugs. Because Clan tends to be so tactile.” He’s not sure if Darrik fully gets it, but it’s not really that important. “And thank you. For hoping it works out,” he clarifies. “If it doesn’t, I think I’m okay with that. I mean, I really do like Kit.” More than he wants to say out loud. “But if we end up friends, I can handle that, too.”

“Any time you want to talk about it. Or have random conversations about high school antics when I’m bored in study hall….” Darrik shrugs, hands spread. “You know where to find me.”

“I do.” Rory watches as Darrik turns back to look at the grave; Noah may not be there, but Rory still suddenly feels like he’s intruding. “Do you want company, or…?”

“I think I’m going to be okay,” Darrik says quietly. He takes his camp chair, pulls it a little closer to the grave. When Rory touches his hand, he relinquishes his travel mug.

It only takes a little effort to carefully warm the liquid inside the mug back to a hot, but drinkable, temperature. Magic is handy for some things.

As Rory hands it back, he says quietly, “Take care. And remember, if you need to talk, I’m only a text away.”

Darrik takes a sip, makes a small appreciative noise. “I know. And thank you.”

Things feel settled, for the first time in a long time. Rory thinks Darrik might be okay. Not today, but someday. And they’re friends now; they’ve found that middle ground between random acquaintances and dating. Rory can deal with that.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and pulls a scarf out to wrap around his face to keep the wind out. Then he begins the trek back toward the bus, to return to campus.

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[ellen-reincarnated1967]

Space

Written for: @spnangstbingo

Pairing: Reader x Jared

Warnings: self doubt, assumptions, condom (you’ll see), accusations (implied and not), cheating (implied), destruction of property, character death, unresolved issues…

Word Count: 1,508

Square Filled: Free Space

Summary: When the reader discovers something unusual in her night-stand, she begins to question her relationship with her husband.  

A/N:  Something personal I needed to flesh out- I tend to overreact and assume the worst in people and today it came to a head.

Something was niggling at the back of your head for what seemed like days.  It wasn’t desperate to be sought out, however, it was making its presence known and the pebble in your stomach was becoming more like a rock as the sleepless nights passed.

You’d been married to the love of your life for roughly four years and together for over seven.  Soulmates he had insisted; you were quick to quote Plato thus sealing you both together.  To him, you were his unicorn: rare, special, and everything he had hoped to have in a loved one.  He was everything you ever wanted in a man.

Relationships are tricky though- you read about them, your girlfriends talk endlessly about the ups and downs of their romances, you see what could only be pictured as too good to be true on the big screen.  There were days that led to weeks that eventually seemed like months, where neither of you were intimate with the other. 

His work schedule, your health, even the late night texts and skype calls were not enough.  He constantly reminded you how beautiful you were; knowing you were having self doubts about your appearance.  He would stare with such an intensity it was as if you were going to fade from his existence.

What any other woman would take to heart and be grateful for the attention, you were feeling trapped.  His constant praises full of rightful intent were becoming trite to you, a necessity; his loving gaze into your soul was driving you mad as if he was hovering, frightened that you may break at any moment.

Jared had left early in the morning forgetting to set your alarm, which was usually a warm kiss to your forehead.  Usually one to oversleep, your intuition woke you.  There was that niggling feeling in your gut again.  You had various phone calls to return, bills to pay, and by the time you realized you may be behind on one of the more important ones, regardless of your husband’s income and yours combined, the stress began to stir in your chest.  

Tiny spindles threading together like a spider weaving a web; only this web was becoming tighter and tighter against your ribcage and the only thing it was catching was your breath.  

Reaching into your night stand for your anxiety medicine, “to be taken as needed”, your hand rummaged around for the drugstore orange bottle, only to land on something you hadn’t felt, seen, or used in seven years.

A fucking trojan; its blue wrapper shiny and new, the label screaming, “lubricated for his pleasure” or something you couldn’t fathom, because, what the actual fuck, Jared, why is there a condom in here in the first place?

This was the last fucking straw to break your back and you did what any wife would do when she found something unusual; you took a damn photo of it on your cell phone and texted your husband,

Why is THIS in my nightstand?!

Breathe in…rage out…

It’s not even the ones we used when we DID use protection FYI.

There weren’t enough emojis to send and the ones you wanted to use would only ignite this further, so you inhaled, texted your best friend the screen shots of the on going message to your husband, and waited.

Dramatically, an eternity passed, but in actuality it was maybe two minutes top when Jared’s smiling face appeared on your phone, his text reading,

???I have no idea!!!!

We’re playing the husband without a clue card, you snarled through your teeth as you read the message again, as if there were a secret encoded reason as to why he was playing said card.  You had nothing to go on so you became obsessed with the actual text itself.  Who even uses that many exclamation points, you felt the anger boiling in your gut, your jaw clenching, teeth gnashing together, as you typed out your response,

Who is she, Jared. 

Not a question; a full on accusation.  You needed to see his face, so you pulled up the FaceTime application on your cellphone and it rang, its incessantly, high pitched, annoying tone, mocking you.

It rang.

Rang again.

Call has ended.

“Not on my end, you son of a bitch,” you threw you phone across the room and it shattered.  Not bothering to pick it up, you hastily grabbed your overnight bag, stuffed whatever clothing you could manage, threw in your toiletries and makeup, and hightailed it toward the garage.  

His metallic onyx Wrangler was taunting you while the keys to your own car, were gripped so tightly that they were pinching your flesh.  Scratching a jagged scar into the driver’s side, you had hoped to trigger something, relief, you didn’t care, what aroused from the act.  

You felt zero remorse, zero guilt; you felt nothing in that moment and it frightened you.

You stared at the flecks of paint on your pale and shaking fingers, looked towards the visible scarring on the truck, and only wished he felt an iota of the pain you were feeling.  As you slammed your belongings into the backseat of your vehicle, you peeled out of the garage, and tore towards your best friend’s house.

As you sped, the limit on the highway, went out the proverbial window, you zigzagged in and out of the cars that were going too slow for your liking. That web that was building in your rib-cage was expanding more than it would allow you to exhale the anger that was making you see red; no, you weren’t seeing red, there were spots in front of your eyes, your breathing was becoming erratic, the sharp inhales of wanton breath leaving you for a lack of a better word, breathless.  

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, but in your case, all you saw were those flitting spots in front of your eyes as the tears blinded you to the red light in an intersection.

Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of YN YLN, I’m either screening my calls or busy, guess you’ll never know.  Leave a message after the beep.

Beep.

Jamming the phone into his back pocket, Jared was infuriated. A literal chicken without his head, he was running around the set, bumping into the PAs and cameras, as he dashed to his trailer, Jensen hot on his trail.  He had shown his best friend the text messages and felt horrible about not being able to take your FaceTime call, but Rich was running a tight ship. As soon as he yelled cut and print, Jared had made haste to get Clif to drive him home.  

Jensen, trying to aide his best friend with reminders of breathing techniques he had learned throughout his therapeutic sessions was doing nothing but setting Jared’s meltdown into overdrive. 

Shoving Jensen out of the SUV, Jared’s eyes blown from worry, the tears building but refusing to fall down his dimpled cheeks, he looked him in the eyes and swallowed, this is my fault, Jensen, mine.

Jensen knew what Jared meant; tried to persuade him to let him tag along, but Jared insisted, slamming the door to the SUV with such force.  He watched as Clif drove Jared home, the black vehicle becoming just a speck in the distance.  

Jensen swiped his code into his lockscreen and dialed your number, but it went straight to voicemail.

Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of YN YLN, I’m either screening my calls or busy, guess you’ll never know.  Leave a message after the beep.

Jared insisted Clif drive faster but he was quick to be stern with the young man, reminding him it wouldn’t do him no good if he was dead before he got to ya. The road leading towards your house became packed, cars nearly at a standstill.  Flashing lights could be seen in the forefront and as the cars stopped to stare at the wreckage, Jared attempted your phone again.  His heart beat picked up as he saw the compacted metal of what used to be your favorite car, a body bag being zipped up alongside the road, and an ambulance leaving the scene of the accident.  Clif immediately noticed the make of your car, locked the doors to the SUV, and sped like hell towards the hospital.

You never thought it would end like this; but here you were, lying on your back, hooked up to various machines, unable to breathe, speak, or think.  Otherworldly it was, watching the scene unfold before you.  You husband was sullen, his skin taut and gray in color, his beard had grown in, and he hadn’t showered in days. He reached for your hand, urging you, begging you, to squeeze just once.  You would admit later on when you were met on judgement day, that you were tempted to squeeze back.  The fight in you, however, had ended the moment you heard Jared’s voice crack and the phrase that left you hollow,

Baby, I never meant to… 

Forever Tags: @uniquewerewolfsuit @wheresthekillswitch @oneshoeshort @hiddenwritingsintheworld @mrswhozeewhatsis @growningupgeek @authoressskr @meeshw777 @sandlee44 @xtina2191 @faegal04 @sis-tafics@smoothdogsgirl @iwriteshortstuff @dorky-and-i-know-it @hexparker@riversong-sam @atc74 @ruprecht0420 @20secspnfam4 @me-a-unicorn@chelsea072498 @skybinx-blog @d-s-winchester @deandoesthingstome @moonlitskinwalker @mamapeterson @feelmyroarrrr  @sassysupernaturalsweetheart @roxy-davenport @becs-bunker @evilskank-inthemegacoven @spn-fan-girl-173-2nd @there-must-be-a-lock @emilyymichelle @tiffanycaruso @curliesallovertheplace @meganwinchester1999 @emoryhemsworth @supernaturalismylife @lessons-of-red@myfand0msandm0re @deductions-in-time-and-space (DSTB) @daughterleftbehind (Dibs) @maddieburcham1@poemwriter98 @lupine-princess @thinkwritexpress-official @smoothdogsgirl @sound-the-siren@mayasmedberg @iwantthedean @wonderange @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @kas-not-cas

[remysinnerchicken]

A New Chapter

College sounds fake. The stories are everywhere online, from nightmare roommates to party horror stories to the constant reassurance that it will be the best four years of your life. There are tricks and tips on how to make your dorm room cozy plastered all over Buzzfeed and supposedly life-saving hacks for when you have to finally brave those communal bathrooms. Naturally, for an anxiety-ridden incoming freshman, those articles are eaten up with unabashed ferver.

However, what those articles fail to mention is that, while there are similarities, art school in the big city is a whole separate genre of fake. Roommates are still game of Russian Roulette, and the meal plans are still too damn expensive to be necessary, but there was something different about a school made up entirely of artists. Which, for Charlie Vega, was both a blessing and curse the moment she stepped foot on campus.

"This is campus?" Mike spoke up as he eyed the two buildings kiddie-corner from each other.

"There are other buildings around, but yes," Charlie quietly defended, "It isn't exactly green rolling hills, is it?"

"Where do you go to ditch class?" He raised an eyebrow, plastering himself to the window to try and scope literally anything out.

She shrugged awkwardly, "Pike's Place, I guess?"

"She isn't going to be ditching class," Their mother spoke up with an eyeroll, still trying to maneuver her way into the alley for car unloading, "Not when we're paying 50 thousand dollars a year."

He shook his head with a laugh, "Jesus Christ, kid. That much for singing and dancing classes?"

"You went to trade school for music in L.A., I'm not sure you have much of a position to judge from," She argued.

"I'm not judging you," He waved his hand casually, "I'm judging your pretentious school." His eyes scanned the now bustling alleyway and smiled at a woman in a bright colored shirt who had two large rolling bins with her. They exchanged nods and he got out of the car, ushering his sister to do the same.

The two emptied the tiny car's contents into the bins, Mike making small talk with the upperclassman helping out. She lead the two into a parking garage where people in a shirt just like hers stood beside bins just like theirs with freshman that looked anxious just like Charlie. She pointed to a tall Hawaiin man in a purple bandana, telling them to go "stand with him, he'll get you up the elevator."

By the time they had gotten to the eighth floor, Charlie was nearly reeling. The doors dinged open and she was greeted by a loud, excited voice.

"Hi!" The woman nearly sang, "You must be Charlie! I have your card for your room and a few papers for you to look over and hand back to me later tonight." She shoved the contents into her dazed hands and beamed like a million suns all fused together, "Go check out your room!"

Charlie took a second, realizing for the first time in thirty minutes where she actually was. She took a step back, eyes sweeping the doors in the hall and finding the one that belonged to her, just the second door down. She read Charlie and internally cringed, having forgotten to mention that little name switch to her family before they came. She looked back to the excited woman, finding her just watching with anticipation. She smiled awkwardly and went to her door, pressing the keycard to the reader and falling against the door as it opened.

"I made it," She announced loudly as she entered. She looked up to find her roommate, having stopped dead in her tracks the moment the door opened, and her two moms.

"So, you're... Charlotte?" One of the mothers asked.

"Charlie," She corrected, ignoring the way her skin crawled as she was acutely aware of her brother behind her. She came fully into the room, emptying the bins with shaking hands so that Mike could bring them back out to the loud woman.

"I'm Riley," Her roommate finally spoke up once Mike had come back. She stepped to the middle of the room, holding out her hand to Charlie.

She watched her wearily before shaking her hand, "Good to put a face to the texts."

"Same," She smiled before going back to organizing her side of the room.

"Alright, Charmander, you want to make your bed and start setting up or do you want to wait for mom?" Mike asked, sitting in the desk chair provided.

"Let's just wait," She answered quietly.

For what felt like hours but could have only been twenty minutes at most, Mike and Charlie sat and watched as the Winters set up Riley's half of the room. Every so often, one of her moms would strike up conversation, which Charlie tried to continue but her smiles were tight and her looks were fleeting. Eventually, the two women recognized how uncomfortable the girl was and left her alone, holding nothing but empathy for the anxiety ridden artist.

Just around the time that Sofia came back from parking the family car, the Winters left to go shopping for the extra necessities they had left back home. Together, Sofia and Mike put the art on the walls and made the bed, allowing for Charlie to put her knick-knacks where she chose, her clothes in the order she needed, and her plant in just the right spot in the window. By the time the room was setup, Charlie was sat at her desk holding her Scrump doll tightly against her body.

Danny Boy (9:32am): Hey, are you all setup?

She read the text over and over as if she couldn't understand a word it said. She looked up at her family as they made plans before leaving, and then back to her phone.

Charmander (9:34am): Almost. Mom and Mike are gonna bounce soon, I guess, but they want to go shopping first so I have some kind of food.

Danny Boy (9:35am): They're leaving so soon? Like, not even lunch?

Charmander (9:35am): :^) I'm dying inside.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before they all headed out to a nearby grocery store, getting cheap and fast essentials that could last her until the next time her mom came into town. She had a meal plan afterall, but as far as they could tell, musical theatre majors were going to be driven into the ground so any kind of extra snacks would be appreciated. Of course, it wasn't the most fun shopping experience she had ever had, as she really just roamed the aisles without an appetite for ten minutes before her family started grabbing things they knew she liked.

Arriving back at the dorms, Charlie and Mike took the stairs with the groceries, making for an earlier goodbye with Sofia on the first floor before she went to fetch the car. Riley was still gone and, after a choked up hug between the two siblings, Charlie was alone in her room for the first time.

Charmander (10:32am): Is your roommate there

Danny Boy (10:34am): No. Is yours? Do you need a friend?

Charmander (10:34am): mike just left

Danny Boy (10:36am): :( Come up to my room. The doors open.

That was the first place she differed from all the generic articles online. She had a friend from high school that was also attending her school of choice. She wouldn't say they were best friends, no, but they had certainly seen some things together. From homecoming disasters, to first heartbreaks, to gender revelations, to say they had history was a bit of an understatement.

Which is how Charlie found herself sitting in Daniel Knowles' room, streaming with tears as he hummed while putting away Poptarts. She wasn't offended, in fact she kind of preferred that he ignored her. It was sort of just a moment for herself.

Until he decided to actually talk to her about it.

"What is it that's freaking you out so much, if you don't mind me asking?" He inquired, not even looking in her direction.

She looked up, eyebrows drawn together and shoulders rigid, "Well... I mean... I've never done anything like this. I mean," She sniffed and swiped at her nose, "I lived with Mike for that one year. But it was different, I was still home with everyone. I was in a small town. I had somewhere to be. I had Mike."

"Well, you have me," He shrugged.

"Why am I the only one who's not excited?" She suddenly asked.

He paused then finally leaned against the counter, looking at her. "I don't think you are," He finally said, "I think everyone just says that they're excited so they can cover up how dreadfully anxious they are. But you don't tend to do that. You... Well, Charlie, you wear your heart on your sleeve and, ya'know, that's not a bad thing."

"I didn't use to do that," She mumbled to herself.

"No, you didn't," He agreed, "But then some larger than average poop broke your heart, you got sad, and now everyone knows you feel approximately all of the time because you just stopped hiding it. Which is a good thing if you ask me. You're here to study acting."

"So, I should be able to act like I'm not a horrible mess," She defended.

"Nah, I think it just makes you more genuine," He smiled, "You're very in touch with your mess."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, wiping underneath them to try and remove any evidence of her sobfest. A quick look through her camera on Snapchat and she could see that somehow her Wal-Mart brand makeup stood the emotional test and was looking just fine. With that in mind, she turned so that Danny was in the background of the photo and snapped a selfie. She posted it to her story with fake enthusiasm, mostly putting on a show for their friends back home, before setting her phone down and curling up in the chair she was sat in. For the next hour or so, she watched as Danny, soon to be joined by his roommate, set up their room. Or at least tried to.

She eventually spoke up, seeing how uncomfortable he already was with his roommate, "Can we stop by my room? See if Riley's back and grab my computer?"

"Sure," He answered quickly, dropping what he was doing and grabbing his keycard. "I'll be back, Nate." He didn't wait for an answer before he left the room, Charlie at his heels.

It was only when they reached Charlie's room only a floor down that either of them said anything. She bit back a cheeky smile as she unlocked her door, "He's... certainly a character."

"I don't trust him," Danny deadpanned, "I, can already tell that I'm going to hate him."

With no sign of her roommate, Charlie let out a sigh, "I think I'm going to like my roommate. I don't know. I don't know if she's going to like me."

"You'll be fine," He drawled.

For the next several hours Charlie and Danny bounced from one floor to the next, answering calls from friends back home, sorting out their rooms, and trying to have any kind of communication with their respective roommates. Eventually they ended up on the floor of Charlie's room for a good forty minutes just talking to Riley before she left again to go to a family dinner.

Alone in the room, Charlie rubbed the back of her neck, "So, like... My family's gone... I don't have dinner plans."

Danny looked up from where he lay on the floor, "Oh, I'm sure my family can bring you out."

"I hate your mom," She scrunched up her face at the thought.

"So do I," He shrugged, "But it's food."

After a moment, she nodded in agreement. They called Danny's mom and sorted out dinner plans, and soon enough they were headed out, pressing the elevator button and waiting.

A tall person with incredibly light blonde hair rounded the corner and, seeing that the button was already pressed, stood back with their hands in their pockets, staring at the door. They sort of kicked at the ground a little impatiently, never quite standing still. They had a softness about their face despite having a completely blank expression.

Charlie took a minute to just stare at their shirt, silently admiring the design and briefly wondering if it was a reference to anything. Then, having realized they were staring at this stranger's chest for an indeterminate amount of time, she looked at their face. "Hey," She said, gaining their attention, "Uh, I realize now that it looks like I was just staring at your chest and I look weird. I was checking out your shirt."

They blinked then smiled, "Oh." They looked at their shirt, almost as though they forgot what it was, "Yeah, thanks! I like it." They looked back at Charlie, scuffing their shoe again, "I like your outfit."

"Thanks," She smiled, rocking back on her heels and tapping her toes together, looking down at her shoes shyly.

The elevator dinged open and all three of them got in, riding it down before branching off to their respective destinations.

Unfortunately what followed suit was one of the, if not the most awkward dining experience Charlie had ever had with Danny's family, which was really saying a lot considering the four or five years they had known each other. After a fight that had been sparked from absolutely nothing, Danny's mother refused to join them at the table, and it was just the two of them and his sister eating. With some awkward small talk here and there, Charlie managed to be the Switzerland of the family war, and got back to the dorm with enough time to spare before her floor meeting.

A couple minutes early, she and Riley crept out of their room and peered into the lounge, finding half the floor sitting in various places around the room. The two of them exchanged looks before choosing to sit against the wall on the floor next to one another. Riley focused her attention on her phone, while Charlie scoured the room with her eyes, noticing as each new person slowly filtered into the lounge.

What came by next was a bit of a blur, mostly a ton of information from their very loud and excited RA. Somewhere along the line Charlie made a remark under her breath, which the RA laughed brightly at, calling attention to Charlie by name. She ducked her head awkwardly, smiling a bit and noticing the way Riley chuckled in response.

Finally, as if the universe knew how to mess with her, they were instructed to find someone in the lounge to speak to. The catch being that it couldn't be your roommate. Charlie didn't miss the way Riley seemed to physically brace herself for the following conversation. It got worse when they found out they had to do it twice.

After a conversation with an upperclassmen that she absolutely forgot the name of despite hearing it multiple times within the past twenty minutes, she had to find another stranger to communicate with. She glanced around, recognizing the person from the elevator, but they had already found a partner to speak to. She rubbed at her arm uncomfortably before her eyes landed on what she had deduced to be the elevator stranger's roommate, due to earlier comments made in the meeting.

Perfect.

She sat next to him, startling him, and just let the words roll out of her mouth, "Hi, I'm Charlie, you look uncomfortable and I'm incredibly uncomfortable, so we're going to talk."

He stared at her like a deer in headlights before cracking a smile, "Yeah, sure, that works for me. Uh, Scott. Matthews. Acting major."

"Musical theatre," She nodded, recalling him saying that earlier in the meeting, "So, we'll have a bit of a similar experience."

He pursed his lips, tilting his head, "Well."

"It can't be that different right off the bat," She furrowed her brow, "We do the same thing, I just sing and dance more than you do."

"Still pretty different," He adjusted his seating position just barely, pushing back his hair, "But ya'know, it's. It's whatever."

"Jesus, okay," She huffed to herself, "Uh, interesting fact? I wrote a book once."

"Wow," He looked mildly impressed before shrugging, "I don't know, uh, I went to Catholic school."

She blinked, "You... Really?"

He smiled- no, he smirked. It was definitely a smirk. "Yeah. It's just as terrible as it sounds."

"Yikes, dude," The more she thought about it the more she hated it. She had her own experience with having a wildly religious dad, so to imagine growing up and going through the Catholic school education system was just horrendous.

"I mean, it's fine," He cracked his knuckles absentmindedly, "It's just, ya'know, the surefire way to make sure your kids are never Catholic. That was a fun conversation."

"Yeah, I... I get that. With my dad," She looked down at her hands then, fidgeting with her sleeves.

Their RA called for their attention shortly after, and she could feel an awkward wall go up between her and Scott once they were no longer engaged in conversation. She didn't think anything of it, nothing more than a failed attempt at making a friend anyway.

"Alright, and one last thing before we head out," Their RA finally said, "I need to show you guys the trash room!" Somehow she managed to make even that sound exciting. She stood, startling Charlie when she was only around 5'1", and headed down the hall with the elevators. Everyone followed after her and the moment they walked in, there was a murmur.

"Wow, look, it's my home," Charlie said to herself.

Scott's roommate, Grace as Charlie learned, gasped and turned to her. Excitedly they whispered, "That's what I said!"

Charlie looked at them and grinned, "Oh my God."

When their fun adventure to the trash room was over, they were dismissed from the meeting and Charlie and Riley immediately took to hiding in their room.

"So, there's that weird... mixer, party thing on floor twenty," Charlie mentioned, checking herself in the mirror.

"I don't think I'm going," Riley said.

"Yeah?" She looked at her.

"Like, maybe for a little bit because I hear food's involved. But I'm not, ya'know, a people person," She shrugged.

"I get that," She smiled a little, "I'm mostly just going because Danny wants to. I probably won't stay long. It's been... a day."

And so they went, Riley bailing out after a few minutes. Charlie sat with Danny and a few friends she had met during an Accepted Students Day in June, but mostly she was aching to leave. After some dancing and a weird conversation with a boy from her floor she couldn't remember the name of, she retreated to her room, finding Riley already in bed.

After a tentative shower, Charlie crawled into bed for the first night at college. She didn't know how long she stayed awake, staring at her string lights with something heavy weighing on her heart, but eventually she was able to sleep with Scrump in her arms.

[yaelsstory]

Product Of A Murderer - Chapter 4

Summary: Yaël, a twenty-four years old girl with the powers to control the four elements, lost all her memories after a terrible incident. While trying to get her memories back, she somehow befriends Wade Wilson and Peter Parker. It’s a bumpy road,  because after being gone for almost a year, everyone thinks she’s dead and there are many different reactions to her comeback. That …and while struggling to remember her life as it was before, she discovers that she isn’t who she thought she was. Maybe there are a few things she doesn’t want to remember at all… .

Note: This story is the third part of the Sweet Child of Mine-serie. You can read the other parts of this serie on AO3 on my account (Caspinn) or on my friend’s account (kalkoenvsneoklak).

If you want to read more about the story of Peter, Tony and Steve, you should read part one of the series: Being a Stark.

If you’re interested in the story of Natasha Romanoff and James “Bucky” Barnes, I suggest you to read part two of the series: Golden Locks, Silver Arms.

Yaël walked into her apartment, turned on the light and put her cello back on its place. It was Sunday, so she had no gardens to tend today. As a compensation for the lost income, she had been playing on the streets all morning.

Yaël took a glass of water, sat down and counted the money she had earned. For some reason, Nothing Else Matters from Metallica was always the most popular song, while Era was way less loved. Not that Yaël has a problem with playing Metallica, Wade had told her to do so, but her personal taste went to Era more. She made the most money out of Nothing Else Matters and when she played it, there always gathered a small crowd around her. Though, Yaël knew for sure that the songs she played would sound way better if there was more than just one cello playing. If Yaël just knew someone who played this instrument too, she'd be able to play so much more epic stuff.

“Okay, let’s do the dishes…” she mumbled to herself as she put away her wallet. Wade may have broken all of her plates but her glasses were still alive and kicking… and filthy from the evening before. Yaël opened the tap and put it on hot. Then she walked to her little radio and plugged her phone to it. There was this song she wanted to learn to play somehow, also one of Wade’s. Where was it? She kept scrolling.

“Aha, here you are!” Was she talking to her phone now? Whatever. Yaël pressed play and Aerials from System of a Down started to play. Now, she had no idea yet how she’d learn to play it, but listening to it already gave her a few ideas.

Then she walked back to her sink and put her hands in the water to test if it wasn’t too hot. She frowned. “You have to be shitting me!” she growled. The water was still cold. Yaël ran to the shower and tested the water there. Cold. Oh, she was so going to call Fury! She had to call him anyways to hear if she finally could contact Steve, because she still got no news from X nor Fury about that.

She dialed Fury’s number and started raging as soon as she heard the cracking of someone picking up.

“HOW DO YOU EVEN DARE, I NEED WARM WATER, I KNOW I CAN WARM IT MYSELF BUT WHY DO I NEED TO DO THAT?! THAT’S WHAT BOILERS AND SHIT ARE FOR! I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING LAST NIGHT, WADE WENT CRAZY, NOT ME!” she left the flying tiles-part out, of course.

“I-I’m sorry, this is Mr. Fury’s assistant…” Oh he did not…

“DID THAT IMBECIL GIVE YOU THE PHONE AS SOON AS HE SAW I WAS CALLING HIM!?” Weak!

“N-no-“

“HOLY FUCKING COW, TELL HIM TO GO SCREW HIMSELF!” And with that, Yaël hung up.

But this girl had a little problem with impulses. In her anger, because she wasn’t finished with raging just yet, she called another number. As soon as someone picked up without saying anything, Yaël calmed down. Rage made place for shame as she didn’t dare to say a word anymore. She almost hung up again, but X started talking.

“Yaël, what’s wrong?” Oh, god… what was she doing?

“Eh, hi professor.”

“Hello, Yaël,” he answered calmly.

“I have a little problem, no biggie, rather smallie…”

“Yes?”

“I… have no warm water, which I can fix, of course, with my powers, you know… but I was a bit, eh, annoyed.”

“Well, that’s rather… uncomfortable, isn’t it?” he didn’t sound annoyed or anything by her the useless call. Nor did he laugh with her. Yaël sighed.

“Yes, a bit, sir.”

“Can’t you pay for this?”

“I don’t have enough money, as Fury keeps reducing the money I get and gardening and playing cello doesn’t bring up much. Not to sound greedy, of course, I’m grateful for what I get, but…”

“He holds back your money?” X sounds a bit appalled at that. Take that, Fury-kiss-my-ass!

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think to make me control my impulses more, like this phone call, for instance.”

“That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it? As being impulsive seems to be one of your character traits.” Touché.

“But, it’s okay, I’ll manage! Sorry for bothering you, mister X.” Yaël wanted to stop whining to this man, but his last words, before hanging up, made her feel warmer than ever.

“No, Yaël, you should ‘bother’ me more frequently.”

Her smile quickly faded away again, as she discovered that she forgot to ask X about Steve. Goddammit, Yaël, she thought.

X called her back the next day to tell her that he was going to discuss her situation with Fury immediately, so it’d be fixed as soon as possible. But there was a flaw in X’s plan.

Yaël needed to warm her water, so she cooled off. If she wanted to take a warm shower, she couldn’t enjoy it because her body temperature lowered itself. So, of course, Yaël got a cold. Working in gardens with a cooled-down body didn’t help her cold either.

The next few days, after X’s phone call, Yaël lived in pure coldness. The sneezing, coughing and shivering drove her nuts.

So when someone knocked on the door of her apartment, Yaël was rolled into a blanket, watching series, drinking a small glass of whiskey. She hoped the liquid would make her feel warm. Yaël growled as she heard the knock and rolled herself back out of her blanket.

“Hi,” Peter waved a bit awkwardly as soon as Yaël opened the door. “Wade texted me to come and get you. We’re going to the park.”

Yaël was a bit surprised to see Peter, so her brain malfunctioned for a second. The cold and the whiskey surely didn’t help, even though she only had one glass. “P-parker, I mean park, is, eh, yay! But Mc Dreamy just died, so I’m mourning… Hey, wait, are you stalking me?”

Peter looked at her like he was trying to figure out what she just had said. Yaël sneezed and cleaned her nose with a tissue. “You and Wade were the ones who started stalking me in the first place!” was Peter’s reply. He didn’t seem annoyed, he just wanted to clear the stalking-issue out.

“Yeah, yeah, what ev’s, Spidey,” Yaël shrugged.

“So, are you coming or what?”

“But Mc Dreamy-“

“I think you can use some fresh air.”

“He died-“

“And some sunlight. It’s freezing in here. Come on.”

Peter was very persuasive. He won; he had brought her outside. And even though it was a warm day, as warm as January could get, and Yaël could feel the rays of the sun touching her through her thick sweater, she needed some time to warm back up. It felt like the cold got stuck in her bones. Peter noticed, so he grabbed his sweater out of his backpack and handed it to Yaël. She replied with another sneeze and a muffled “Thank you…” as she cleaned her nose. When she was done, she threw him a wide smile.

“So, how were the DNA-results? You got them, right?” Yaël asked Peter as they walked into the park. She remembered him talking about it during the pizza-night. Peter nodded, he looked a bit nervous.

“Yeah, the guy is my dad, alright…”

“Cool, did you meet him already? Is he kind?”

“Eh, I guess, he’s kinda cool…Yaël, you won’t believe this but I swear it’s true. Tony Stark is my father.” Peter looked at her, seemingly expecting her to freak out. It was hard to explain, the name sounded familiar, but Yaël couldn’t remember why. So Yaël dug and dug into her memories, which weren’t a lot to dig through.

“Sorry, man, I don’t know who that is.” Although it had been his unintended plan to shock her, she had the feeling she shocked him more for some reason. Yaël saw Peter’s eyes grow big and his mouth fall open a bit.

“Tony Stark, lady and gentleman, is the one and only Iron Man,” Yaël jumped a little as Wade suddenly interrupted their conversation. Where had he been hiding all this time? Yaël looked around confusedly. Did he just pop up or had he been waiting in a tree?

“How could you not know him? The guy owns pretty much everything here, comes on the news practically every day.” Well, it still didn’t ring a bell and there was a reason for that.

“Ah well, X and Fury told me not to watch the news,” mostly Fury, “fearing it might trouble my mind, or whatever their crappy excuse was to keep me out of the world…”

No one had an answer to that. Yaël understood, it was kind of weird that she knew so little about the world. They were walking up to a pond in the middle of the park.

“So you want to get to know your daddy, Peter?” Wade randomly asked while he started digging into his backpack and pulled out a bag filled with bread. Yaël raised her eyebrow. What the hell was Wade planning to do?

“Well, I don’t know… For now, I’d rather he didn’t know, but on the other hand I really do want to get to know him. I want to know who he is before I come sending him an ‘it’s a boy!’ card, you see?” Peter answered. Yaël nodded, while she saw Wade walking up to the pond and started throwing crumbs to the ducks. As soon as the ducks noticed him, they swim up to him, happily quacking and diving for the bread. Wade just became the god of the duckies.

This man was completely crazy, but Yaël liked him that way.

Yaël turned back to Peter. “How do you plan to get to know him?” she asked. Peter’s story was kind of sensational. But she didn’t want to disrespect him, because for Peter it seemed to be only stressful, so she didn’t show him how excited she was.

“I don’t know!” he grumbled, obviously frustrated “I’ve been breaking my head about this, but I just can’t get to a simple plan.” Yaël saw Peter frown in annoyance as he kicked against a stone, which flew into the pond.

“Hey!” Wade yelled as his army of ducks swam off panicky, shocked by the stone. Yaël and Peter simply ignored him.

Peter talked and talked. It was obvious that he needed someone to spill his heart to. And all Yaël could do was listen and feed the ducks when Wade gave her some bread to throw into the water. Peter had something normal, domestic and that was exactly what Yaël liked about him.

Okay, yes, he was the one and only Spider-Man, which isn’t normal at all, but he was also just a normal teenager with normal problems. He wasn’t arrogant for being some kind of superhero, or for being over-intellectual.

Yaël discovered that he had a high-functioning brain, as he started talking about making a choice between electrical engineering or biochemistry. As Yaël didn’t really know what these two words even meant, she started asking herself if she wasn’t just dumb. Maybe she never even went to school and maybe Peter was just a mainstream boy. But it didn’t matter, she told herself. Even if Peter was just a mainstream teenager, he’d always be the smartest geek to her.

Peter’s problem obviously was that he needed someone to give him a clear answer. It was kind of cute actually and it proved once more that he was just a normal person.  He couldn’t choose between the two fields, he liked the both of them but… if he’d chose electrical engineering, he’d be able to do a scholarship in Stark Tower. Peter already talked to Mr Stark for an internship, so Yaël didn’t really get what was holding him back. With some luck, he’d somewhat get to know his dad.

So Yaël told him that he should do that, and Peter smiled. It was clearly the answer he needed.

“I would have to sign up for the interview, then. Have another talk with Mr. Stark to get the job…I wonder what Wanda would say about this?” Yaël nodded.

Who was Wanda? Was she his girlfriend? Ooooh! Then why hadn’t she told him to take the internship? Wade started to talk to Peter about the divorce between a pepper (?) and Stark, or something like that. Yaël wasn’t really listening to it, she wondered why Peter hadn’t said anything about a girlfriend before.

“Who’s Wanda?” she asked before she knew it.

“Oh,” Peter answered “she’s one of the new Avengers, telepathic and telekinetic and all, helped me getting Mr. Stark’s blood for the DNA-test a while back…I guess she’s a friend.” Peter shrugged, like having a telepathic/telekinetic friend is as normal as eating cereals for breakfast. But, it was a girl…Yaël had an idea.

“Well, any friend of yours can be a friend of ours. She should hang with us, maybe? I could use another girl in this group filled with testosterone,” Yaël laughed. Yes, a girl to do a bit girlie stuff with. Not like painting nails, but like watching series. It was all fun and games with Wade, but it would be different with another girl.

Watching series… wait, Yaël almost forgot! “Wade! Mc Dreamy died! What the actual f-“

“HOLY LACTOSE-INTOLLERANT COW, YAËL! DON’T SPOIL EVERYTHING!” Wade yelled a bit hysterical.

“Sorry! I couldn’t hold it back anymore!” Yaël answered over-dramatic. She forgot Peter for a second, who tried to get her attention, but she didn’t notice. “And the Winchesters are in trouble again…”

“Don’t you dare spoiling it!”

Suddenly, there was a loud explosion. As a reflection, Yaël checked on her friends. Peter had disappeared, which gave her an immediate heart-attack. He might be Spider-Man, but he’s also a young guy who can die as easily as any human. Right? Or made the Spider-stuff him immortal? Yaël should research that later.

She coughed as soon as the smoke found its way into her nose.

“Gotta go! Stay safe, girlie,” Wade said as he ran off into the smoke.

Well, at least he couldn’t die, Yaël thought as she ran around looking for Peter. Yaël almost fell down as she felt something big fly just over her head, almost touching her. It was a man with giant metal wings, wearing some kind of red goggles. He disappeared in the smoke in front of her. Right, so the fight was in that direction. Yaël ran forward, maybe Peter was there too, maybe she could help. Somewhere, someone grunted and splashed in the water. As soon as Yaël could make out who it was, through the smoke, she started sprinting. Some creepy, shiny person-thing with pointy ears was trying to drown Peter, who was in his Spider-Man suit, in the pond.

Yaël started making contact with the water to attack the green weirdo as she saw someone else sprint towards Peter too. It was a blond, shorthaired man with a bow lifted in his hands, ready to shoot.

“Falcon, the Goblin!” he yelled at the guy with the wings, then he put his hands in the air and made a pull-sign. The winged-dude, Falcon, got there first and pulled the attacker, the Goblin, out of the water. They started struggling in the air, which made Falcon drop his target. Yaël looked at the man with the bow, who fished Peter out of the water. Then she saw the Goblin fall on the ground, jump up and running off.

Yaël was still running, but this time away from Peter. She made some sort of string out of the water of the pond behind her, and steered it at the green creep. Without even a hand gesture, Yaël made the string bind itself around the ankle of the Green Goblin. He fell down and got carried over the ground as Yaël made the string pull her victim back.

Falcon picked the Goblin up again and pulled him back in the air. Yaël looked back to see what was happening to Peter. Bow-guy almost got him out of the water. Then, all of a sudden, something happened above her in the fight between Falcon and Goblin which caused a big blow. Dust flew into Yaël’s eyes. As she rubbed her eyes, cursing, she heard a weird swirling sound, getting louder and louder. Out of the blue, Yaël got knocked against the ground.

It was dark when Yaël opened her eyes a second later and she was pretty sure there was someone laying on top of her.

“Miss, can you remove those walls please?” a way too familiar voice asked her. Apparently, Yaël had built a little stone cage around them in a reflex. With just a knock of her hand against the stones, the walls crumbled down.

“Steve?!” Yaël yelped as she saw the blue eyes as soon as the walls were gone and they were back in the open air. Steve was still holding his shield above them, as protection, even though there had just been a ‘roof’, built by Yaël, above them.

The Captain didn’t move or say anything for a second, completely flabbergasted, like he was staring at a ghost. So… Fury nor X had talked to him already. Did Yaël just accidentally mess up Fury’s plans?

Then Steve finally got up, put her back on her feet, grabbed her arm and ran off to a spot a bit further, more out of the fighting-zone, pulling her behind him.

“What happened?” she asked a bit shaky from the running.

“Falcon tumbled down,” Steve answered. Yaël looked back while wobbling behind her friend. Falcon was still fighting the Goblin. Then she checked on Peter again. He laid in the grass, coughing out some water.

“Hawkeye is taking care of him.” Steve had followed Yaël’s gaze as soon as they stood still. Hawkeye… That name rang a bell… somewhere… maybe…

“You don’t remember him?” he asked when he saw her frown. Yaël shook her head.

“I don’t really remember anything. Something wiped my memories.”

“Something… Wait, you don’t even know what happened? Let me take a look at you.” It seemed like Steve finally acknowledged her presence. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands. He checked her for something, probably wounds or scars, and then he mumbled “How are you even still alive…?” He let go of her shoulders and stood there like that for a moment, frowning, thinking. Yaël decided it was best to give this man the time he needed to process this weird happening.

Someone yelled his name. Steve blinked and looked behind him.

“I have to go help them out.” He said to Yaël, already turning around. Yaël nodded, of course he had to… he was the Captain. No fight could be fought without him. “Where do you live?” he asked as he put his helmet back on.

Yaël gave him her address.

“Go home. I know you’re able to defend yourself, but I just want you to be safe right now.”

“But-“

“Go!” And without another word, the blonde guy who had visited her in a few dreams, ran off again.

As Yaël walked on the streets to get to her apartment, she started freaking out a bit. Random thoughts made way into her head. Yaël had never been afraid of meeting new people, so she surely wasn’t afraid of meeting acquaintances , but this was different. Steve must’ve mourned about her, right? Well, maybe he didn’t, she didn’t want to know that. Maybe he just walked through her death smoothly. Or maybe he’d be disappointed in her for not remembering him sooner. How long had it been?

Yaël noticed the warmth coming from her apartment as she opened the door. She stood there for a second, being pulled from her thoughts. There were no more powers needed to warm her water or her rooms, all thanks to mister X.

Yaël purposely hadn’t used any fire in the park, because she already had a cold from acting like a boiler for her home. She should thank the professor, but she didn’t know how. Maybe he’d just know how grateful she was, or maybe he’d be disappointed in her, just like Steve, for not thanking him. Right when Yaël felt a bit relaxed, she started panicking again. Yaël took a sponge and started cleaning the table as she heard a knock on the door. At that point, she really wished that the old, moldy building she lived in had some sort of intercom so she’d know when someone came to visit her and who it was.

Of course Yaël did know who it was. She quickly threw the sponge back into the sink and walked to the door. There was no time for awkwardness, anger or disappointment, as soon as Yaël opened the door, Steve took her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

Yaël couldn’t help it as she chuckled and dug her face into his T-shirt. So this was how it felt again…  Yaël had a secret love for hugs. They felt way warmer than a kiss or anything, but she felt too awkward to hug someone herself. By the way, there hadn’t been many hug-able people around her lately.

As soon as Steve let go again, he pulled the door behind him shut and looked at her confusedly. “How did you even survive?”

“I, eh, this,” Yaël pointed at her head “is kind of empty. I simply don’t remember, Steve.” His confused look turned into a frown.

“Wait, what? You don’t know what happened to you?” Yaël shook her head and signed at the sofa’s. “Let’s take a seat.” This was going to be a long talk.

[jeannemalo-blog]

On self awareness, the creative process and  visual essays: Marshall Arisman

Self proclaimed illustrator and storyteller, not only he’s a great example of how far staying true to yourself and to your perspective on art takes you a long way (long enough to be considered one, if not, the pioneer of modern illustration).A teacher and storyteller, the way he speaks about himself is easily relatable on a personal level. 

Born in Jamestown, a small town in upstate New York (known for a thousand psychos and being the place where “nobody dies” according to the BBC) the landscape of his youth gave him a really different perspective on life, that made itself evident as he was trying to find himself as an artist in the 1960’s New York. By the time he was in his early twenties, he tried experimenting with all sorts of techniques, indulging in art movements in vogue at the time (pop art, abstract painting, fluxus). However, this movements, to him, were nothing but becoming what they were supposedly criticizing; “pop art was in essence doing what it pretended to be agains, becoming a commercial market” were his words when describing this period. It the heyday of expressionist and surreal graphic work. Non of this spoke to him due to the circumstances in which he grew up, away from pop culture and into a more traditional and simple way of living. Trying to create something real, close to home, he dig into his life, and started recreating subjects that he’d piled up in his poetic memory (there where without dates or precision you just keep stuff that touched you at some point). He then thought of things like deers, which he had killed, eaten seen but never drew. Cows, which he milked, ate, named but never drew. His mother, his grandmother, a spiritist who was able to see auras. He thought of his relationship with his brother, which he said came from a different planet than him - they had completely opposite personalities. All of this spoke to him truly; it allowed him to speak of something he actually knew, setting the foundation for his work on the next 40 years. 

After working in general motors as a graphic designer and going to the war, he came back and realized  one of the things he needed to explore through art in order to explain or understand (sometimes those two things are kind of the same thing) was violence. This brings us back to his brother. A hunter, gun-loving representation of the american dream, who thought violence was an ordinary thing in every man’s life. He represented a reality so alien; a way of thinking he could never embrace, and yet something so close that this became the subject of his first independent work Frozen Images (1974)

He tried to find a place for this series in quite a bunch of galleries in New York, and he says at least six told him “Man, you better take this thing to Germany, they love this dark shit over there”. Eventually he gave up on trying to fit this into NY pop galleries ‘cause apparently counterculture wasn’t as countercultural after all’, and finally his work was welcomed in print. He landed a job as an illustrator for the Times Magazine where he became the go-to guy for anything related to violence and crime. Influenced by Robert Weaver and André François, he realized that his story telling could be put into illustration (before that, illustration was but “pretty ladies” in feminine magazines) and he developed a thing he called visual essay. It consisted on allowing illustrations to speak for themselves, and to tell stories too, instead of relying on text (in literature this is called poetic images). Though now days this might seem a bit obvious to us, he’s one of the guys that actually made it that way. His style and way of thinking on what to portray relied on the works of Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud and Goya. That’s kind of like a bomb if you think how unapologetic and reckless they were.

Eventually, as time went by he became bolder and rawer and there’s an anecdote he likes to talk about of the time he was asked to make a cover for an article on death penalty. He came up with a painting (the one above this paragraph) and when he got to the office, the chief editor came out holding it under his arm and says “Kid, we’re not printing this; it’s too violent.” Arisman replied “Well frying a guy in a steel electric chair is pretty violent” and the editor then told him something he found rather profound. He said “We live in a culture where when people look at a picture, they don’t asks who the photographer was. They just take is as a reality. They don’t think of the guy taking the photo standing on the dead body. However, when they look at art, they know it takes time. They don’t think of it as a reality, they say the guy who made this is a psycho”. This kind of stories, not only the ones told on illustrations are what makes his work so rich. The context of the work, to him, is the work itself. 

With time, he sought to engage the context of his art in his work, as it enlarged the meanings of his work, and it revealed his creative process. This will inspired  works like The Last Tribe (2009) an exploration of nuclear annihilation (cheerful) or Ayahuasca series, Quechua people rituals (2012) where he used all the mediums taught himself along the way, putting painting, anecdotes and sound in videos where he speaks about the things around these series related to The Bomb. 

“The stories that surround the artwork are always more interesting to me than the artwork itself. And it’s been a luxury frankly, to be able to spend most of my life making pictures about things I’m interested in. And they generate all kinds of other things. I feel lucky about all that. I’ve had the time to do it. I mean I don’t know what it is I’ve done, but I’ve had the time to do it.”

Seldomly, artists allow themselves to reveal the integrity of their creative process, keeping to themselves the not so great, perfect parts of it. He however doesn’t pretend to come out as other “elegant” artist (elegant understood as hiding the processes and rough patches to make the final result seem effortless). In various interviews he’s been emphatic on how personal development relates to the evolution of his work. One of the things that were blocking him when he started was forcing himself to portray subjects that didn’t speak to him in a genuine way. He gives some advice on how this makes art meaningful for you and others regardless of what’s being done:

“If you’re lucky, and you go back to yourself and you start talking about yourself, you suddenly find out that there’s a connection there between you and other people.

Communication is part of the fun, right? It’s just so good when people respond, and say, “I know exactly what you mean” or “These pictures mean something to me.” That’s the nice communication.

It’s also the nice thing about being into print. All kinds of people are looking at it and I don’t have a clue who they are. It’s part of the fun, I think.”

He talks about his reflections naively, focusing on the human said of it. Though in this particular case he speaks only about the creative process, This anecdote is might ve valid when speaking of affecting other people’s life. Sometimes out of experience, or perhaps because we have the means or good intentions, we tend to interrupt the natural course of personal development for those around us. He makes the point when speaking about how he “killed” his mothers creative process:

“I killed the creative spirit in my own mother. Watching this process was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. My mother was a folk artist and made sheep out of bread dough that were her masterpieces. In an effort to bring her more income I marketed her abilities to the Smithsonian gift shop. The sheep sold out on the first order and they re-ordered. After designing a logo, tags invoices and opening a bank account for my mother I called her to find out how it was going. “Don’t ever interfere with my life again” my mother said. “I am so sick of making sheep that I could scream.” My mother never made anything again. The issue was never resolved. The morale is: Do not foll around with the creative process”

To analyze the evolution of an experienced artist like him, who’s still active is that we’re not only witness their process, but we can have its opinion on how things have changed. Despite the fact that illustration no longer offers the stability it used to as a job, he’s got a really optimistic perception on what’s happening in freelancing projects. 

“It’s not really a depressing time. But, if you talk to old-time illustrators, they’re all depressed. These are people who were booked up six months in advance. People who never had to pick up a pencil unless the phone rang. People who made more money every year with the same style for 30 years, and it looked like it was going to go on forever.

But it hasn’t. And those people are bitter. And that’s a shame. But that’s not what it’s about anymore. One of the ironies for me is that the very group of people who are trained to tell stories, the illustrators, never told their own stories.

But what’s replacing that is quite exciting. People are doing graphic novels and comic books. People are creating games and whatever. And what’s generating that, is that freelancing editorial work, which was the mainstay of illustration for most illustrators, is not a market that they can rely on totally anymore.

They’re doing some freelance. And, they’re patching it together with everything else, doing Flash animation and all kinds of things.”

Evidently times have changed, and illustration and the ways contemporary artists work nowadays is radically different. Nobody ever predicted how much technology, internet, social networks or the media would get to affect the panorama of, like, absolutely everything. Still, i believe that some things are inherent to the process of creation, no made which medium, which subject or which time. His story, and the way he tells it illustrate obstacles we ourselves experience in totally different context, and most importantly, the way he overcame this obstacles using art to vehicle the changes of life.

If you want to read all the other anecdotes and things he’s done check the sources for this article;

https://www.societyillustrators.org/marshall-arisman

success ideas from master illustrator marshal arisman:

http://thesherwoodgroup.com/interviews/interview-with-marshall-arisman/#.WPuRWlPyjEo

the last tribe (2009) an exploration of nuclear annihilation

https://vimeo.com/5432640

the new york times

wonderful look at the past. beautiful poetic simple image. Brilliant graphic dog. True aesthetic

https://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/08/his-night-train-and-his-dog/?_r=0

On his referents:

Rober weaver

https://www.flickr.com/photos/leifpeng/sets/72157603995211043/

bacon

https://fumeedopium.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/if-you-can-talk-about-it-why-paint-it-francis-bacon/

Lucian Freud

Andre françois