#been having major art block lately. but i had this doodle of them sitting in my folders. so. idk. *them* <3

[bellafarallones2]

a/n: t-rated indruck fluff from #21 on Veronica Bunch's college au prompt list: I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

Duck had signed up for Performance Studies because he needed arts credits and because the meeting time, seven to nine in the evening Tuesdays and Thursdays, worked well with the rest of his schedule. He was less happy when the professor emailed out the homework for the first day: a reading that examined the question “what is performance?” for thirteen dense pages without managing to come to a conclusion.

By the time he showed up to the first class, he barely remembered any of the points the reading had made. Most of the other students already seemed to know each other, and were talking in groups when he arrived. Only one man, a tall guy with silver hair whose black roots suggested he’d spent an evening bent over a sink for it, was sitting alone and silent.

“Anyone sitting here?” said Duck.

“You?” said the guy hopefully. He was wearing jeans and a soft beige cardigan over his white shirt, and there was a small rainbow-flag patch on his black backpack.

“I’m Duck,” Duck said. “And my pronouns are he/him.” He still occasionally got read as a butch lesbian, and it was better to establish the pronoun thing right out of the gate.

“Indrid. I also use he/him.”

That was all they said before the professor showed up and class began. The professor genuinely cared about the material, which made the whole thing more interesting, though Duck was still distracted. Indrid had very nice hands, nails painted chipped black, and he doodled the entire class, filling a whole page with spiky fractals.

Finally nine o’clock arrived. The sky outside was pitch-black. “I’m not really looking forward to walking home this late,” Duck said as he stood waiting for Indrid to finish packing up. “Wish I had your punk privilege.”

“Excuse me?” Indrid looked amused.

“You know. You’re tall and you have piercings.” As Duck said that, Indrid stood up, revealing that he was even taller than Duck had previously thought. Jesus, this guy had Slenderman legs. “You look like you could throw a punch.”

“I could use my punk privilege to walk you home, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate it, if it’s not too out of your way - I live on High Street next to the REI.”

“Yeah, I’m going that way.”

Duck held the door as they left the building and walked together down the half-lit street. The planes of Indrid’s face looked almost unearthly in the streetlights.

“You an art major?” Duck asked.

“Visual arts and math. I needed to take something in theater or music as a distribution requirement and this was the least theater or music class I could find that was also after noon.”

Duck laughed. “Yeah, I’m in the forestry program and I had to take something artsy.”

Indrid nodded. They walked in silence for a while, but Indrid didn’t seem to mind, his hands shoved into his pockets and his face turned up.

“This is me,” Duck said when they reached the REI. The door to the apartments above was almost unnoticeable next to the brightly-lit storefront.

“Alright,” Indrid said as Duck fiddled with his key. “See you on Thursday!”

“Goodnight!” said Duck when the door swung open, looking around. As soon as Indrid saw that Duck was inside, he turned and walked back the way they’d come. Duck wondered vaguely where he lived; this block didn’t have many students. Ah, well. A question for another day.

--

On Thursday before class Duck stopped at the snack bar for dinner and spotted a familiar head of silver hair. Indrid was drawing, his head tilted at an odd angle so he could both look at the page and drink from the straw on a sixteen-ounce cherry slushy.

“Mind if I join you?” said Duck.

Indrid looked up and his face lit up. “Of course! I don’t mind, I mean. Please sit.”

Duck realized then that what he’d assumed was art was in fact math, that Indrid was taking notes out of a slim, intimidating textbook. Duck recognized a couple of integral signs and that was about it. “Math, huh?”

Indrid nodded.

“I had to take Calc 2 for my major, I wish I’d known you then so you could have helped me with it.”

Indrid laughed, tapping his pencil. “I’d have been happy to. Certainly numbers make more sense than people do, sometimes.”

“Probably more sense than that performance reading.” Duck leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you’d be down to walk me home again?”

Indrid shrugged. “You’re good company.”

--

Duck met Indrid again at the local park that weekend. Their homework for the week was to record themselves performing in a way they did in their daily lives, and Duck didn’t feel like getting into gender, so he’d decided to show how he performed when giving a nature talk, and he’d asked Indrid to help film. (He’d offered to help film Indrid’s performance in return, but Indrid had politely declined, joking about performance anxiety.)

It was less awkward than Duck had been expecting. He walked around the park, pointing out the fungus on a tree trunk and a frog sitting with just its eyes over the surface of the water. Indrid, filming on Duck’s phone, smiled encouragingly whenever he met Duck’s eyes, and it was all Duck could do not to break his train of thought to grin back.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said when he was done.

“Thank you for the free nature walk!” said Indrid as he handed Duck’s phone back to him. Their hands brushed against Duck’s smooth phone case. “I come here to draw sometimes, but I’ve never noticed all that before.”

--

They watched everyone’s videos in class that week. Most of them were pretty boring. Duck cringed through the playing of his own video, though Indrid had done a good job with the camerawork, and a few of the music majors in the class had recorded themselves playing their instruments, which was at least nice to listen to. And then it was Indrid’s turn.

The video opened on a close-up shot of Indrid’s face. I am an artist, the voiceover said, Indrid’s own voice booming across the classroom. Sometimes I even look like it.

The Indrid on the screen bent his head - he was looking not at the camera but at a mirror behind it, putting on heavy eyeliner and spotty mascara. He switched out the subtle studs along the shell of his ear for something heavier, flashier, chain running between the holes. Then he stepped back from the camera and shrugged on a black leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders. A punk jacket. He posed, self-conscious, and as he started laughing the camera cut sharply to his face, again large.

I had an internship last summer with an insurance company calculating risk. He rubbed the makeup off his face with a makeup wipe, his eyes reddening slightly at the contact. He removed the jacket and folded it carefully before placing it out of frame. And then he picked up a pale blue button-down and buttoned it carefully down over his undershirt, and tied a tie in a perfect Windsor around his neck. He removed the bar from his eyebrow and the chains from his ears, which looked rather naked without them.

I perform to look like the things I know I can do. He dabbed concealer over the rosy maple moth tattooed at his neck, one wingtip peeking over the collar of the shirt. Then he held his hand out for a handshake, a business handshake, and sure, he looked like the kind of person Duck would trust to sell insurance. But there was something about his smile, something Duck wondered if anyone else could see. Something that lingered no matter what he wore.

Duck probably should spend less time thinking about his mouth.

--

“So my lease ends in January,” said Duck casually as they turned the corner onto his street. “And I’ve been having trouble finding other places that rent to students in this neighborhood, so I was wondering how you found your place.”

“Oh,” said Indrid, sounding guilty. “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be. I live up by the corner of 16th street and Broad.”

Duck did some quick mental geography as he climbed the step up to the front door. “That’s completely the other direction!”

“I know.” He was dressed like neither an insurance salesman nor a metal punk, today, with gold studs glittering in his ears like grains of sand and a soft, oversized sweater falling off one shoulder. The black roots of his hair had grown since the beginning of the term.

“You told me the first day of class that walking home wouldn’t be going out of your way! You know I don’t need walking home, right?”

“Of course. I just. Uh. I wanted to spend more time with you. I’m sorry for misleading you, we can stop if it makes you feel weird.”

Duck looked down at him. Indrid stood silently, awaiting judgment. “How about you come in?”

Indrid looked up. “I don’t mean to impose, it’s no trouble to walk home -”

Duck held out his hand. Indrid took it and followed him up the stairs without letting go. “You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” Duck said when he finally had to take his hand back to unlock the door.

“Even if I was, I’d happily resign myself to sneezing.”

Duck opened the door and, as soon as Indrid was inside, crowded him up against it. Indrid slowly lifted his hands, trembling, and rested them on Duck’s shoulders. His gaze beneath his glasses flicked from Duck’s eyes to his lips and back again.

“Can I kiss you?” Duck said.

“Yes please.”

Indrid’s mouth was warm and soft and yielded so easily to Duck’s tongue, fuck, they should have done this sooner. Class would have been so much more bearable if he could have been looking over at Indrid’s lips the whole time knowing that as soon as class was over he could drag him out into the hallway, into one of the gender-neutral bathrooms in the arts building and kiss him silly.

“You don’t have any morning classes tomorrow, do you?” Duck asked when he finally pulled away enough to speak.

Indrid shook his head.

“Want to watch a movie and make out?”

“That sounds perfect.”

[seokiloquy]

Bruised Ink - Kageyama Tobio

Soulmate AU: When you write on your skin it appears in the same spot on your soulmates body

Requested (though I changed it a bit to keep it as canon as possible)

Tags/Warnings: GN!Reader, Kageyama being a bit of an airhead, mild swearing

Word Count: 1.7K+

Art club, morning, lunch, and after school. Though admittedly your art club supervisor / English teacher didn’t enjoy seeing an eager face so early in the morning. She, over a matter of days, had gotten used to your silent presence in the corner of the art room as she worked on papers, occasionally asking for your opinion on a topic. 

“See you after school!” you called down the hall, before waving to your aforementioned supervisor who was talking to the art teacher in the corner.

You flicked your uniform jacket off, letting it hang off the top of a chair as you ran to your canvas. The clean paint brushes waited patiently next to the progressing piece of art and your pallet rested next to them, mummified and waiting to let it’s paints feel the air again. You delicately picked at the tape wrapped around the pallet, pulling it off to reveal the chemical smell of acrylics.

You gazed at your painting for a moment, admiring the contrasting muted colours that blended nicely into the slowly fading background. Taking a brush, no larger than the width of your pinky, you reached for a vibrant green and royal blue, ready to dollop small portions onto your pallet. You huffed through your nose as a clump of blue stuck to your fingers. With no paper towel in sight, you kept your mouth shut and rubbed the paint against the back of your opposite arm. 

“You’re going to stain your skin,” your teacher huffed behind you as she walked to her desk, brushing a free hand through her bob cut. “It looks almost like a bad bruise.”

You sighed, picking up your pallet and brush, gently working the bright teal colour you mixed into the layers of your canvas. “Maybe, but if I’m lucky it’ll be gone before any of the other teachers notice just like every other time.”

She gave you a quirked brow sliding into your spinning chair that was tucked into the corner of the room. She grabbed a pen with one hand and sipped on her coffee mug with the other. “What do you mean by that?”

You laughed. “Every time I doodle, draw, paint, or just anything on my skin whatsoever, it’s gone before I see it again.” 

“So your soulmate’s washing it off before class?” she hummed, turning her eyes away from your blocked-out painting and onto the sheets before her.

“I don’t have a tattoo or a red string, so most likely, ya. They probably don’t want to get in trouble. Or maybe they’re in a swim club and don’t even notice it?”

Chuckling she looked up but kept her head down, gifting you the sight of a mischievous look. “Or they could be sweating it all off.”

“How often does a person sweat to get rid of that much ink on a daily basis?”

“There are some dedicated athletes out there.” She shrugged, rubbing the golden tattoo on the back of her hand. “Then again, all soulmate connections are a bit different.

Humming, you turned back to your painting that leaned against the wall. “What are you working on this morning, Ms. Ono?”

Behind you, a page flipped followed by a groan. “First-year English.”

“First-year? I thought you taught second-year English?”

“I did for Sugawara’s class, but I usually teach the first-year.”

You pushed your brush into the canvas a little harder. “Damn, I thought I would get to be in your class.”

“Sorry, kiddo, but you wouldn’t be in my English class anyway. But your Japanese is improving!”

You huffed through your nose. “I’d hope so, the Sugawara’s really aren’t giving me a break.” You studied your canvas and took a step back, looking at how the light bounced off the surface and made the teal look with the less saturated colours.

“Good on them.”

“Don’t encourage it!”

“Kageyama, what happened to your arm?”

The boy’s grown out bowl cut swished as he flipped his arms around turning his head in search before eventually finding the offending colour that had spread into his skin. Twisting his arm, he gave the colour an indecisive look, before poking it his index finger. “Must be a bruise. Probably smacked it when we were setting up the net. Doesn’t hurt though. So hurry up, let’s get started.”

“Why does everyone have to get to school so early,” Sugawara mumbled to himself, pushing the door to the gym open as he ruffled his hair. He spoke louder, “Tanaka, can’t you stop these two?”

“Sorry, dude. But I’m having fun with this. Why are you here so early anyway?”

Sugawara sat down in the doorway, changing his shoes and rolling off his uniform pants to reveal his loose shorts for practice. “(Y/N) has been coming to school early to paint. And my parents said ‘they’ll get lost, you go too’ instead of ‘no, sleep a little longer.’” 

Tanaka huffed through his nose, “Has (L/N) been settling in well?”

“Oh ya. Eichi loves the new company. But now I have to keep up with essentially two siblings instead of one and these two idiots.” The silver-haired boy yawned as he gestured at the two first years that yelled at each other while throwing balls into the air.

Tanaka gets out a gruff chuckle before running into the centre of the gym to join the duo with endless energy.

“Gone again,” you mumbled as you slowly packed up the bento box that Koushi’s mom had prepared for you.

Your arm, which had been covered in paint stains and ink marks across the whole colour spectrum, had been wiped clean. No doubt the work of your soulmate and whatever activity they partook in during their free time. 

Grumbling, you took out your white ink pen and doodled a subtle frowning face on the inner crease of your wrist.

Ms. Ono rose from her seat, patting away invisible dirt that clung to her dark pencil skirt as the warning bell sounded through the speaker system. “Alright, (L/N). I have a class to teach, out you get.” She shuffled hat stacked papers in her hand, pausing for a moment as a look of realization was thrown onto her face. “Oh and, there won’t be art club this evening, so tell the other members too.”

“What? but that’s the best part of my day!”

“Sorry, (L/N) but I can’t be in here all the time.”

You whined, following the English teacher out of the room. Mr. Sato, the art head, walked into the paint-filled classroom as you left. You both gave him a friendly nod, before continuing with your conversation. “What can I do then? I’m not allowed to go home alone.”

Ms. Ono hummed, “Why don’t you sit in on Sugawara’s volleyball practice, you can use it as a figure study and sketch in your notebook.”

“I guess that’s not a bad idea.”

“Well, there you go. Alright, get, to class or you’ll be late.” She stepped into her sunlit classroom, walking straight for her desk with clicking heels.

You left the entryway of class 1-1’s homeroom and started making your way down the hall to your own room in class 1-4. As you weaved through the crowded hall of first years you kept your head up, looking for the nearest tunnel of space, only to get locked against the wall staring into the eyes of an intense schoolmate you were unaware of.

“Uh sorry,” you mumbled, looking away from his pinched brow and sharp eyes that only held your gaze for a moment.

He raised a brow, looking down the hall behind you to his classroom. Saying nothing, he huffed and schooled his expression. Placing the opposite hand on your shoulder, he spun your body to be behind him, switching locations, and continued down the hall. You watched his flat black hair bounce as he turned into class 1-3’s room.

“Well, isn’t he sweaty,” you mumbled to yourself as you made the last few steps into your classroom.

“Koushi, Koushi, Koushi. Are you sure it’s okay for me to sit in?”

“Just don’t encourage any foolishness and it should be fine. We still have to practice.”

You nodded, following your homestay as he led you to his club’s gym, rambling about his teammates.

“Ah, Tsukishima and Yamaguchi? They’re in my class. I didn’t know they played volleyball.”

“Do you talk to them?”

“No sir, I do not think Tsukishima's intimidating.”

Sugawara led you to the side where their manager stood, speaking with one of the teachers you had seen running around the school, you bowed silently as Sugawara quickly gave an introduction and ran off to change his shoes and clothes.

The group had an easy time ignoring your presence as you sat on the metal bench, flipping coloured pens between your fingers. Rough doodles filled the page as messily scribbled outlines took the form of the players you saw before you. Some were stretched out in the air while others dove to the ground in elegant swoops. 

Your pen skidded across the paper.

“Damn,” you muttered, lifting the tip and forcing it into the papers again. Nothing.

Twirling the ink-filled tool between your fingers you shifted the sketchbook off your lap and taking the pen to the surface of your skin.

The ink skidded, leaving uneven marks in an indecipherable pattern along the surface of your skin before running dry. You reached for another pen, only for the result to repeat. You grabbed another, and another. The pattern continued, pushing and pulling, dragging the fine tips as they slowly began to cover the entire surface of the back of your hand in every colour including your white ink, which luckily still worked fine and contrasted brilliantly with the muddied mess on your hand.

You huffed out a quiet cheer of success, finding that a majority of your pens worked fine, and placed the forgotten book back into your lap, coloured pages ready to be drawn over with your trusty series of pens.

“Yo, Kageyama. Is that another bruise?”

God this one is vague as hell but I didn’t have to brainpower to make it any more decipherable. 

It was originally requested that the reader be Sugawara’s little sibling but he only canonically has a little brother, not everyone physically looks like Sugawara, and the adoption trope is meh to me. So I went with a foreign exchange student that is being housed by his family. (if you couldn’t tell)

This au, in particular, is very hard because we try to keep our character (being Y/N) physically ambiguous for the purpose of allowing everybody to enjoy reading it. This au very much panders to those with lighter skin, so I apologize if I didn’t make it as open as I could’ve and please let me know if there are ways I can make this sort of au better. I want everyone to enjoy reading them and not feel excluded.

That’s all, and I hope everyone is healthy and safe. - Bacon

Posted: 06/12/2020

[fulloflesbeans]

Hazel Eyes & Cake Pops [Ch. 1]

Read on Ao3 here

Summary: Max has been in college for three quarters now and lives with Chloe in a small apartment. In the front of one class, sits a pretty girl she can't muster up the courage to talk to. After one awkward encounter, Max now wants to finally talk to her. With the help of Chloe and Rachel, they help her on her insecurities.

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, fucking stop.”

That was the first time Chloe said to me this morning. I was welcomed by her face of annoyance as I focused on her. I inspected where I even was and I was surrounded by coffee cups, paper assignments, and way too many polaroid films. I had no clue how or even I fell asleep, but judging her by face, it probably wasn’t a pretty sight.

“You look like shit,” she patted my back, “worse than usual.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake myself up again, to the point that I started to see colors and trip out a little. From what I could tell from my desk, I was working on assignments for classes and passed out in the middle of it. My desk described how I felt on the inside pretty; It was a fucking mess.

Thanks to Chloe getting a job at Starbucks, I was able to get all the drinks I wanted and drown myself in it. I thought about how I might have a problem with it, then I would ignore it as I asked for another one.

“Max-tress, how in the fuck are you stressing out this much?”

I wish I knew. It was only my third quarter and I felt like I was hit by three semi-trucks simultaneously while I was on fire. The three trucks represented my assignments and the fire represented my ongoing pile of debt. I was lying to myself; I had the unhealthy habit of waiting a day before class to do my work.

“By the way, it’s seven-fifty.” Chloe said lastly.

I shot up from my seat, “What?! I’m going to be late! Why couldn’t you tell me earlier?!”

“You looked cute while you were asleep, didn’t want wake you up.”

I groaned and gave her a weak punch in the shoulder. I grabbed my bag and headed to the front door, not even caring about how I was still wearing white pajama pants and my college’s sweatshirt in springtime weather.

Chloe was in her uniform of all-black and a green apron, twirling her keys on her finger with a sly smirk on her lips, swaggering over.

“Damn, four weeks left and you looked like you hit rock bottom ten times. That has to be a new record.”

“At least I accomplished something this quarter.”

“That’s hella sad, Max.”

Yup, that was me. Max Caulfield, Academy of Art student, photography major, design minor, and on my seventh week of my third quarter. And she was Chloe Price, childhood friend, asshole, all-around punk who knew how to make a mean expresso. We both moved together to San Francisco, not only to start a new chapter in our lives, but to get the fuck out of Arcadia Bay. It wasn’t a bad place, per say, but there wasn’t much over there.

Luckily for us, her work was five minutes away from my school and I could just walk in like most students. On the downside, our apartment was thirty minutes away.

The most of our drive was me with my arms folded, looking out the window, and being slightly mad. I wasn’t that mad because it didn’t matter to be late anymore, but it was more her not waking me up. Now, I had to walk into class in my pajamas and whatever excuse I had to offer.

“You still shouldn’t be stressed out. You only have two classes.”

“I’m doing fine, Chloe.” I replied. In that moment, my mind flooded with all the reasons why I was not fine.

However, this class I could not miss. It was Design Fundamentals to finally start my minor. It had been full for the other two quarters and I could not repeat it, or any classes for that matter.

We arrived to my school. To make this worse, my school was a large gray building in a busy city area. It was always filled with cars, moving or parked, right next to the slowest stoplights I’ve ever seen. It was a five-story and, even worse, it was at the very top. I hopped out of Chloe’s car, not wasting any more time.

“Have fun in your nerd class.” Chloe said with a smirk.

“Have fun dealing with customers.” I retorted. She lost the smirk after that.

At least the elevator was available. I was overheating in my clothes, even when I pushed my sleeves up. I’ve been in more embarrassing scenarios—most of them for being very nosy—though I would prefer to not remember them. When the elevator dinged and the doors slid to the sides, what I saw was the hall of doom. The path moved in a square, classes on both sides, and on the other side of the building was the other elevator. One of the reasons I hated being late was the feeling that overcame me when I had to walk in. It made my heart pound, my chest hurt, hands incredibly shaky, and vision blurry.

Dum-dum-dum-dum… It was beating every second. Maybe I shouldn’t go in. I don’t want to be stared at. My thoughts were scrambled. I should give up completely. I could turn around. I still have time.

My room was 910 at the end of the hall. I had this thought numerous times, but before I let myself succumb to them, I grabbed my ID and put it against the scanner to open the door. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t let myself believe those thoughts. My hand was shaky as I grabbed the handle and went in, greeted by the whole class looking right at me and my professor stopped talking mid-lecture.

“Morning, Miss Caulfield, do you have an excuse?”

They asked that whenever any student was late. I felt myself lock up and letting my heartbeat take over. I took a few steady deep breaths, “Overslept.”

They looked me up and down and said, “I believe it. Take a seat.”

My entire body relaxed. As they went back to lecture, I went to my seat in the back of the room, covered by the other three rows in front of me. Thank dog my usual seat was still available.

The class was fun, but what made everything more nerve-wracking in this room was a girl sitting at the front of the room. When I came to class early, she was always there, alone, and drawing in a sketchbook. I have only ever seen her in this class. I made eye contact with her on the first day and she smiled at me, and since then I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her. I couldn’t fathom how pretty she was and I was hooked instantly. From where I sat, I could see the back of her. She was recognizable due to her blonde hair and it was always in a bun.

I kept my cool and just told myself every single class that I was going to talk to her eventually. Maybe I’ll even have another class with her. Then again, what are the chances I will? She could have a different major.

Class was always just two-hour lecture and two-hour work. I fall asleep depending on how much rest I got the other night, but this day, sadly, I was awake for all of it. Two hours of working on doodles instead of working on the real assignment was something I loved to do. At the end of class, I got everything ready to go and left along with everyone else. Except for the girl, she was always the last one.

I walked out and took the elevator down to the first floor. I went to the library, the largest room in the whole building, so I could pass some time. Chloe got sick of me walking in two minutes after class and told me to “go read or some shit.”

The library was very open and had lots circular tables that could fit up to six people. There were also rectangular tables for classes that may have to do lecture there. Next to the tables were the rows upon rows of bookshelves of any topics and subjects known to man. The left wall was also lined with more bookshelves. I always went to the row with all the books about how animation movies are made aka, the closest row to the door.

As I walked up and down the aisle, I heard the entrance open and close. I didn’t think much of it until I looked over and saw it was the girl. She just so happened to sit at a table that looked right into the aisle I was in. I grabbed a random book, The History of Wall-E, and opened it to a random page. I held the book close to my face, but I peeked over it and looked over at her from time-to-time.

It was an opportunity. I could just go talk to her! I wasn’t ready to try. My heart was ready to explode. I’ve peeked over five times already.

Maybe one more time wouldn't hurt. I was slower this time and looked over. It took a whole five seconds to notice that she was looking back at me.

Shit! I shoved the book closer to my face to hide my shame. Was she smiling at me?! Why did I do this?!

Out of pure panic, I left the book on the shelf and rushed out of there.

I hyperventilated as soon as the library door closed. I hurriedly left the building went down a couple blocks to the Starbucks Chloe worked in. I tried to walk in as normal looking as I could, but Chloe, being a cashier, saw right through it.

"What the fuck did you do, run?" She raised her eyebrow. I couldn't tell her the truth, so I said yes.

“Damn,” she sounded shocked, “You’re lucky I’m going on break on. I’ll take you home.”

I sighed in relief.

Our drives were always filled with music. We always spoke to each other over loud rock; it was always something about what happened while she was at work. This time, it was about one old woman who got mad about her drink taking forever. Chloe told me she held her tongue this time today and wanted me to be proud of her.

"I am proud of you, okay? I have been since you got a job." I rested my elbow on the console.

"I need money for a truck. I hate these kinds of cars," Chloe huffed, "If I have this car by next year, I am going to lose my shit."

I didn't mind the old Honda. It didn't have a shine, instead, it was still the gray matte finish, with a bunch of dents and scratches. I didn't hate it, but Chloe loved the feel of a truck. She said it made her feel powerful.

We arrived to our apartment. To be honest, our apartment wasn’t that bad. It was on a narrow and steep street, but it was in a relatively nice area with plenty of nice little shops and neighbors around us. It was hard to miss it when the building was tall, blue, and was the only thing with gate around it. Thanks to Chloe’s family and my own, they gave us enough to pay rent for two years.

"Hey, Chloe, when you're done with work, can I talk to you about something?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "Now get out of my car."

I listened to her and got out, heading in quickly. I got into the elevator and hit number five. I couldn't stop thinking about her. She was actually smiling at me. She must have found me acting like that cute, but I was dying on the inside. Chloe was going to laugh at me for acting like this. She always talked about how gay I was and this just enforced it.

As I got out of the elevator, my phone vibrated. I thought it was Chloe again, but it was a text from an unknown number. It was full of "miss you" and all that junk. It just might be my ex-boyfriend or ex-friend, so I just erased it.

Apartment 180 was our home sweet home. On the inside, our walls were covered in a posters and different drawings I've done and many different bands Chloe enjoyed, a tattered couch and a small TV in the living room, a nearly empty kitchen, a small bathroom we had to share, and one room we both slept in. The both of us had slept on the couch at one point or another.

I threw my bag onto the couch and I went into the bedroom. I jumped into bed, hearing the springs under me. I placed my earphones in and, for hours, I stayed on my phone. I never have any memory of what I do on there or what songs I end up listening to. For the rest of my time, I stayed lying on my back and scrolling through the apps I had.

"Max and Ruby!" I heard, along with two pans clanging together. My eyes shot open, my body shook, and I was really disoriented. I must have dozed off. I sat up and my phone lands on my lap and my hair felt out of place.

"You're awake." It was Chloe. She dropped the pots on the floor, crashing against the wooden floorboards. She was still in her green apron from work.

Everything was so blurry; I had to blink many times before I said anything back to her.

"Welcome back," I greeted her, "How was work?"

"Same shit," she shrugged her shoulders, "You fell asleep with your phone on your forehead."

"Oh, thanks." I took my earphones out.

"So, you wanted to talk?" She brought it up again.

"R-right," I gulped dryly, "I did ask that, didn't I?"

"Don't back out on me now, Max."

"I'm not!" I stood up and left into the living room. The TV was on, playing the food channel. I really wanted to back out; it wasn’t that important.

I continued with a sigh, "You're going to laugh at me."

"Maybe me a year ago would," Chloe firmly grabbed my arms, "but you can trust me now. I told you everything."

"You really didn't have to tell me every single time you rubbed one out to your favorite characters."

"I told you because we're best friends! You can tell me anything, but I won't force you."

"Okay," I cleared my throat, "I need help talking to someone."

"What's so funny about that?"

"Well, it's a girl in my class today. She sits in the front and I haven’t been able to go up and talk to her. She makes me all... mixed up. I was out of breath earlier because I saw her in the library and she saw me back and she smiled-"

"Whoa, slow down, Max Factor," Chloe raised her hands up, "I get it."

I wiped my forehead of sweat.

"This girl makes you gayer. That's how I felt with Rachel, you know?" She brushed her fingers through her hair.

The question should be, "who didn't know she was gay for her?" I've known Rachel for two years and she has known her since they were sixteen. She was completely head over heels for her; they were in love with each other. It didn't take long for them to become a thing and they were still a thing today. Rachel was, however, travelling around the world being the model she wanted to be. She called Chloe around this time, actually.

She plopped herself onto the couch. I followed. In the background, I could hear Guy Fieri's voice talking about what I think was called poke.

"I mean, bisexual, but more for women," she corrected her words, "All I can say to you is to just talk to her. I know you're super shy and anxious, but I know you can do it! You can go up to her and be like, "I'm gay for you.'"

"I can't do that, Chloe.”

"You know what I mean. I'm encouraging you to start getting out of your comfort zone. I want you to be happy and not living off of coffee!”

“… Did you bring some?”

Chloe let out a defeated sigh, “Yeah, I bought two. They’re in the kitchen.”

I didn’t have class tomorrow; I spent my time watching TV and chugging down the two cups she brought. I enjoyed it more when it more cream and sugar than the actual coffee.

Chloe was right. I needed to start being more direct and out there. As I put my hair up in a small ponytail, I watched her go into the bathroom and take a box for a hair clipper out from under the sink.

"What are you doing?" I asked her. Now that I notice, her hair was growing out and her strawberry blonde roots were showing.

"Fuck it, I'm bored," she opened the box, dumping everything onto the sink counter, "I'm shaving half my head."

She had made some big changes when we moved. First was making her hair a brighter blue and even threw in some purple close to the roots. Next, in less than a year, her right arm was a complete covered in a whole sleeve. It was a mix of flowers, skulls, and notable ones like a ship wheel on her elbow and an anchor on the back of her hand.

I couldn’t help but stare sometimes.

"Do you need help?" I stood at the door.

"No, I'm good," Chloe put her beanie down and started parting her hair, "Would you like one?"

I thought about it. It wouldn't hurt.

"I could get an undercut. If I don't like it, I can hide it under my hair, right?"

"That's the fucking spirit, Max!" She moved most of her hair to the right side.

I watched as she starts the clipper and shave off her blue hair, fearlessly and happily.

"Would Rachel like this?" I leaned against the door frame.

"Why wouldn't she like it?"

I suddenly heard her phone ring; her phone was usually on vibrate. It was a loud Firewalk song; I think Chloe told me it was the same one that was playing when they first met.

"Speak of the devil," I grabbed her phone from the bed and answered it, "Hey Rachel."

"Oh, Max! Hey, what's up?" She replied. She was always so energetic; it was contagious. There was something about her voice that made you feel good.

"I'm doing fine. Chloe is shaving a part of her head right now." I leaned on the door frame again.

"Oh nice! Will you send me a picture later?"

"Of course! How was your day?"

"It was good. I'm really tired right now, but modelling never sleeps or waits for anything."

"Where are you right now? Are you still on the other side of the world?"

"I'm actually in New York! I'm only three hours ahead. I'm getting ready to go out again." She laughed after the last sentence.

"Chloe is almost done." I looked at her, who was still fixing it and seeing if any part of her now-shaven side is uneven. It was hella awesome, like Chloe and Rachel would say.

"Are you going to do it too?"

"Yeah, I might as well. She did tell me to get out of my shell."

"I agree! You have to get yourself out there."

"Max is gay for someone!" Chloe hollered over the clipper’s buzzing.

"You're what for someone?" Rachel repeated. I started to panic; I couldn't say anything else.

"GAY!"

"Oh, I see, so you're getting yourself out there, because there's a girl you like?"

I cursed under my breath, but I responded, "That's pretty much it."

Rachel was squealing in excitement, "That's so exciting! Holy shit, I want to help! Who is she?"

Or, I could just hang up on her.

"I spoke to Chloe about it today. I need some time, Rachel. I wouldn't want to scare her away."

"Just tell me everything that happens, okay? I'll help you as much as I can."

"I will. Thanks so much."

"No problem. Tell Chloe to call me back later."

"Sure do, enjoy your nap."

When I put Chloe’s phone down, it was my turn. I stood in the bathroom, trusting her with the clipper against my head. She ended up going up too high and it ended right above my ears. I couldn't stop feeling the nape of my neck. It was weird to have the neckline of my hair just gone now.

"That looks hella tight, dude," Chloe complimented, "You should totally try that top knot shit."

I watched her as she took a selfie in the mirror for Rachel.

"Maybe when my bangs grow out," I nodded, "I'm not ready for that kind of change just yet.”

"I look fucking good," she flaunted, "And you should feel that way, too!"

"I do feel a little confident.”

"Good! When you go talk to her, use that and just be yourself," she reiterated, "but, push yourself a little bit to talk to her. The rest will be history, bitch!"

As vulgar as she was, she was completely right. If I was really sure, I had to try. If I don't, I may regret it.

[rcsonant-blog]

                                         it was almost too much for my heart to take                                                    but my heart has learned to be                                                          whatever it needs to be                                                                     to survive.                                                        i can get through anything                                                  if i change the shape of it enough.

the picture perfect life. born with no worries, a beautiful surrounding, and a loving family: that was declan’s childhood. having two older siblings whom were incredibly close in age aided in making sure declan never felt alone, despite his reserved and quiet nature growing up. with his older brother, aries, only being 2 years older than him, and his sister, cadence, being one year older than him, the three were as close as close could possibly be.

they brought him out of his shell. they’d walk to school with each other, stopping at the convenience store on their way home to bug the cashier that’s name was brian. they’d always make it a point to go to the neighborhood park that was a block away from home at least twice a week. always the first to tell each other secrets, huddle in pillow forts because the two siblings knew it was declan’s favorite thing to do.

it was because of them that as he grew older, he grew more talkative, more open to other people. his family was adored by all, his parents always volunteering, his sister the star of the school orchestra, his brother the star soccer player on campus. declan wasn’t particularly good at anything but art, but his bright smile and charming personality made him the picture perfect boy-next-door without even having to try.

some envied the family while most adored them, but everyone in town knew them. they functioned like any other family, having their subtle differences and arguments behind closed doors but still loving each other unconditionally. blessed under a roof of love, they flourished with each others support. everything was perfect for them, nothing could ruin it.

until something did.

declan still remembers that day. it was cloudy out, his sister and him sitting by the window next to her bed, counting cars that wizzed by every few minutes as they waited for aries to get home. the clouds were barely parted, sunlight peaking through every few minutes or so to shine directly into cadence’s eyes. just as they were in a heated conversation about the season finale of their favorite show, their mother peaked her head in. she needed bell peppers and rice, two things of which were absolutely necessary for tonights meal. even if she wasn’t asking directly, it was clear what her request was.

declan scrambled off the bed, throwing on a coat and complying without a second thought. cadence offered to come with, no, she was already up getting her coat on under the assumption that she would come, but declan stopped her. the store wasn’t far, and aries would kill them for the undeniable exclusion (he was always petty like that). so instead, cadenced plopped herself back onto her bed, telling declan that if he took too long she’d turn on the wii and destroy his high score on mario cart without him.

he parted from his family, shouting a quick love you before storming into the cold weather towards the store. he wasn’t gone long, perhaps thirty minutes. the broken crosswalk light had taken longer than usual to signal he could walk, and the line at checkout had taken nearly ten minutes to dissipate until he could finally make his way back home.

he walked leisurely, swinging the bag in hand. as he neared closer, he noticed smoke not too far off in the distance, burning dark black and garnering attention. walking closer, he realized that it was a bit too close to where his house should be. he was beginning to walk so fast that he hadn’t even realized he’d slammed shoulders with someone running by, his pace quickening into a run. nothing could mask the horror that he felt when he saw his own house come into view and saw the fire and smoke pouring out of the windows.

nothing was worse than realizing his family was nowhere on the sidewalks.

of course, he dropped his bag and was ready to run into the house himself until some neighbors grabbed him. he tries to fight them off while he screamed, but it was to no avail. that was the most helpless declan had ever felt.

just within thirty minutes, declan’s life became the biggest town tragedy, and he became the biggest sob story. he garnished attention from all corners of the town, everyone now not knowing him as the cute next-door-neighbor but instead the seventeen year old orphan who’s life had tarnished right in front of thousands eyes. it only took so long until the grief subsided into resignation.

he needed to get out of town, out of the watching eyes and the solemn whispers, and so he did. declan moved to the farthest place he could imagine; somewhere more than out of state given the national platform the story had all around america. korea. he changed his name to silas, something of which he has been going by since the age of nearly nineteen.

he is no longer declan yoo, town tragedy with a family of which went up in flames, but instead lee silas, a man who has very little contact with his parents who live in america and has no siblings. he spent years recreating himself and years trying to find the same charming personality that he once had.

he is lee silas, a man with an ability to see the future that he still has no explanation for and a man who has no idea just how entangled his entire life is with another mans.

⸻ THE BASICS

name: lee silas

real name: declan yoo

age: 25

birthday: june 13, 1993

race: korean

gender: cismale

sexuality: homosexual

relationship status: single

⸻ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

hair: brown

eyes: brown

height: 182 cm (6′0)

build: fit

distinguishing marks: none

common accessories: his brother’s necklace, where the charm on the end is a ring of his sisters. both were salvaged from the fire.

⸻ PERSONAL  

profession: set designer

languages: english, korean

residence: busan, south korea

birthplace: stowe, vermont

religion: catholic

fears: death by fire

disabilities: none

good traits: analytical, brave, cautious, creative, consistent, eager, opinionated, soft-hearted, thoughtful, passionate

bad traits: deceptive, feisty, frustrated, perverse, rigid, secretive, skeptical, hesitant, erratic, anxious

⸻ TRAITS

extroverted / introverted / in between.

disorganized / organized / in between.

close minded / open-minded / in between.

calm / anxious / in between.

disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

cautious / reckless / in between.

patient / impatient / in between.

outspoken / reserved / in between.

leader / follower / in between.

empathetic / unemphatic / in between.

optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

traditional / modern / in between.

hard-working / lazy / in between.

cultured / un-cultured / in between.

loyal / disloyal / unknown / in between.

faithful / unfaithful / unknown / in between.

⸻ PLACE IN SOCIETY

financial: wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty

class or caste: upper / middle / working / unsure

education: high school / college / dropped out

criminal record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no

⸻ BELIEFS

monotheist / polytheist / atheist  / agnostic

belief in ghosts or spirits: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

belief in an afterlife:  yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

belief in reincarnation:  yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

belief in aliens: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

philosophical: yes / no

⸻ CAPABILITIES

combat skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

literacy skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

artistic skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

technical skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

social skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

⸻ HABITS

drinking alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

smoking: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

other narcotics: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

medicinal drugs: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

indulgent foods: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

splurge spending: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

gambling: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

⸻ HABITS

nail biting / throat clearing / lying / interrupting / chewing the ends of pens / smoking / swearing / knuckle cracking / thumb sucking / muttering under their breath / talking to themselves / nose picking / binge drinking / oversleeping / snacking between meals / skipping meals / picking at skin / impulse buying / talking with their mouth full / humming or singing to themselves / chewing gum / leg jiggling / foot tapping / sighing / hair twirling / whistling / eye rolling / licking lips / sniffing / squinting / rubbing hands together / jaw clenching / gesturing while talking / putting feet up on tables / tucking hair behind ears / chewing lips / crossing arms over chest / putting hands on hips / rubbing the back or their neck / being late / procrastinating / doodling / shredding paper / peeling off bottle labels / forgetfulness / running hands through hair / overreacting / teeth grinding / nostril flaring / slouching / pacing / drumming fingers / fist clenching / pinching bridge of nose / rubbing temples / rolling shoulders

[mattkeepsrambling]

Escape (Updated 1/23/19)

I'm working on adding a bit more detail here. I tell a lot of what happens to Clarke to get her to the point she is, but, as they say "show, don't tell." ********************************************************************* The smell of stale coffee radiated throughout the station from the stand in the corner and the dozen or so other passengers stood around either with their heads looking down at their phones or staring blankly at magazines and newspapers. Not Clarke though. Clarke stood, music playing on her headphones, lost in thought, eyes staring straight ahead, focusing on nothing and everything. Her time had come, she was finally going. Her bags were packed, and the bus to anywhere else was about to board. She was about to leave, for good, the city in which she had spent almost a decade. While that thought made her a little homesick already, she knew it was for the best. She may be leaving a place she loved; she was also leaving all the baggage it held. She was leaving a crappy job, a stagnant relationship and a city where everyone she knew had either moved away or moved on. She was leaving a job where she spent her days covering for and fixing the messes of her coworkers. It was a job where she was told to deal with problems without any help or backing from her supervisor who, by the way, was never in the office. She was leaving being overworked, under-appreciated and vastly underpaid. She knew she had settled for this job, but she had seen it as a stepping-stone for other opportunities that never seemed to materialize. She was leaving her thankless work and unsupportive higher-ups. When she had started, she had hoped it would lead to other opportunities within the company. She took the job because there was a genuine chance to move up the ranks and make a name for herself. Those opportunities never materialized, and those times when the spotlight should have been on her, it was stolen by others. She saw others with better connections get the promotions that were rightfully hers. Her supervisor promised that the next time something came up, she would be in serious contention, but her moment never came. One of the more incredible injustices was when a son-in-law of a board member got a job for which Clarke was immeasurably more qualified. When his incompetence almost cost the company one of its clients, Clarke got assigned to double-check and fix every mistake he made. She had become a glorified babysitter whose sole purpose was to make someone else look good. Although it was never explicitly said, they dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her if she continued to help the company in this matter. She was, most importantly, also leaving a relationship where she was putting in more than she was getting out of it. She was tired of making big romantic gestures like homemade dinners or weekend getaways. She was tired of picking George up when he had "been out with the boys" and was too wasted to get home. She was tired of being chastised for spending time with her guy friends when he saw nothing wrong with the hours-long conversations he had with "just a girl from work." She needed to stop justify staying with him. They had met, like some a weird modern fairy tale, when they moved into the dorms during their freshman year of college. She was struggling with one of the boxes full of her stuff and he, like a Prince Charming in jorts and a backward baseball cap, swooped in and offered to help her. He helped her bring a couple of carloads to her room. "My name is George by the way," he said, holding out his hand. "Thank you for your help George, I'm Clarke," she responded, shaking his hand. "I'm only a few floors up on 6. Room 628, if you wanted to hang out later." "Yea, sure. I might have time to stop by once I get all this stuff unloaded," "I look forward to it, Clarke," he said as he walked out of the room. She spent the next few hours unloading and stashing away all her things. She was finishing up when her roommate came in and introduced herself. Her name was Rebecca. "Want to go grab some food from the Union?" she asked. "We can use it as a time to get to know each other more." "Yeah, let's go," Clarke said. They sat, ate and talked. Becky was from Kentucky and came to college up north because she was trying to get away from her family. About a year before her grandmother had died and some family members were left bitter by the amount left to them in the will. She had taken her share and put it into going to college. Clarke told her all about growing up in the suburbs and her ever-growing desire to move to a city. When she applied to colleges, she jumped at the chance to go to a place as unlike where she grew up as possible. They spent a long time talking and laughing, comparing stories and experiences. By the time they left, the Union was about to close, and as they headed back the dorm, she remembered the invitation from Geroge. She felt terrible, but she had only just met him and figured she would run into him eventually. The next few days were all about freshmen orientation. She and Becky went to the events together and further solidified their bond. She did see George a few times, but only from afar and never got the chance to say hi to him. After a whirlwind weekend, classes started. She walked into her English 100 class and, who should she see, but George. There he was in the third row with his head down doodling in his newly bought notebook. "So, you're an art major," she said with a laugh. He looked up and smiled when he saw her. "So I see you finally got all your stuff put away-took ya long enough." She felt herself blush. "Sorry about that. My roomie came in after you left and we went to get food together." "No problem. Here, sit here," he said moving the backpack on the chair next to him. Freshman year was a blur. New friendships, figuring out her major, being away from home and truly independent. It was a lot to adjust to, but she had Rebecca, her roommate to get her through it. They started spending a lot of time together as friends after that day. It was not until Sophmore year winter break that their relationship shifted. They would text back and forth over the break, and one night after their conversation, she found herself lying awake and all she could think of was him. It happened every night for the next week. When she returned to campus, she walked into his room to see him. He was just on his way out. "I was coming up to see you. I think we need to talk." They went into his room and sat on his bed. There was a long uncomfortable silence between them before George broke it. "I like you and, unless I am completely misreading this, you feel the same." Clarke felt herself start to smile, but he did not seem to notice as he was so focused on the words coming out of his mouth. "Do you want to go on a real date and see..." She didn't let him finish. "Of course, you dummy," she said, punching him in the arm for good measure. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. She got up from the best and said, "How 'bout now?" He stood up and grabbed her hand as they walked to the dining hall for their first real date. Clarke fell in love, and she fell fast. She found herself mentally categorizing her time into "BF time" and "everything else." They became, according to their friends, "insufferably inseparable." A term they embraced whole-heartedly. He was a psych major and she a marketing major, so they didn't have classes together, but whenever possible, they would meet one another between classes and have a "mini-dates." They would grab a cup of coffee or find some secluded part of campus and talk or make out. Those "mini-dates" were the very essence of their first year together. As with most relationships, there were ups and downs, but what mattered was they always stayed together in the end. In hindsight, she could see when they started to grow apart. It was when, in their junior year of college, their quality time together began to dwindle. They still made time for romantic evenings out, but date nights started to consist of meeting friends at a bar to hang out and drink. Where they once would spend hours alone talking about nothing of importance to anyone but themselves, they now spent the evenings on the opposite side of a dirty booth at the bar while their friends shouted at each other over the drunken celebrations of the other patrons. They still made time for one another, but it was much more of an effort. Clarke set up real date nights, going to shows or cooking meals together. He planned weekend getaways and fancy dinners out. It was these things she focused on when they were in the same booth in the same loud bar with the same people. Now, a few years removed from graduation and the spell cast by the "college experience" had worn off. Where Clarke once was contemplating spending the rest of her life with him, she was now planning a life without him. She wanted to get away from the double standards and continually being made to feel like she was in the wrong. She wanted a life where taking care of herself, and her needs trumped making someone else feel needed. As much as she still loved the city, it just held too much heartbreak now. Its streets had become filled with sadness and reminded of her failures. She could barely turn a corner without being confronted with regrets, missed opportunities and unfulfilled promises. Even now as she wandered around the bus station sipping her coffee, she could see the building where she didn't get her dream job. It was not all bad; there were a lot of good memories too. A few blocks down from where she stood now was where she experienced the moment she fell in love with the city. It was her first summer here, and she had gotten a waitressing job downtown. She had worked the late shift and had helped to close. She stepped outside, exhausted from the busy shift and the city still felt alive. She saw a couple snuggled up on a bench next to the train tracks. The bars were humming with activity as patrons spilled into the patios. As she walked back to her apartment, she saw the audiences from concerts and plays file out and into the warm summer night. It was close to midnight, and there was still so much this place had to offer. It was then, at that moment, that she knew she never wanted to leave this city. But that seemed like such a long time ago. Sadness had infected all the joy and excitement the city once held. The fights she had gotten in with George, watching her dreams slip away and feeling like she was settling in all aspects of her life that had become all she saw as she walked the streets of her once beloved home now. All her good memories had become tainted by the overwhelming feelings of regret and grief. There was no inciting incident to her actions now, no preverbal "straw that broke the camel's back." It just happened. She had woken up one day and realized she needed to get away; to where she did not know. All she knew was that she needed not to be here anymore. In movies it seemed so simple, you get up and go, but this was not a movie: she had responsibilities: namely a lease that was not going to be up for three months. She could stick it out for three months. It was not easy. Once she got the idea to leave, it burrowed deep and stuck. It made her anxious and often irritable as she felt the need to get out only grow stronger. She channeled that energy into laying the groundwork for when she left. She made a list, picked a destination, started saving and for the first time in a long time, focused on the future. Things were going to get better; she just needed to prepare. And that is what she did. The first thing she did was she end things with George and kicked him out of her apartment. It felt like it lasted for hours when in reality it was mere minutes. "I'm leaving," she told him. It was a shitty opening line, but it got the ball rolling. "Going where" he responded. It was at that moment that she realized how vague she had been. It was too late to back off now; she was in it so she might as well do what needed to be done. "Away. From here. From this city: she said. "Why?" came his response. Clarke paused. She wished the words would come more natural, but she couldn't for a coherent thought. This was the first time she had said any of these thoughts out loud and her mind would not calm down. "...because...I just need a break," she told him. "From what?!" He was starting to shout, something she had heard more and more in the past few months. "From work," she began. She took a deep breath, and for the first time, she took her eyes of the stain on the living room carpet and looked George in the eye. "From you," she told him with all the conviction she could muster. For the first time in a long time, he was silent. "You had to have seen this coming. I mean, we have been in a funk for months. We go to the same shitty bar with the same shitty people..." "But you..." he started, but she was not going to let him interrupt her anymore. "It's okay now and then, but every single week...come on. I have tried my damndest to change things up, but you....you want things to stay the same. You seem content to coast through the remainder of our relationship. I have already made up my mind, and there is not much more for me to say. I'm quitting my job in the next few days. It is time to end whatever the hell this has become." She was done, but he wasn't. This was when the real screaming started. George went on for a while, but Clarke didn't pay attention to what he was saying. Her mind was made up, and she had to move on to the other preparations she needed to make. She was so deep in thought that she didn't realize he had stopped talking until he said, "Well...?" "What more do I need to say. This is what I am doing." "So just like that, you are going to throw away almost six years of our relationship because of a few lousy dates!?" She had stayed calm up to this point, but this last comment got to the heart of the matter. She felt her breath quicken as her chest heaved as she felt the mental dam break and all the anger she had felt since this conversation started could be held back no longer. "If you think that is what all this is about, you have NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION!! Those 'dates' are not the problem; they are a symptom of the problem. The problem is, and you might want to sit down for this news bulletin, THE WORLD DOESN'T REVOLVE AROUND YOU! I am done compromising MY sanity, MY happiness for someone who refuses to do the same for me. So, yea, we had some lousy dates, but the fact is I AM MISERABLE. The truth is I am 75 percent sure you are cheating on me with Chelsea, and the fact is I am 100 percent done with YOUR BULLSHIT!" She was done talking. She sat down on the couch as George hurled insult after insult at her. She refused to dignify anything he said with a response. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. He started to stumble over his words as he saw that nothing he was saying was registering with her at all. When he had finally worn himself out, George took what few items he stored there and slammed the door as he left. It was after Clarke heard his car pull away from that she finally let herself breath again. It was the was the freest Clarke has felt in a very long time. She could focus on her wants her needs and not someone else's. It was the first step Clarke needed; It was just the morale boost necessary to get through the other hardship, her soul-sucking job. And she was going to need it. Clarke went to work and kept doing what she always had done: cover for everyone else. She kept her head down and did what she needed to do. Clarke just needed to bide her time until she was ready for it. Something told her there would be less cursing in that exchange. Then the moment came: the time to put in her two weeks notice. It was the happiest moment of her time there when she could finally tell her do-nothing boss that she quit. She had intended to say what she needed, exchange a few pleasantries, politely decline to do an exit interview and get out. But something happened when she finally said those words out loud she was leaving, something so simple that Clarke was surprised by how she reacted. He asked her why she was resigning. It was such a straightforward and harmless question, and for whatever reason she decided to tell him, to be brutally honest and tell him. What she felt as she let out all her gripes and anger could only be described as euphoric. She let out everything she has been holding in. With that cathartic release, she told him she was taking her paid time off, walked out and grabbed what few possessions she had. She was not going back. Now, at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, it was real. After months of planning, this was it. The announcement came over the PA, the bus was ready to board, and Clarke handed in her ticket. She stuffed her bag in the busses undercarriage compartment and got on. Clarke walked straight to the back and took a seat. She starred out the window at her city, or what once was hers. It wasn't hers any longer. The time had come to pass it on to another young dreamer who sees nothing but potential in the manic pace of the people, cars, trains, and busses. That was a feeling long ago lost to her, and now it was time to move on. She was lost in thought, recalling both good and bad memories when she was jolted back to reality by the bus' engine starting. As the bus pulled out and moved steadily away from over a decade of people and events, moments and memories, she could not help but smile. The bus got onto the highway, and the city disappeared in the morning fog, and just like that, she had escaped.

[ltdedngallery-blog]

THE BIG INTERVIEW … KUKULA

(Originally posted November 2015)

AS SOON AS WE SAW KUKULA’S LIMITED EDITION CUP & SAUCER DESIGN, WE WERE IN LOVE! SO WE WERE THRILLED WHEN SHE ALSO CHOSE TO DESIGN FOUR LIMITED EDITION PILLOWS FOR US, BEST OF ALL SHE AGREED TO ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS…

LTD/EDN…Where does this message find you, and what are you up to (aside from answering our questions) right now?

KUKULA…I’m in my studio starting a new show for AFA Gallery in NYC.

You grew up in Israel, and you’ve moved around America a lot. What’s been your favorite place to live?

Most of my time in the States I’ve lived in the Bay Area of California. I really loved Oakland. The weather was brilliant all the time. Now I’m in New Haven, Connecticut, across the country on the East Coast, where I get to experience lots of culture and it’s very close to NYC. If only the weather was like in Cali it’d be perfect.

Fashion plays a big role in your art and life. You once said: “Who really knows who they are, anyway? Clothes help me decide.” Can you explain what you meant?

No matter how unique and special you think you are, part of your identity always comes from how others perceive you. But we never really know how others perceive us, so we choose a role and dress the part. It’s not that clothes make you, but they allow you to be specific for the occasion.

Fashion is a language and it can speak about our personality and desires—if we choose to share, of course.

Another quote we like: “I milked a cow or two in high school, and yet I insist on walking uncomfortably everywhere I go because it looks better.” What’s the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been for the sake of fashion?

My most uncomfortable: Burrberry platforms. It’s funny, too, because they’re supposed to look like hiking booths.

What’s a fashion trend you wish would come back into style, and what’s one you wish would go away?

Capes and cloaks! I’m constantly on ebay looking for the perfect cape. So far no luck, they are all too Halloweeny or too old and raggedy. I want to cover my self in a lavish hooded velvet cloak all winter long.

I think skulls should go away. I don’t think death and fashion mix.

Does being married to an academic pose any fashion challenges? Maybe you have tips for other people with partners in fashion-challenged vocations?

Yup! My husband asked me to dress like a Puritan for a Yale event. I’m too stubborn to change anything for anyone…especially my clothes. I grew up in a small town and got bullied constantly for my style. Even though it hurt me and depressed me, I kept wearing whatever pleased me.

You shared some Facebook stats that show more than twice as many Women as Men “like” your Facebook page. Yet, Facebook routinely polices your female images. What do you make of this?

FB considers my work to be of a pornographic nature, but as far as I know, women are not really the major porn fans. It’s all very strange—I don’t know what to make of it. Boobs have been in art since forever, even in churches, yet FB randomly blocks them…

Did you ever manage to start an “Art is Not Porn” campaign? Do you think it’s possible to change the minds of the critics?

I haven’t done a concerted campaign but I made a hashtag (#artisnotporn). I’m not sure it’s doing anything. Some people might change their minds, others will keep believing what they’re believing.

Do you have a daily routine and/or can you walk us through a day in the life of artist Kukula?

I wake up at various hours because I sleep just like a cat—with one eye open in case of danger. Then I try to answer emails. The rest of the day I just jump from one project to another—illustration, painting, designing a new product, or looking at art books for inspiration. I rarely work on one thing all day, except for the last few months before a solo show. During the day I sit still for a long time so I do try to workout every evening.

My world doesn’t exist that’s why I paint. The closest real thing is Versailles.

How did you develop your artistic style? When did you become part of the “pop surrealism” movement?

I moved to the States a year after art school where I studied illustration. I was printing my doodles on clothes I bought at outlet malls and selling them around San Francisco boutiques and they were popular. One store that had a little gallery space asked me to do an exhibition, which for some reason was a success. My clothing-line fans bought some pieces which I later added to Myspace, then galleries like Copro Nason and Thinkspace found me and asked me to show with them and that was that.

My style changed a lot since I started. I was younger and sillier, more interested in the shocking effect than deeper emotions as I am now. I’m very inspired by 18th century paintings and artifacts. Those have had the most influence on my style.

Can you tell us a bit about the design for your This is a Limited Edition teacup?

I was so thrilled when I was requested for this project. I have tons of books about teacups and antique porcelain. I knew how this teacup would look even before I was asked, so the design was a piece of cake. The Wallace collection in London, which is my absolutely favorite collection along side the Frick in NYC, was one of my inspirations. But even though the design idea was already there, I sat for days executing the details so it would be the teacup of my dreams. I do actually dream about teacups.

What’s your process (and/or philosophy) when you approach the design for a product?

Look at stuff, lots of stuff, so you’ll know the core of what makes something a good design. Study the basic rules of good design and stick to them as much as you can. It might seem contrary to what an artist is supposed to do, but I’d say, don’t dare too much—that usually leads to ugly trash. Make a design that is sans gimmicks and trends so you will love it till the day you die. I went to a tough art school…sorry about that

What’s a life lesson you’ve learned from your cats? (And how do you have nice furniture AND cats? What’s the secret?!)

Be aware, there’s always unexpected danger, that’s what I’ve learned from my cats. Expect to be spoiled by others, that’s anther thing I’ve learned from them. My furniture is all super damaged. There’s no way around it, you need to decide who you love more. I love my cats the mostest.

What inspires you? What makes you laugh?

I think Monty Python is the only truly hilarious thing ever. And my cats are funny too. The world needs to work on its sense of humor. (I do also like The Colbert Report.)

Which current artists’ work (across any genres) do you personally enjoy?

Ellen Von Unwerth’s photography. Junko Mizuno will always be one of my very favorites. Ulyana Seergenko’s couture is so inspiring to me at the moment. I admire Mike Patton’s artistic spirit through such various projects.

What artistic tool(s) could you never live without?

Pencil. Sketchbook, too, except you can always draw on walls.

If you could travel to another period in time, which era and place would you choose, and why?

Gosh, that’s easy. 18th century France, but not being poor, a woman or Jewish (which I am), cause then it would suck.

What music is currently playing on your iTunes, Spotify, Pandora, cassette tape boombox, etc.?

I’m listening to Pandora Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers station right now, but before that I was listening to Bach and before that Buraka Som Systema station. I’m inconsistent.

Read any good books/seen any awesome movies/checked out any amazing art shows lately? (Feel free to answer all or just one!)

Got really into American Westerns lately. I’d never seen any before, but now I’m in the middle of a John Wayne marathon. Weird, I know…

What’s coming up next for Kukula?

Solo show at AFA Gallery in NYC next September. Many group shows in between. Products for my online shop. Most exciting, I made a short movie with the very talented Jennifer Masseux, Dani Seitz, and Aline Pimental that will premier on SHOWStudio sometime in the spring.