#been seeing some picture of these guys that are kind of smudgy looking and it's been bothering me. I wanted consistent ones

[zorilleerrant]

WFA transparents, free to use

[all-chickens-are-trans]

okay, here's my essay for @charliethe2nd on what Harry Bright's plot in Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again should have been because honestly it's cruel that we've been denied Harry Head-banger and i want justice

now here's what we know about harry from the first movie:

he was called Harry Headbanger

when Donna and him first met, he apparently looked like this:

[image ID: A picture of Colin Firth as young Harry from Mamma Mia!. He's wearing a leather vest with a button and a patch on it, a big studded choker, some smudgy eyeliner, and his hair is messy and presumably cut in a mullet. /end image ID]

(really, they shouldn't have made him look so normal. that was such a coward move)

Donna and Harry first met in Paris where he studied, as we know from "Our Last Summer", and it sounds like they spend quite some time together and get pretty close

he played guitar even back then, and bought donna a guitar as well

from context we know that Donna eventually leaves to Kalokairi and after a while, Harry follows her there - she shows him the island and they end up sleeping together

now here's what I think should have happened in the second movie:

they still meet in Paris, on a street corner where Harry stands with an electric guitar and shreds away at it, some awful sounding punk song, but he's clearly very into it (yes, it's somehow a punk version of Waterloo idk how and i don't care, just make it happen!)

Donna stops to watch him and she's clearly amused, and she even gets in on it a little, sings along, plays some air guitar, clearly having a good time

they get chased away by cops (because obviously, Harry doesn't have a permit and people were complaining about the noise), and they run off together, laughing, and somewhere along the way, they grab each other's hands

cut to - a shoddy looking punk bar, Harry and Donna sitting at the counter, still a little breathless. Harry tells Donna that he's in Paris to study at some fancy business school or something like that, because that's what his parents want - but actually, he's spending all his time to try and get a punk band together. they talk a bit about the different kinds of music that they like, and they clearly have a good time together

Harry is still awkward, but not the kind of shy, awkward mess he's portrayed as in the second movie, and he's got much more of a rebel attitude, talking about how one day, he's gonna stick it to his parents and just pursue his dreams or whatever. Donna obviously sees right through his attitude and understands that he's just a sweet guy who tries to get away from his overbearing parents and find his own way, just like her

actually, nothing romantic/sexual happens between them there, because nothing in "Our Last Summer" indicates that it does. It's clear that Harry already knows he's gay, and Donna knows it, too (it comes up when they talk about disappointing their parents, and Donna's just like "eh, don't worry, I totally had a thing for my teacher, I guess I'm bi or something"), and they just really grow close as friends

there's a montage that shows how close they get, just them hanging out in Paris, watching live music (more punk renditions of ABBA songs here), joking around in recond stores, him buying that guitar for her and teaching her how to play it. it ends with them sitting side by side on a bench at the train station, in the soft morning light. Donna has the guitar and her suitcase next to her, clearly about to leave. He smiles at her sadly and says something about how he doesn't want to go back to pretending to study at business school and being a good son or whatever. she tells him he should just come with her. he says: "you know, I think you're the only woman I could ever fall in love with, Donna Sheridan." And she laughs, kisses him on the cheek, takes her bags and gets on the train to Greece.

then, the whole thing with Sam and Bill happens, bla bla bla business as usual

only it doesn't end with Bill, because from Donna's diary we know that Harry came to the island after the Bill thing

Harry is freaking out because without thinking, he jumped on a train and went to Greece, because he wanted to prove to his parents and himself that he can make his own decisions and won't be bossed around by them anymore, and Donna isn't feeling exactly great either, still hung up on Sam, and conflicted about the thing with Bill (I have some other feelings about young Bill and how I think he should've been different, but that's for another time, this is already way too long 😅)

so, they get really, really drunk together - aaaaand they accidentally end up in bed together. And Harry says something like, "Well, at least that's one thing in my life that no one ever expected of me." And they burst out laughing.

Harry comes to the sad conclusion that he's not spontaneous, rebellious and wild, and decides that he'll go back to Paris to finish his studies, and Donna is sad about it and says if he ever needs to get away, he can always find her here, and Harry says, he will, but they both know he won't, and it's sad oh no I've made myself sad HELP

anyway that's it! headbanger harry should've been real, he should've been a rebel and a punk at that point, not an awkward bumbling banker already, because otherwise it wouldn't be so tragic that he's become one later!! all the men should've been less conveniently attractive, more subculture, and Harry would've deserved to have his sexuality acknowledged more than in a few throwaway lines and jokes!! thank you for coming to my ted talk

[tisfan]

If you're still doing Sarcasm prompts, could you please do 57. “This place hold a lot of memories for me. Some bad, some… No. No, no, all bad.” With Eddie x Venom? Pretty please?

Point Blank, Gross

A/N: The title is a playon the movie Grosse Point Blank, which is about an assassin who goes to hishigh school reunion. If you haven’t seen this movie, you really should. It’sfreaking hilarious.

Eddie sighed, lookingthrough the badges on the table. Each one labeled the former student with asmudgy picture probably clipped from one of the thousands ofprinted-and-never-sold yearbooks that were moldering away in the school’sbasement. It took him longer than it should have to realize that the badgeswere in order by first name, rather than last, and that, further, that wasprobably because some of the girls in his high school class had gotten married,and changed their names.

Eddie Brock. Schoolnewspaper, photography club, class clown.

It doesn’t say loser onhere, Eddie, Venom pointed out, helpfully.

“Yeah, that wasn’t anofficial award or anything,” Eddie mumbled, picking up the badge and pinning iton with a grimace. “There were lots of losers in high school.” Christ, hedidn’t really want to be here. He looked over the badges again. He was in luck.“Mac” wasn’t on the table, which meant the guy was here already.

(more under the cut)

Eddie gritted his teethand pushed through the doors into the old gym.

What is this place,Eddie? Venom was swiveling Eddie’s neck around like itwas on a ball bearing, trying to take in the sights. What sights? It was a gym,it smelled like a gym, and even the host of tiny round tables with papertablecloths, streamers hanging from the roof, and someone's disco ball spinningidly in the center of the room didn’t disguise it one bit.

At least there was abar. Didn’t look like the planning committee had much of a budget to work with;it was all Coors Light and box wine. Shelly Poindexter, who’d once beenhomecoming queen, was leaning against the bar, plastic cup of wine danglingidly in her fingers.

“Eddie Brock, from theBrock Report, come home to grace his humble beginnings?”

“Thought I’d see if itwas all the way I remembered it,” Eddie said, not really looking at her as heswiveled his head, trying to spot the man he’d come here to find. Find the guy,interview him, talk to a couple of other people as camouflage, and get out.

“If you remember it asbeing a ruthless crucible of gossip and hormones, then yeah, it hasn’tchanged,” she said, eyeing Eddie with interest. “You’ve changed.”

“Only on the inside,”Eddie said. Before she could say anything else, he reached past her to snag acan of beer and stuffed a couple of bucks into the bartender’s tip jar. Hecracked it open, gave Shelly a vague nod, and pressed forward into the crowd.Mac had to be here somewhere.

Venom finished theirsurveillance of the gym, sniffing at the beer can with interest. When theythought no one was looking, Eddie felt Venom grab their body a bit, stretchinghis mouth and jaw enough that he could take in the entire beer, can and all, ina single gulp. Cheap brew, Venom complained.

“Could’a told you that,buddy,” Eddie said. He burped, and made a face at the flat, watery taste. “It’sa high school reunion, not a socialite gala. Ugh.” He turned slowly on hisheel, looking at their surroundings. “This place hold a lot of memories for me.Some bad, some… No. No, no, all bad. Let’s just find Mac and get this overwith.”

Anne thinks it’s funnyyou’re at your high school reunion, Venom said. Do wereally think a man who kills people for money will be here?

Venom had a weird senseof right and wrong. Usually whatever was fun was right, and whatever was boringwas wrong. But they also thought that killing was for fun, or for protection,or because they were hungry. Or annoyed.

But Venom did notapprove of mercenary killing. An assassin was… rude.

“His name tag wasn’t onthe table outside,” Eddie pointed out. “And if our information was right, he’sin town this weekend on ‘business’, anyway. If he’s seen here, it’s a goodalibi for him. Of course, that only works if he’s actually seen...”

That woman is hungry, Venom said, turning Eddie around. Shelly was following him, witha determined look on her face. Not hungry the way Venom meant it, but more…aggressively sexual. Look out, here she comes, she’s the man-eater.

“She always has been,”Eddie muttered. He was pretty sure she’d slept her way to her homecoming crown,and god only knew how many more guys since. Not that Eddie was going toslut-shame her, but she’d never been what one would call discerning. Andhe rather suspected that she wasn’t looking at him like that because shethought he’d give her a good time, but because she thought he could dosomething for her.

More fool she. The BrockReport had a pretty decent following, but journalists were not exactlyrolling in dough. “Just ignore her; maybe she’ll go away.”

He promptly forgot abouther, spotting Mac near the DJ’s station, talking urgently, one finger near hisear, as if he was on a headset. Not even a little subtle, but at least Eddiewas close to having something off his to-do list. A break in the story,something he could use. He just needed a break, just--

“Eddie Brock!” Someoneelse squealed his name, and he was accosted by the sort of middle-aged man thatused to teach until he discovered that real estate was less stressful. Eddiesquinted, trying to mentally peel fifteen years off-- oh, good lord, really?His sophomore year shop teacher?

“Mr. Peterson,” Eddiesaid, smiling weakly. “How’s life been treating you?” He couldn’t help sneakinga glance at Mac. Just don’t go anywhere, he begged silently.

Eddie wasn’t very goodat small talk. And gaining a talkative parasite didn’t help his attention spanany at all. When Mr. Peterson stared at him, Eddie had to backtrack theconversation.

You told him goldfish,when he asked if you were dating.

Well, at least one ofthem was paying attention. “Uh, sorry, that’s... kind of an in-joke with me andmy friends.”

“Well, I suppose thatyou’ve seen Shape of Water, too,” Mr. Peterson said. He gave a bark oflaughter. “My wife liked it.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, huh?”Eddie checked on Mac again.

Across the room, Macnodded at something that the DJ said, and then turned. When his coat flippedup, Eddie saw the distinct shape of a pistol tucked down the back of the man’sjeans.

Eddie. Eddie, he isfollowing-- Venom jerked on their neck and pulled his gazearound to watch… the old chemistry teacher going off toward the ladies’ room.

What even the fuck.“Hey, so, uh, it’s been nice chatting, but I just saw, uh--” Eddie waved hishand in what he hoped was a vaguely meaningful way. He ducked away before Mr.Peterson could say anything else, letting Venom help him navigate through thesea of people, picking a path of least resistance.

We can go faster if wesuit up. Which wasn’t untrue, although that was often accompaniedby panicked mobs, Venom not exactly looking warm and fuzzy.

I am not warm and fuzzy, Venom complained, having caught that last thought. I am anefficient predator.

“Yes, I know,” Eddieplacated him. “And if we suit up now, everyone will run screaming and someonewill get hurt in the stampede. Just... Keep moving us through the crowd.”

You are less fun whenyou are working.

Eddie had an answer forthat, he was pretty sure he did, but before he was able to get it out, he’dbeen jerked through the doors and was pressed, face up against a concrete wall.“My god, you really are stupid, aren’t you?” a woman-- Shelly, in fact, said.There was something hard and chilly pressing into the small of Eddie’s back.“Bad move. Real bad move. Well, I suppose we can find something to do with theextra body. Make it look like you two shot each other. Something.”

“Shelly?” Eddie twistedhis neck until it crackled, trying to look at her. “What the hell are youdoing? You-- You and Mac?”

“He’s exciting,” shesaid, jamming the gun harder against his spine. “Which is more than I can sayabout you.”

Can I eat her? No onewill even know she is missing.

“Maybe,” Eddie conceded.“Shelly, seriously, you want to walk away from this. Right now. I feel like Ishould warn you that your life is in danger, here.”

There was nothingladylike about her scoff. “Mac won’t turn on me, asshole. People keep tryingthat on me, it doesn’t work. But, since I don’t think there’s anything you cansay that’ll get me to leave you alive, let’s just get on with this--”

She was still talkingwhen she pulled the trigger in time with a sudden surge of music from the gym,probably enough to drown out the sound of gunfire.

Fuck, that hurt-- the bullet went through his spine and Eddie spilledto the ground in a heap before Venom snarled in his mind and-- spread. Warm,comforting, a little bit slimy, but hey, Eddie would take it, especiallycompared to the red-hot agony of being shot.

Sorry, love, should’velet you have her sooner, Eddie said as theyclimbed to their feet.

He could feel his spineand the surrounding tissue healing, a soothing numbness as the nerves wererebuilt. A cold-hot, hard lump ached its way up and out of the wound as itclosed: the bullet. Joined as they were, he could feel Venom manipulating it,pulling it up to their mouth.

Shelly was staring atthem, frozen, unable to move or even scream. Her eyes were wide and as round asdinner plates.

“We,” Venom said,pushing the bullet into their cheek like a wad of tobacco, “are veryexciting. Aren’t you excited?” Venom hitched in a breath and spit thebullet directly into Shelly’s face.

They didn’t give her anytime to answer the question either, but leaned over and devoured the formerhomecoming queen in a few bites. Eddie had to close his eyes for that part.

All right, he said when Venom had finished, now let’s go find Mac.

[aikainkauna]

Movie meeeehm

Thanks to @nitrateglow for these!

1: A movie you enjoyed as a kid that you don't now

-Probs some comedy I'd find awfully sexist/racist/homophobic etc. now. But of course, I can't recall a specific one, probs because the experience is so deeply squicky and traumatic. Oh, wait, I know. I adored The Great Mouse Detective as a kid, but have heard so many "bleh" comments about it later that I don't want to ruin it by rewatching it as an adult. Why take a happy, cherished, pure and joyous memory away, especially as there are so few of those in my life anyway in proportion to the bad memories?

2: A movie you disliked as a kid that you like/love now

-Not a movie, but I was literally too fucking terrified to watch Doctor Who as a kid on cable, because the Tom Baker repeats they were showing terrified me with the title sequence alone. That empty stare and howling, diddly-duming music were enough to give me nightmares. So I only got into Who in my late teens!

3: Your favorite movie as a kid

-Define "kid." I went through several. I loved the Disney Robin Hood, of course, and at puberty, Wayne's World (yes) and The Princess Bride were my own cult movies, before I had anyone to fangirl them with. Ah, the pre-Internet era.

4: An actor/actress it took you time to warm up to

I remember being weirdly terrified and disturbed by Jeremy Brett as a kid, but then I felt the same about Bowie, and... well. Clearly it was my baby self not knowing WTF to do with all this stirring, restless energy that later turned out to be my skinnyandrogynousbisexualguy orientation thingy. And while I'd first seen Caligari and Casablanca as a teen in the early 90s, I wasn't ready for Connie until he pounced me in 2012. I would not have "got" him the same way and as hard until I was a grown-up, with a wide variety of experiences from many areas of life and a boatload of books/learning behind me. Just... no way.

5: A director it took you time to warm up to

-If anything, I've cooled off various directors I was impressed by when younger. So much of the auteur stuff gets wanky and self-imposing, in this Arrogant Artist Guy "look at my GENIUS big VISION and also insecurity about my penis size" kind of way. I like directors who can be warm and have fun and who show some real humanity (not wanky anvilly/kitchen sink-y sort of "humanity" either). Maybe Branagh? I found him a bit annoying as a kid, but now fap all over his stuff because now I'm old enough to Get It. He is the best kind of fanboy director; his geekiness is catching. Listening to his Thor commentary was a real eye-opener into my realising just how massive a nerd he is, and in a good, "one of us" kind of way.

6: Top five favorite soundtracks of your favorite movie composer

-There isn't just one! But Clint Mansell and Debbie Wiseman turn to gold everything they touch. Debbie especially is hugely unknown still, but she has this most amazing, swellingly Romantic music full of sweeping emotion that I just can't rec her enough. Do check her out; she'll give you goosebumps.

7: Three movies that defined your teen/childhood years

-I think I mentioned those already! But as a teenager, Bram Stoker's Dracula, La Reine Margot and Heavenly Creatures were formative. There were others I obsessed about way more than those, but they weren't as influential--it's more like they were massaging buttons I already had.

8: Sci-fi or westerns?

-Blake's 7! AKA "The Dirty Dozen in Space."

9: Are there any movies you own more than one copy of?

-Ahhahaha. AAAHHAHAHAHA! Of The Thief of Bagdad, I own: The Criterion clusterfuck with the awful clumsy cover someone had their 5-year-old draw, the Nordic DVD, the German Blu-Ray because I live on the edge (what with those Veidt Eye Closeups in HD being a hazard to any uterus) and at least three different digital copies. Because I'm me. I also own two digital copies and one DVD of Casablanca, three digital and one DVD of A Woman's Face and don't get me started on the British telefantasy I have on both DVD and VHS. I have spare copies of both the Caligari Masters of Cinema release and the ITV DVD of The Spy In Black, so I guess I should throw them at somebody.

10: Physical media or streaming?

-Neither. Video files firmly saved onto and run from my hard drive. Fuck streaming with its choppiness (ruins the viewing experience for me) and physical media are usually beyond my budget (unless I save up for a Connie DVD). Besides, I rip my favourite movie discs onto my HD anyway. I want to be able to gif that shit, dammit!

11: Are there any movies you watch on special occasions every year (Christmas, Halloween, birthdays, your mother's aunt's wedding anniversary, etc.)

-Used to do Nightmare Before Christmas on Halloween, but not any more. I still attempt ToB every Christmas. And I used to do All Through The Night with wine on my birthday, but as I can't tolerate alcohol anymore, the experience of Watching ATTN Drunk is no more. Someone start a Halloween tradition with me where we watch either The Student of Prague or Eerie Tales (or both) every year?

12: What movie do you most associate with your best friend(s)?

-Gosh, so few have stayed, so it's more like "movie that reminds you of a broken friendship," yay...?! I've learned to try and not associate movies with people that way any more, because it's more painful than it's worth. Connie is my best friend. He's like Krishna that way.

13: Name a movie adaptation you thought was better than or equal to its source material.

-LOTR put in more facial features and characterisation than Tolkien ever did, and did the tales far less fucking tediously. Imagine if you'd had to sit and watch hobbits walking through the countryside for 6 hours with barely anything happening?! Yeah...

14: What genres do your favorite movies tend to be?

-Historical, fantasy, Gothic Romantic, just Romantic stuff on the whole. More old than new movies these days. Why watch shitty modern chick flicks when I have far better characterisation and far less narrowly defined female lives in old-timey "women's pictures?" And guys who actually fucking shaved, dressed in clothes that were tailored for them instead of rented and saggy, whose bodily expressions weren't frozen for fear of "fagginess," and who weren't pumped full of 'roids.

15: Are you a fan of period dramas and if so, what era do you enjoy best?

-Yes. I love me some costume dramas, but I am seriously picky about them--most post-90s ones have been fucking awful and tend to feature shitty costumes and unkempt hair that would've sent real historical people to Bedlam, wobblycam from hell, vomit-inducingly excessive modernisation to be "edgy", and that one painfully skeletal bint they shove into every period drama ever these days, so it's... slim pickings for a history nerd, these days. There aren't many good ones set in the 17th century/Baroque era, which I love the most: the two Baroque dramas I wholeheartedly love are both series. (The Devil's Whore and By The Sword Divided.) The Angeliques and Musketeer adaptations are riddled with flaws, but there are some glowing bits within. As for The Golden Age of Islam... bloody hell, there really aren't that many good ones out there, are there?! ToB and Jodhaa Akbar and Disney's Aladdin, obviously. La Reine Margot isn't "my" period but it's great, as is Dangerous Liaisons (also not my period)--those are so fucking perfect. And the Connie period dramas, well... I think of them as primarily "silent movies" or "old movies," actually. Of those, The Student of Prague, ToB and The Wandering Jew are the best "costume" ones, IMHO. (I'd probs enjoy Lucrezia Borgia and Carlos and Elisabeth way more, were the copies we have not so smudgy.)

16: Name a movie you love that you would recommend to just about everyone.

-Ah, but we know there are always cynical cunts out there who'd give even Casablanca two stars, so what's the point? I'd still recommend it, though. And The Lion King, I guess.

17: Name a movie you love that you consider an acquired taste.

-Honestly, I'm thinking of telly rather than movies again. You will pry my cherished copy of The Time Monster from my cold, dead hands. Does The Devil of Winterborne count as a movie or TV? That's how far back my love for Mark Gatiss goes. Um... Don't Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood makes me fucking cry with laughter (the comedic timing is what does it. *beat* "Ain't dat some shit!"). Of Connie's oeuvre, yes, I know Bella Donna is rubbish, but Connie and Mary are SIZZLING and horny and juicy and it's Valid as a BDSM porn movie. And the novel is actually good.

18: Name a film you like directed by/starring a filmmaker/actor you normally don't care for.

-Not so much actor/director, but I did *not* expect to love Thor as much as I did, because I expected a dumb popcorn movie but got great adventure cinema with a touch of Shakespeare instead. I really am not the right audience for regular Marvel features at all, before or after. Fuck Marvel up its dumb macho Republican ass. But Thor is fucking beautiful and operatic and poetic and majestic and Pagan and shit. Branagh knows what I like.

19: Name a movie that blew your mind.

-A Woman's Face (1941). Because. Holy. Fuck. How can I keep on finding yet more details in it six years after first watching it, having watched it countless times by now?! And obvs all the other stuff, like the shockingly good female POV, amazing and complex woman protagonist, amazing writing, amazing ensemble cast, amazing direction, amazing lighting, amazing evil Torsten Slinkypussy Barring and The. Goddamn. Attic. Scene.

20: What genre mash-up would you most love to see that either hasn't been done yet or hasn't been done enough?

-Feminist-savvy historical romance with fantasy elements and hot explicit sex that's not shit. Basically, like the stuff you see in my fics, but better paced and woven into coherent adventure movies.

21: The coolest movie you've ever seen

-Too, too many. But Bogie was the coolest. And Claude Rains had the best acting skills. And Conrad Veidt was Conrad motherfucking Veidt. So what with those three mountains of coolness all converging under the Moroccan sky, I'm sure it's safe to say "Casablanca."

[riverdalefiction]

Don’t Go

Summary: Three different meanings of Chuck’s ‘don’t go’.

Rating: T

Genre: General, Canon Divergent, Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Betty x Chuck

Timeline: Season one

Word count: 1,993

First time he says it, he’s seventeen and Betty’s threatening to leave his car.

Well, he thinks, he deserves it. 

The blonde’s ponytail is looser than usual, the headband sticking out a little. Her lipstick’s undefined and he recalls how, only moments before, those plump lips swallowed his; and he recalls his fingers untying the headband and running hands through her hair. 

Her mascara’s smudged, too, and it’s another thing he should get credit for. 

“Don’t go?” she mocks him. “Do you really believe I’m going to stay?”

His hands itch on the steering wheel and he needs to suppress the urge to fix her hair. He doesn’t like seeing her this disheveled. 

“I want you to stay,” he says. “I didn’t mean for—“

“Didn’t mean for what? Me to find out?” Betty purses her lips and glares, hand on the passenger door. “I’m out of here, Chuck. You’re an asshole.”

He doesn’t deny it, but he grabs her wrist. “Betty.”

“Leave me alone.”

Chuck watches her leave, then drives away from the Drive-In. It’s not the first time a girl has found out and rejected him, and it shouldn’t hurt this much. He recalls the strawberry taste of Betty’s lips and the way his own glided smoothly across her neck.

He thinks about calling her, or apologizing. When his phone opens, it’s his Instagram account with her face and a Sticky Maple over it, and he doesn’t do it. Doesn’t delete the picture, either – the damage has been done.

Plus, he gets bonus points for the Girl Next Door.

 The next time he says it, the situation’s a little different.

Well, he thinks, he’s at fault for this one, too.

It’s the graduation party and he’s been trying to make up to Betty for half of junior year and all of senior. He knows her types are bulky redheads and sulky writers, and both of the guys she’s dated are very nice and creative and Chuck knows he’s far from that. The thing is, for her, he wants to be all that.

So when he asked her out for the first time around the start of the final semester and she said no, he was bummed. Bummed enough to go to Archie’s, and desperate enough to ask for advice. And all Archie told him was to get the fuck away from Betty.

Betty’s I don’t want to go out with you rang in his ears for around a month, before he realized he needed to show her he’s changed. He has, really, and that was why she changed her answer into maybe.

The day of the graduation party, they’ve been having a thing for around a month now. It isn’t official—she doesn’t want it to be—but he still feels like he should tell her that going to a frat party Archie’s friends invited her to isn’t a good idea.

“You’re not my boyfriend, Chuck.”

He stands outside the house and watches her on the doorstep. He doesn’t make a move, hands still gripping her wrist and eyes pleading with her. “I know I’m not. I’m asking you as—as whatever the hell we are, Betts. These frat parties aren’t the parties you’re used to.”

Betty snatched her wrist out of his hands. She doesn’t notice when hurt fades on his face, or she doesn’t react. “You used to go to these parties. Why the hell can’t I?”

Chuck swallows. He doesn’t want to say it. “Because I’m a guy.”

“Huh! And I’m not allowed because I’m a girl? Because I can’t take care of myself, or control what I’m doing?”

“You’re eighteen, Betty!” It’s his turn to shout and he climbs on the porch, towering over her. “Fuck, if anyone can stand these parties, it’s you. But these boys – they’re not – they’re idiots.”

“You were one of them.”

Is that accusation? “Yes.”

He expects Betty’s gaze to soften, except it doesn’t. It’s steel and fire and he wonders if this is some kind of protest, some not-a-high-school-girl-anymore need to express the bitterness of having to stand the pressure of being the best she can.

She takes a step backward, toward the house. He can see Veronica calling her from the inside, and trusts the Lodge girl, but he’s still afraid for his own.

“You could come with me,” Betty tells him. Her voice is cold. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Then you’d say I’m controlling you,” he replies. “That I’m possessive. That I won’t let you breathe.”

He doesn’t say that he hasn’t been to one of these parties in over a year; that he’s been trying to recover from all the bullshit he’s done. If he enters, even for her, he’s afraid he might relapse. And then he’s losing her – if she doesn’t push him away, then he’s going to do it. She decides much better than the alcoholic he might turn into.

Instead he stands a foot from her, hands tucked in his suit, wishing she’d listen to him.

“I’m going to go in now.” Betty looks at him, waiting for something. They both know he’s not coming along.

Chuck doesn’t know what hurts more – the fact that she keeps giving him the chances to make a compromise, or the fact that she doesn’t want to listen to him when he’s been as honest as it gets.

“Betty—“ he begins.

Things happen at parties. People get drunk and do stupid shit. Boys do stupid shit. You’re not the girl for parties. You’re better than that.

Don’t go.

He swallows, flashes her a smile. “Stay safe and text me when you get home.”

“Will do.” She smiles back.

Nothing happens to her that night, or to Veronica. But she’s disgusted by the extent the party has gone to, and swears to never go to a party with at least three people she knows.

He’s just glad she’s safe.

 The third time he says it, his heart is breaking.

He’s soaked, out of breath and a runny nose, but he still manages to utter the two words. Except she expects three and he hasn’t delivered in the past four years they’ve been together.

Her hair is down—he tries to focus on that—and there’s no makeup on her face. Her cheeks are blotchy, eyes mirroring his and lips bloody, wounded, hurt. There’s a little cloud on her left cheekbone he’d drawn with a blue marker only yesterday, but it’s smudgy now, half gone.

“Please don’t do this,” she tells him. He’s still not looking at her hands. “Not now.”

“If not now, when? When you’ll be halfway across the country, with no number for me to call? Or when you get lonely, and sad, and I won’t be there to help you?”

“I don’t need you to help me,” she mutters, tries pushing pass him. He blocks her from coming onto the rain, tries to touch her as little as possible. He doesn’t want her stuff to get wet. “I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

“Elizabeth, you always could.” He just needs her to listen, one more time. His hands are on her upper arms now, and he doesn’t want her to leave. He never has. “You don’t need me, I know that. I want to hold you when you’re sad, and kiss you because you mean everything to me. I don’t want to wake up in the morning wondering if you’re all right, if you have someone to talk to. I don’t want to wake up without you by my side, not ever again. I need you, Betty.”

Wrong verb. They both know it, but he’s never been able to say it.

“Chuck, I don’t—“

“Betty, listen to me. Do you love me?”

She snaps. “Of course I do! But that’s not the problem, is it? I told you I loved you not even six months into our relationship, and I’ve told you ever since, and I gave you time and again to say it back, but you never did! I’m done pretending I’m fine being the lesser one in this relationship. I’m done living with so many uncertainties.”

Betty’s drained. Not in the way she’s been the past few months, drained from studying and working and from not seeing him more than couple minutes each day. Their relationship has been a mess for half a year, with his job taking the most of his time and forcing them to resort to stolen kisses in stolen moments.

She’s drained in the way she hasn’t been a long time. It hurts Chuck to see her like this, and it hurts him even more to know he’s causing it.

Just because he can’t fucking admit it.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s fucking simple, Chuck,” she says. “You either love me or not.”

He does. Does he?

“I can’t love you when you might leave at any moment,” he tells her. The rain’s stopped falling some time ago, but they’re still arguing and he finds out whispers are louder than screams. “Not like this.”

His eyes look the same like that day four years ago when she left for a party without him. When she gave him a chance to go with her, to fix things, but he didn’t take it. Was he going to take it this time?

She doesn’t smile, but she softens. “I’ve loved you for four years and I never knew if you felt the same. You could’ve always left, there’s nothing binding you to me. But it’s not about whether someone will leave, or not – it’s whether you’re willing to take the risk of being all in or nothing.”

He’s always been all in or nothing with her. Voicing it out loud is a different game.

He remembers the first two times he’s begged her not to go. The first time was a courtesy – loss of point. Arrow to his reputation. But the second one was something else, something threatening to fall into the area she’s wanted him to be in.

The third one’s drowning in it. It’s just that there are two words, not three, and not the one she wants to hear. But to him, they’re the same promise he’s so afraid to utter.

Chuck Clayton is afraid of loving Betty Cooper, because he knows he doesn’t deserve her. So he says, “Don’t go,” for the fourth time, and begs her to understand.

“Chuck—“

He’s promised already. The fourth one was the seal.

So he says the three words, repeats them until their kisses taste like salt and the sun is shining behind his back. He promises to stay and she doesn’t go,

She said there’s nothing binding him to her. She was wrong – she’s his everything. 

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

The Misadventures of Prince Kim - chapter 12

(aka the royalty AU story)

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11] [AO3]

Max had wondered how easy it would be to tutor someone like Kim, but he needn’t have worried. For all his faults, one thing could always be said about Kim – he tried hard! Once he had set his mind to something, there was no stopping that boy. Now that he wanted to get better at school work for once, he was already improving in leaps and bounds, and Max couldn’t help but be incredibly proud of his best friend.

Kim was needing a lot less help with homework now too. He would at least attempt the questions on his own, sometimes referring to books in the library to help him out, and only if he was still stuck then he would ask Max for help. He really was being so considerate. It was so sweet! How could Chloé resist the charms of a guy like that? How could Alix too, for that matter? Kim was amazing! There was always something new to love about him!

“I’m an idiot,” was something Kim said a lot. It was true, Max had to admit. Kim really didn’t think anything through, he was always making rash decisions and getting into more trouble than he was supposed to.

“But you’re a lovable idiot,” was Max’s go-to reply. That was what mattered. Kim tried hard, he was a sweet person, he knew his faults and tried to fix them, there was just always something to love about him! And Max certainly loved him. He loved him a lot. Kim knew that.

Or at least… Kim knew part of that. Max had never told him the full extent of his feelings. How could he? It wasn’t like he would ever be able to act on them. Sure, even among the royals arranged marriages were rare these days, with people preferring to marry for love. Sure, even marrying commoners or people outside rank was not as frowned upon as it had been in the past. Sure, Kanté was a fairly tolerant kingdom, with more kinds of marriage legal than in many other parts of the world!

But still. Max was a prince, and so was Kim. Even if Kim did somehow miraculously love him back in the way he meant, what could they do? Would one or both of them have to abdicate? There was no way Max was going to, not when he was so looking forward to running the country with competence, and there was no way Kim would either, just considering the kind of person he was in general. Anyway, Kim didn’t even love him as anything other than a friend. No, there was no chance. It was time to move on.

Okay, so Max had been telling himself that for months already. Time to move on. But it was so much easier said than done! How could he just completely change the way he felt about someone? Why couldn’t love just be logical, like the sciences or mathematics? Why did it have to be the one thing that Max just couldn’t figure out, no matter how hard he tried?

“Ugh, I am so not looking forward to the winter holidays,” Kim said, pulling Max away from his thoughts. They were working quietly in the library again, and for once it seemed like Kim had actually finished his work faster than Max.

“Why not? Don’t you want a break?”

“Well yeah, but I’m gonna have to go back home and talk to my parents. They’re just gonna tell me off for getting a detention and they’ll keep asking me about duelling club and Adrien and I don’t know what to tell them, I just wish I could stay here over the holidays instead and talk to them some other time…”

“Why don’t you come and stay with me in my kingdom for the holidays?” Max asked, somewhat surprising himself at how much confidence he said it with. “You always said you wanted to visit Kanté and see all the tech. Speaking of tech, Alix’s kingdom is right next door and she does like to visit a lot with trade shipments, so you’d probably get to see her too once or twice.”

“You’d let me stay in your kingdom for the whole holiday?”

“Yes, of course! You’d be an honoured guest.”

“Max, that’s… that’s really nice of you! Thanks! I’d love to!”

Max smiled and looked down at his work, hoping he wasn’t blushing. Not that he blushed easily, since there was so much melanin in his skin it made blushing quite unnoticeable. But still, he could feel his face warming up…

“It’s totally unfair, though,” Kim continued. “You and Alix get all the cool tech from your kingdoms and no one else does. Why not?”

“Trade restrictions, Kim. Very luddite, I know.”

“Very what?”

“Many countries have historically been very isolationist and resistant to change, preferring to stubbornly stick to the old ways even when it hinders them. Keeping culture and tradition is one thing, and very important too, but refusing to implement things like vaccination schemes even in the face of epidemics? That’s just unreasonable.”

“Vaccinations… that’s like, polio and stuff, right? I think we’ve got that in Lê Chiến, or at least I remember getting needles stuck in my arm when I was a little kid. But what about the other cool stuff? Like plastic and wind turbines and all the other wonders of modern technology I keep hearing you and Alix talk about? I wanna know about those! Everyone does!”

“Everyone does? Hmm, perhaps I should do a class presentation after our next world kingdom study lesson. I’ll teach the whole class about all of this, I’m sure they’ll want to know.”

“That’s an awesome idea! I can’t wait!”

Max put his homework aside and started making a list of all the things to talk about to the class. Homework was all very well and good, but perhaps if he could convince these students to open up their borders to trade even a little bit by impressing them with tales of advanced technology, well, that would be making a real change in the world! Something like that was much more important than homework.

“I am sure many of you have horseless motor carriages in your kingdoms,” Max said, standing at the front of the class the next day as they all watched him intently. “More commonly known as cars, or automobiles. However, how many of you can honestly say that your kingdom produces enough cars at a low enough cost that it is commonplace for even fairly middle-class commoners to be able to afford them? How many of you can say that your kingdom’s cars look like this?”

He swiped a cloth off a mysterious object in front of him to reveal a projector on the table. Pressing a button on it, it projected an image of a very sleek, modern-looking car onto the plain wall behind it. Many of the classmates gasped and leaned forwards to get a better look, interested properly now.

“Yes, these are the kind of cars we have in my kingdom. They have heating, cooling, even a place which you can put in a cassette tape and play music. You could even tune into the local radio station while on the move, and adjust the volume!”

Pressing the button again, the next slide was a picture of a fuel pump. “Now, I know some of you may be wondering what these cars run on. It is diesel? Petrol? Well, some of them do. But recently we’ve been investing in cleaner types of fuel that don’t pollute the air so much, or that have been taken from renewable resources. And speaking of renewable resources…”

The next slide was a wind turbine, standing lonely atop a mountain. “We try to use renewable ways to produce electricity, too. I know all of you know at least a little about electricity. It’s used to power lightbulbs and streetlamps, after all. But there’s so much more to it than that! Have a look at this!”

He knew that most of the students weren’t entirely listening to the words he was saying, but all of them were now eagerly awaiting the next slide. Sure enough, pressing the button, a mysterious big box with a picture on it now appeared projected on the wall.

“Yes, that’s a television. A home device on which you can watch movies, programs specifically made for television, et cetera. I’ll admit they still have yet to catch on properly in my kingdom, but I can tell you that in Alix’s kingdom there’s barely a house left without a TV in it. And don’t think it means that cinemas are obsolete because don’t worry, they’re still thriving!”

Pressing the button for the next slide, he talked about 3D movies at the cinema. Colour movies. Then telephones. Then holograms, then proto-computers, colour cameras, plastic, ballpoint pens (much easier to use than the fiddly, smudgy fountain pens everyone else seemed to like so much…). The classmates became more and more enraptured with his every word.

“And now for something incredibly special,” he said, flicking to the next slide. “Yes. The aeroplane. I’m not just talking about simple gliders. I’m talking about jet aircrafts, the type that can carry passengers and cargo across entire continents in just a few hours. There are only a few countries in the world with airports, so somehow most people don’t even seem to know that aeroplanes do indeed exist and have done for decades already. The coolest part is: they can fly faster than the speed of sound!”

The effect was immediate. Even Chloé, who had been fiddling with her nails and trying not to look interested, had finally taken notice. Max knew most of these students would not have known that supersonic speeds were even possible. Yet they had indeed been achieved before, and they would again.

“And last but not least, the rocket engine.” Max changed the display to the final picture. “Though this hasn’t been achieved yet, rocket engines provide sufficiently high speeds that using them, we could send probes and satellites out of the planet’s atmosphere and into space itself. Real rockets are being built right as we speak. Who knows, within a few decades we might have humans in space too!”

Lady Caline herself was looking impressed now, standing at the back of the room and watching the presentation quietly. As for the rest of the classmates, it appeared that Max had done his job fantastically. Now to finish off and drive the point home.

“So, what can we learn from this presentation? We can learn that the policies our forbearers have implemented that restricts trade and sharing of knowledge between countries is outdated, and has no place in a world that is advancing as rapidly as ours. If we can begin changing things, lifting trade restrictions little by little, we can promote growth and prosperity everywhere, not just in the few kingdoms that are lucky enough to have tech like this. That isn’t to say that everywhere should end up exactly the same, devoid of individuality or culture, but that we should reach a respectful balance between keeping the heritage and pride of our countries, and adapting to the modern world to make life a more comfortable experience for everyone. Thank you all for listening, and I hope that was informative for you!”

The hearty applause and cheering from his classmates gave him hope that they had all learned some valuable lessons today, and that maybe the world would change in the future – even if just these 14 countries. It was a good start. He felt rather proud of himself as he packed up the projector, still basking in applause. Yes, maybe his country’s GDP wouldn’t overtake that of its neighbour. But if he had a worldwide impact instead? That was much more worth celebrating!

With the winter party edging closer and closer, Alya confronted Marinette with some rather interesting plans.

“I know how you feel about Adrien,” she said, “and I’m not saying it’s impossible for him to love you back even though he is a higher rank. I’m just saying you’re going to have to stop being a stuttering dork around him all the time and actually speak to him!”

“But I can’t!” Marinette sighed. “I used to be fine at talking to him, but then when he deflected Kim’s duel challenge so honourably, and was being so nice and wonderful and kind and perfect…”

“Yes, yes, you fell in love with him on the spot and now you suddenly can’t say a word in front of him. Anyway, you and I both know there’s going to be mistletoe at the winter party, so you better drag that boy under there and ask for a kiss, alright?”

“What?!” Marinette’s face flushed pink. “I can’t just do that, Alya! He’s an imperial prince! And I can’t make him kiss me, what if he doesn’t want to? That wouldn’t be nice!”

“I’m not saying you have to make him do it, I’m just saying you should take him under the mistletoe and ask him for one. That way it’ll be clear your intentions are romantic, and if he likes you and says yes then you’ll get a kiss out of it. Where’s the downside?”

“The downside is if I mess up, or he doesn’t like me, or–”

“Don’t worry, Marinette! You’ll never know if you don’t try, and you’re a lovely person! Even if he doesn’t love you like that, I can guarantee he’ll still think you’re awesome. Because you are.”

“Aww, Alya! You’re awesome too!” Marinette hugged Alya tightly. “And I guess I’ll try talking to him at the winter party then… but no guarantees on the mistletoe!”

“That’s fair enough. Go for it, Marinette, you’ve got this!”

Somewhere not too far away, Nino and Adrien were having a surprisingly similar conversation.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Marinette,” Adrien said, raising his eyebrows playfully.

“Alright, fine, I like her!” Nino replied. “She’s really cute and amazing all of a sudden! I don’t know if it’s because I went to the autumn ball with her or what, but…”

“You should talk to her at the winter party. In fact, I hear there’ll be mistletoe, so why don’t you ask her for a mistletoe kiss?”

“No, I can’t do that! That would be embarrassing! What if my breath smells bad, or there’s something in my teeth, or if she thinks I’m weird for asking her and doesn’t want to do it, or–”

“You may as well try!” Adrien laughed. “At least speak to her, won’t you? I’ll be hanging around nearby if you need my help. I promise.”

“Thanks, Adrien. You’re right, maybe I should try talking to her properly. One-on-one.”

“Nice. You can do it, Nino.”

Adrien held out his fist, and Nino gently fist-bumped it.

[cloudytreefolk]

Exercise - Choosing Content

Notes on the text - what would the main character be like? What would they wear and what furniture be in the room?

Key adjectives/words from the text: neutrality, austerity, bleak, functional, middle-aged,  fixed contraction on brow, war-time London, anger, New Scotland Yard. Would be wearing functional WW2 era professional clothes e.g. jacket, white shirt and tie, black trousers, black shoes. Nothing flashy at all. The furniture described in the space is just the big table, filing cabinets and window, to give a sense of era it might be suitable to add other suitably bland WW2 office equipment, but nothing personal like photos since the character has “never thought to impress himself” on his surroundings.

Development Log

1. Moodboard - rather than picking one word to base the moodboard off I collected images I felt were generally relevant and then picked out what didn’t work/did work to carry forward in the next stages of development

- Colours; black, white, grey and red. Black and white connotes ww2 (no colour tv, old photos), urban environment, grim and lack of softness of main character. Red connotes crime (blood), danger, anger. Together makes a nice sparse colour scheme for a character who’s only described emotion is anger.

- Suit textures, wool jackets, buttons. These details are good for representing era and occupation/class of character, I don’t want to focus too much on his clothes though to avoid James Bond “dapper” connotations.

- “London” vibes; railings, concrete paves, rooftops - again good for showing wider setting and era of the wider story character is in, more extrapolated than described from the text so perhaps have not as much focus on this.

- Hair photo - this was interesting. When I cut this out I was thinking about how awkward and uncomfortable an intimate look at such an unfeeling character would be, and how you could exaggerate this idea to the viewer by showing untidy and human details like stubble, stains on clothes, an un-ironed shirt, crumbs, tea rings. 

- patriotic details; royal insignia, image of the houses of parliament- I feel like these are very ww2 details, there was a strong focus on everyone supporting the nation, war effort and general society of England, being part of a bigger whole and in service to something greater than yourself. Odd this character is so disconnected from the ww2 military scene, as with everything else, the “derelict amusement park” metaphor for the outside world, crippled but still more full of life than this guy’s office.

- mark-making; 

- chemical fizzling effect (left page) - this is from some mark-making I did where I accidentally combined ink and white spirit, it looks super cool, chemical and corrosive, maybe a good way to show the main character’s rage internally festering/burning him up. 

- 3D thread “detective mindmap” - this was a cool way to tie the moodboard together but feels too sleuth-y for this character, the text doesn’t mention him actually solving crimes, just organising the paperwork.

- grey dry-brush ink, feels raspy, literally dry and dried up, seems appropriate for the character.

2. First development spread and Pinterest board

At this point made a Pinterest board collecting WW2 era office equipment, images of the Norman Shaw Building, which was New Scotland Yard during WW2.

I developed the chemical, “fizzling” mark-making by combining it with the red, just practising how to produce similar marks without having to use white spirit and destroy all my pens. I layered biro scribbled sketches of office equipment using my Pinterest board for reference on top. I tried out cutting up these pieces into shards or fragments, which I thought in a final piece could represent the puzzle pieces of a crime to be solved, or the mystery of the main character to be put together by the viewer. I like this idea but like the “detective mindmap” it’s maybe a bit too sleuth-y for this portrait and complicated/abstracted.

Ideas I moved forward with from this page into next stage: red fizzles, beaky nose character profile, typewriter keys, filing cabinet, scribbly biro lines.

Ideas I discarded: using a metronome somewhere in the composition. This idea was suggested to me by the pendulum-like parallelogram of light in the text, it was a bit too abstract/extrapolated though, the character is bland and plain so I didn’t want to add too much extra stuff. I was also thinking of using details from the Norman Shaw building for reference in the portrait, but the text describes tall plate glass windows, which aren’t accurate to the real life New Scotland Yard building of the time, so I scrapped the idea of using it further and focused on the author’s depiction.

3. Second development spread

This page focused on trying out different materials and combinations I might use in the final piece. There’s a lot I really like on this page, and viewed altogether as a cohesive piece of (development) work it’s one of my favourites I’ve produced on this course so far.

New ideas - using brown paper, the missing posters, tea rings and tea coloured marker, little doodles on tracing paper of moodboard images (HMR symbols, Houses of Parliament, trench coat and railings). Combining markers, pencil, biro and red sharpie in different combinations. Elaborating the profile a bit to show the whole head and shoulders. Tried out the idea of adding other office bits and pieces like glasses and stamps.

Ideas developed from previous stage - red fizzles, typewriter keys and ww2 fan (mostly working on how to draw these super simply and scribbly but accurately-ish, I really liked the feeling of smudgy biro on the slightly shiny brown paper), solidified filing cabinets as a definite component of the final piece.

4. Third development spread and pulling everything together

Here I was starting to think about composition, different formats portraits can appear in (see sticky note on page) and trying out a few final materials and methods. Using wax seals was fun but would make the piece a bit too 3d. On previous pages I’d really liked the effect of having a line drawing on top of a surface with areas of brown and white paper, so that the white could act as a chunky highlight. I wasn’t sure how to arrange the white and brown paper, and how to tie that in with the wider themes of the portrait and character. So I tried cutting a parallelogram out of tracing paper over the face. 

I began the final portrait with the idea of the face as it is over the filing cabinet, and made the rest of the image up as I went, referring to the mark-making and content ideas from the previous two pages of development. A lot of decisions at this point were more about what to leave out than put in, so I used just some of the materials I’d experimented with before and only the filing cabinet, fan, typewriter and missing posters as “props” or “scenery”. I took pictures as I went, drew on tracing paper laid on top of the portrait to see how different compositions would look, and several times compared the physical portrait to photos taken earlier then cut elements out and rearranged things depending on which stage of the image I thought most effective. Main elements I added and then removed were a collaged tea mug ring (didn’t think it looked enough like a mug ring) and negative ends of the missing posters beyond the head (looked confusing visually). The part of the cabinets behind the posters was originally white, then I changed it to brown to link together with the front half of the cabinets better.

Evaluation

Course aims: “Create a simple portrait of the character using the reference you have gathered using ideas developed from your moodboard”

Extra personal aims: Create a collage/montage-based illustration for a change of pace from the 50s interior illustration. Create a simple and bold composition. Use a more experimental/subjective style, again for a change of pace. Try not to over complicate things to keep projects achievable.

Overall I really like this piece. It feels nice to look at, I like the balance of chunky shapes and more delicate elements between the block of cabinets and  the fan and typewriter cut-outs. I think it meets the course aims and my personal aims well. There are a few details I’m not sure about; I think it’s a bit messy in the upper left corner where the fan over laps with the missing posters, and I’m not sure if the typewriter keys would look enough like typewriter keys to another viewer. I’d also leave out the biro line at the top of the head that is visible in the gaps in the fan cut-out, I think it’s maybe unnecessary, as with some of the other biro outlines like on the brown paper cabinets and the severe face lines. But I really like how the white paper of the face and the missing posters makes the figure stand out from the background. Making the paper of the shirt crumpled feels tactile and interesting and characterful, adds a bit of the awkwardly intimate, human quality I was thinking about when making the moodboard, it would have been interesting to pursue that feeling more in this piece. Hopefully the brown paper and biro combination connotes austerity and war-time office work as intended, fan and typewriter for the historic setting. I also really like the layered-up, kind of 3d cut-outs and the bit of shadow they create on the surface, they looked really interesting on the reverse, this would be interesting to explore more in another project (see photos below).

Addition - I think the exercise “Using black and white” really helped me with this exercise. I feel like I did a lot more experimentation and development with materials (though probably could have done more experimentation with composition), the block shapes feel nice and considered, I’m happy with the items I chose to include, they feel key to the story I’m telling instead of just filling space, and I like the balance of value and colour. Still need to apply artist research more however.

[sending-the-message]

My Son was a Guest Star on Buddy Wellington's Playtime Jamboree by JayGetsHazy

Have you heard of this show?

Probably not.

It came on one of those viewers funded Public Access type channels. You know the ones. Channel 989 or some shit. Right above the scrambled porn. The kind you remember from your own childhood. Think Mr. Rogers or Thomas the Tank Engine.

Just a twenty-two-minute bloc of no frills educational entertainment aimed at kids.

Anyway, my son Bradley stumbled upon it one morning while channel surfing between commercials and it quickly became a fixture of his daily routine.

Every Saturday, from 8:00 to 8:30, the jangle of off-key music and silly sing-song voices emanated from the hand-me-down Panasonic in my son’s room.

Welcome to Playtime Jamboree

A whole lotta fun for you and me

Step in-side and you will see

The friend you’ve got in Buh-uh-dee!

The theme song was maddingly simple and repetitive. Anyone who grew up watching Barney the Dinosaur knows whereof I speak. The kind of catchy nonsense that got under your skin after the thousandth re-playing. Often times I’d catch myself humming it softly while I worked.

But Bradley loved it.

The music. The simple story lines. The cheap cardboard sets painted in bright pastels. The titular character--Buddy Wellington--in his rumpled oversized anthropomorphic bear suit. Bradley couldn’t get enough.

His mother and I humored his new Buddy Wellington craze as best we could.

For his sixth birthday, he insisted on a cake crudely decorated with images from Playtime Jamboree and for Halloween that same year his grandmother made him a tiny brown bear costume with buttons for eyes.

“I’m Buddy Wellington,” he told me proudly with a growl. “I’ll eat you if you misbehave. Gobble you up, in my cave.”

I’d snapped a few pictures with my phone and beat a hasty retreat before he could run through the whole song about minding your elders and behaving.

Now, I can hear some of you silently judging me. Why not more enthusiasm for your son’s interests? Why no interest in something he loves? It wasn’t like I wasn’t there. No absentee parenting from me. No, sir. I’d watched a few episodes with Bradly early on.

It was nothing special, I assure you.

Just a guy—probably in his mom’s basement—wearing a cheap homemade bear suit of mismatched faux fur and dancing around with a tambourine or ukulele and talking in a shrill Mickey-esque voice about dental hygiene and the like.

Harmless.

Familiar.

So, when my son brought up the contest, I didn’t think much of it.

Enter Now For A Chance To Appear As A Special Guest On Buddy Wellington’s Playtime Jamboree

The hand drawn, canary yellow letters, scrolled slowly across the bottom of the screen as the credits rolled—listing a PO box for entry’s to be mailed to.

“Please, Dad. Can I do that? Pretty please?” He pointed at the TV.

“You want to be on the show? What for?”

“It’d be so cool. Please? I just have to write in saying why I love Buddy Wellington. I can do it by myself. Please, Dad? Pleeeeassseee?”

I thought about my own mother—harassed into letting me order a Nickelodeon Magazine subscription from TV all those years ago, and smiled.

“Make sure you write down the address next time it’s on. We’ll have your mom buy some stamps.”

After all, surely hundreds--if not thousands-- of kids were writing in to this contest every day.

What could it hurt?

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

Bradley agonized over his letter all week.

First, writing out a rough draft in pencil on an old yellow legal pad before transferring it painstakingly in pen onto a blank two dollar JUST BECAUSE card that featured a dancing bear in a leotard.

We dropped it into the mailbox Friday morning on our way to his school. Postmarked for somewhere in Nevada.

Bradley was a ball of energy in the backseat. Just couldn’t stop talking about how excited he was to meet Buddy Wellington and all the adventures he was going to have in Jamboree Valley. His mom and I tried to gently brace him for the likely bitter outcome.

“Honey, just remember, a lot of other boys and girls are going to send in letters too,” my wife told him. “So even if Buddy doesn’t pick you, that doesn’t mean he didn’t like your letter.”

“He’ll like it,” said Bradley thoughtfully. “He just has to. Mine was special.”

Another week went by. Or maybe two. It’s hard to remember.

Bradley watched his program religiously—learning to mind his please and thank you’s—the contest seemingly forgot. I’ll admit, I checked the mailbox in vicarious anticipation those first few days to my own slight pangs of disappointment.

Nothing.

And then came the news that Buddy Wellington was being cancelled with one final episode to air.

Bradley was inconsolable.

I tried to explain about ratings. Demographics and market shares and the like. But Bradley’s eyes had a tendency to glaze whenever I said things like ROI, profitability or gross margin.

“But what about the horses,” he moaned, burying his face in a couch cushion.

“What horses?”

“The horses of Jamboree Valley. If Buddy Wellington goes away who will take care of them?”

“They’ll be fine,” I said, without looking up from my phone. “Horses are smart. Maybe we can find a new show?”

He didn’t seem impressed with my suggestion.

“I don’t want a new show I want Buddy Wellington!”

He shrieked like a cat on fire and beat his little fists and heels against the carpet. I carried him to his room and dropped him on the bed, popped a VHS recording of Playtime Jamboree in the VCR and left him to self-soothe to the silly singing of Buddy Wellington.

Come with me

Have no cares

There’s fun to be had

When you play with bears

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By dinner that night things were back on an even keel.

Bradley’s tantrum had subsided to a minor sulk. He was pouting, sure, but talkative, as we tucked into a chicken casserole.

Afterward, we put on a family movie and Bradley played with his Legos.

By nine o’clock it was his bedtime; my wife took him upstairs for a bath and tuck-in. By nine forty-five she came creeping back down the steps.

“He’s really upset about this whole Buddy Wellington thing,” she said.

“This time next month it’ll be Power Rangers or something,” I assured her. “Kid’s fads come and go all the time. He’ll get over it.”

We switched the DVD out for something a little more age appropriate and climbed into bed a little after eleven.

I peeked my head in Bradley’s door on my way to the bedroom. A small snoring mound shrouded in blankets and lit by the greenish-blue glow of the old Panasonic as another taped Playtime Jamboree episode wound down softly.

I hit the power button on the base of the TV before I closed the door to his room.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

I was awoken by my wife’s frantic shouts.

“Bradley? Bradley get out here right now! Bradley, I’m serious.”

I rolled onto my side and squinted through bleary eyes at the bedside alarm clock. 7:38 AM.

My wife appeared in the doorway looking frantic. “Have you seen Bradley?”

I rubbed a hand across my eyes, not really comprehending her. “Is there coffee on, babe?”

“Bradley! Has he come in here? He’s not in his bed.”

“What?”

“He’s not in his room! He’s not anywhere! Are you listening to me?” She bolted from the room and hurried down the hall shouting his name.

Something hot burst in my bowels and shot through my extremities like a coil of hot copper wiring. I threw back the covers and raced to his room in my underwear.

“Bradley? Where you at buddy?” I whipped the rumpled coverlet off his bed—exposing a host of tangled sheets and pillows, stuffed animals and empty air.

A little voice—soft and unfamiliar—had begun a terrible mantra inside my head.

OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod

Again, and again in time to my quickening heartbeat.

The closet

I pulled the sliding double doors apart hard and thrust my head into the small dark space that smelled like my son.

“Bradley? You hiding? Come out come out. You’re gonna be in big trouble, mister.”

I pulled out shirts and little pairs of jeans. Nerf guns and baseballs and bags of Legos.

Nothing

Downstairs my wife had torn the living room apart. Couches stood away from walls with cushions strewn about. The coat closet by the front door was empty—the vacuum standing sad sentry beside a pile of our winter wear.

"Bradley, where are you baby?” She was hysterical; her face twisted and red with tears and snot. “Please come out. You’re scaring Mommy.”

“Have you checked the garage?” I demanded. “The attic? The yard?”

She could only sob. “My baby! My baby! Bradley!”

This isn’t happening, I thought as I punched through the back door and out onto the patio. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.

Oh, it’s real, said the little poisonous voice inside me. He’s probably dead, you know.

The grass was slick with morning dew and my bare feet sank with a squelch. I didn’t care.

“Bradley? Come on out, buddy!” I called his name over and over. BradleyBradleyBradley. Until the words and letters ran together into a string of nonsense. A holy chant. A magic spell.

I was on my second circuit of the houses perimeter when I saw it and froze.

A disturbance in the muddy flowerbed outside the living room window. Footprints—long, unnaturally long—sunk deep in the dirt. Smudgy indistinct handprints on either side of the window pane. A fat serrated tear made in the mesh screen.

I started screaming in horrible understanding.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

Local cops showed up within thirty-five minutes. Guys from the FBI and local news rolled in a few hours after that.

It’s big business when a six-year-old boy disappears.

We put up posters with his smiling face on them.

MISSING: BRADLEY L. THEILS

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY

We searched the surrounding woods arm in arm with volunteer searchers. We had candlelight vigils. We set up hotlines and websites and billboards. We went on Larry King and cried and pleaded for our son’s safe return.

Tips and calls flooded in. He was seen at a Florida gas station. No, he was living out of a homeless youth shelter, somewhere. No, he'd been taken by a Satanic cult as a human sacrifice.

But the leads went nowhere. No fingerprints. No signs of a struggle. Whoever it was had taken Bradley right out the front door.

And a little over a month later authorities called off the active search for my son.

It was heartbreaking.

We kept up the website and the billboards as long as we could afford to. But as weeks turned into months as fewer and fewer people came forward with leads, it began to feel like a siphon on our bank accounts.

My wife moved out the day the last billboard came down.

I don’t blame her, really. It was hard on both of us.

I tried to keep up my old routine. Find some new normal. But the not knowing gnawed at me. Kept me up at night. Was Bradley alive somewhere? Lost? Did he miss us?

Don’t kid yourself, he’s dead

That little voice was never quiet long. I did my best not to listen.

And then one day I got the package.

I found it jammed in my mailbox after work. A large manila envelope with my name written on the front in fat black marker. Funny, I didn’t remember ordering anything. It had no postal markings and felt strangely heavy for such a small thing.

Inside, I found an old VHS tape. The words ‘1:12 “Goodbye,”’ were written on a new white sticker across the front of the tape.

Some part of me knew I should call the police. Or agent Fields from the FBI. Someone. Anyone.

But another part of me knew I had to watch. To see what was on the tape.

At first, I thought it was broken. Nothing but static filled the TV screen as the VCR whirred and clicked. Maybe heat or age had warped it.

The static cut away suddenly to a large room with wet concrete floors and cinderblock walls half hidden in shadow. Something could be heard dripping steadily off camera. I squinted at the screen—tried to make out more detail of what I was seeing. A table and folding chair and a few oil drums. Not a lot else.

Then the music started. Faint and distorted. Like something being piped to a mic from an old boombox.

Welcome to Playtime Jamboree

A whole lotta fun for you and me

Step in-side and you will see

The friend you’ve got in Buh-uh-dee!

The camera angle shifted slightly, as if the tripod were jostled, and into view from stage left shuffled Buddy Wellington.

Only, this wasn’t the friendly smiling bear I’d come to know from Bradley’s descriptions. Or maybe it was and I’d only ever seen him peripherally.

The costume was old. A dirty patchwork of pelts stapled roughly together at the seams—threadbare in places it was soiled and wet with odd glistening stains under the arms and across the belly. The head, bulbous. A crude approximation of a bear’s face with an elongated snout and open snarling mouth covered in grayish fur and yellow taxidermized teeth. Big eyes—black flinty marbles about the size of my fist—were sewn into place with rough thread.

Buddy Wellington stopped in front of the camera and waved a furry paw.

“Hey, boys and girls. Welcome back to Jamboree Valley. It sure is great to see you all for our last show!” His voice was muffled by the mask. Low and throaty. Like sandpaper over rocks.

He clapped his hands together in excitement and did a kind of jig around the room.

“Today we’re gonna have lots of fun, right?”

I stared in silence.

“But before we get down to fun and games—“he paused and glanced about mischievously, “—let’s bring out our Super Special Guest. Buddy’s bestest friend and the winner of the ‘Why I love Buddy Wellington Competition’…little Bradley Theils! Come on over here Bradley!”

Icey fingers flitted nervously about my heart and my breath caught in my throat.

There was Bradley. My Bradley.

Dressed in his Transformers pajamas and barefoot, he stepped awkwardly in front of the camera.

“Bradley!” My scream caught in my throat and I grabbed the TV by its edges as if proximity to the screen might somehow bring me to my son.

“Bradley!” Screamed Buddy Wellington. “Bradley, everybody! Isn’t he just the greatest? Say hi to everyone watching at home, Bradley.”

Bradley raised an arm and waved. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. HI everyone.”

Buddy Wellingotn held something up. It was the ugly blue and white JUST BECAUSE card Bradley had mailed off. “Bradley really loves me, don’t you Bradley? Tell everybody what you told me in your letter.”

A long string of drool oozed from the corner of Bradleys mouth when he spoke. “I said you’re my bestest friend and I wanted to come live with you and everybody at Jamboree Valley.” He didn’t wipe it away.

“Awwww! I love you too Bradley. And now you’re here how do you like it?” Buddy Wellington laid a fat greasy paw on Bradley’s shoulder.

“It’s pretty cool. I love it.”

His voice sounded lifeless. Slurred.

Buddy Wellington caressed Bradley’s neck—ran a paw down the front of his chest across Optimus Prime’s stern face.

“Well now you’re here as my Special Guest, Bradley! And you don’t ever have to leave! Oh, what fun games do I have planned for you. Now say, so long!”

Bradley waved again. “Goodbye.”

The monstrous bear waved animatedly as he dragged my son off screen.

I'll eat you if you misbehave

Gobble you up

In my cave

The screen went black.

I never saw Bradley again.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

My son was a Guest Star on Buddy Wellington’s Playtime Jamboree.

Have you heard of this show?

God, I hope not.