yama-bato · 10 months ago
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Holding It, Together Carrie Crawford
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cokedupblonde · 6 months ago
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my biggest worry in life is that I'll never be in a cunty quatro friendship circle and it's a devastating thought
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dollhouseof1000corpses · 4 months ago
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she’s got a lot on her mind
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newblvotg · 5 months ago
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charleslee-valentine · 1 year ago
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More TCM Ship Moodboards!
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Lefton, Sissy x Julie x Sonny, and my personal favorite crossover, Johnny Sawyer x Carrie White
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pastelfable · 1 year ago
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assorted pso2 mspaints
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5-minutes-2-midnight · 1 year ago
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Help! This is killing me lol... Can anyone explain why Eliot is wearing a shoulder harness when retrieving Quinn from Kiev and in the "Batcave" for debriefing? I'll accept theories, too (god knows I have a few), but if anyone can legitimately explain the cause, I'd really appreciate it.
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greensparty · 3 months ago
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Talking with Fred Armisen
This marks only the second time (I hope not the last) that I have had the chance to interview an SNL alum (the first was Siobhan Fallon Hogan). Mr. Fred Armisen joined SNL in 2002 and ended his run in 2013, but he's made a number of appearances since then and even hosted in 2016. He has had a very unique career in that he began as a musician, drumming for the Chicago punk band Trenchmouth, and then got into comedy, which lead to SNL. As a cast member he brought musical elements to many sketches he was in. He garnered a lot of attention by becoming a cast member doing an impression of a sitting president when he played President Obama during the first Obama term. Beyond SNL, he has appeared in a number of films and TV shows both big and small, notably Wednesday, Eurotrip, Band Aid, and a number of Kevin Smith films (including Clerks III). He made a big swing as an actor on the limited series Forever, where he and Maya Rudolph play a married couple in the afterlife. He's also made Comedy Gold with TV's Portlandia (IFC 2011-2018) and Documentary Now! (IFC 2015-2022). In addition to his acting, he is the musical director and sometimes band leader on Late Night with Seth Meyers. Mr. Armisen still does comedy tours and he is going to be in Boston at the Wilbur Theatre on August 15. I recently spoke to him via zoom and he was just as cool and nice as I hoped.
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promo poster for Fred Armisen's current comedy tour
Me: You have had such a fascinating career, unlike anyone else in SNL history. You began as a musician and then evolved into comedy and acting. At this point in your career, do you consider yourself to be a musician who does comedy? Or a comedian who does music? Or basically both?
FA: I feel like I'm a comedian who does music. Because comedian is where I really found my footing. Even when I do music, it's in the comedy genre. It's all parody and impressions and stuff like that. So there's not enough music in my artistic life to really call myself a musician first. Although music is a gigantic part of my comedy, I'd say comedian is my vocation.
Me: You have this show coming up at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. You're no stranger to Boston. Just last year you were here to host the Zildjian 400th Anniversary Concert. Do you enjoy playing Boston?
FA: I love playing Boston! It's been a part of my touring life since I was in a band. When I was in Trenchmouth we used to play The Middle East. Always had a great time there! And then doing stand-up, I played Boston Calling [in 2019] and I really loved that show. I can't think of a show I did here that was less than spectacular. It's always been really really fun! You know, Boston looks so cool. Even though it's a little hard for me to find parking and stuff, I do like that it looks a little like England. It's set up like London a little bit. That's always exciting to me.
Me: At this point and time in your career, do you enjoy mixing it up by filming a TV show or movie and then going out on the road and doing some live shows?
FA: Oh I love it. I really give me an eclectic lifestyle. Like I'll do a fancy TV show for Netflix, and then I'll do a record store show where I do punk rock covers for like 100 people or a stand-up show at a theater. Then some weird movie. I love jumping around, it really makes me feel like I'm in many different aspects of show business. I love show business! I love performing, I love comedy, I love music. It's a weird thing. I've been doing it for a while now and I'm way into it. Like even a soundcheck is fun and thrilling for me. I'm just into it, I love doing it.
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Armisen and some of his many SNL characters
Me: Looking at SNL history, there's always been musical sketches, i.e. Wayne's World performing with Aerosmith, The Blues Brothers, the list goes on and on. But looking at your run at SNL so many of the characters you played were musicians, i.e. Fericito, part of Garth and Kat, and Ian Rubbish to name a few. Do you feel like your style of comedy which included music was really embraced and supported when you started on SNL?
FA: Oh, in a big way. Right down to my audition, which was Fericito, who's like a Tito Puente kind of character. All throughout my run there I used music as a framework around the characters that I did. The show was really supportive of that. Some of the sketches were abstract like The Blue Jean Committee, these really weird ideas that the show was very supportive of. And we played the music live so they really wanted to make sure the sound was good. They - the show - put a lot of work into it.
The other thing I want to say about it is, it's what I grew up on. I grew up on SNL. I always loved SNL, I worshipped SNL. All of the stuff I did was because of the stuff I watched on SNL. I knew it would fit somehow, because of Candy Slice (Gilda Radner's character that was kind of like a version of Patti Smith), and I was a little kid, but I understood and wanted to be whatever that was. She just sang a song, there was really no joke to it. Eddie Murphy did one where he was this reggae singer [Tyrone Green] at an Elks Club and that idea of a performer somewhere that isn't the right place to play. Then, of course, Wayne's World. Even Sprockets had it to a certain degree, like when they're all dancing and stuff, that had a big effect on me. I didn't even know Mike Myers personally or anything but I could tell that it was influenced by Kraftwerk. And then it turned out it was influenced by Kraftwerk. So all the way though I really lived for what SNL was all about when it came to fake bands.
Me: Let's talk about Portlandia, the comedy you co-created and starred in for IFC. I actually worked for AMC Networks (the entertainment company that owns AMC, IFC, We and Sundance Channel) when Portlandia premiered in 2011. You could really tell early on that the show was catching on. I have to ask, did you have a favorite sketch you did on Portlandia?
FA: I loved doing Portlandia, which was also an extension of band stuff. Carrie [Brownstein] is from the band Sleater-Kinney, who are my favorite band so to do a show with Carrie is the best! My favorite sketch - we had these characters who were like these goth characters. Not even goth, more like death metal / goth mix of the two. Where our faces were painted with dark circles around our eyes. It was kind of scary. One time we did one where we were going to the beach, but no one's aware because we had these flowy robes and we see Glenn Danzig who says "sometimes in order to have fun you have to look a little lame". So the sketch had a real point to it and I liked doing those characters.
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early TV ad for Portlandia
Me: I got to cover Sleater-Kinney's concert in Boston earlier this year. I said in my review and I'll say this now, that it is so ironic that the masses know Carrie Brownstein for her acting and Portlandia versus Sleater-Kinney.
FA: Yeah, it's such a funny thing. I guess there's a few people who know both. But I feel like over the last ten or fifteen years, it seems like there are a lot of people who do multiple types of entertainment. Like something just happened where you would see Jane Lynch hosting a game show and then also in a well-reviewed movie or TV show. A good example is Questlove is like that, where he's a bandleader, but at the same time he's an Academy Award winning director. So it fits that Carrie is known for Sleater-Kinney and Portlandia. She's a director too by the way!
Me: I, myself, am a documentarian. We both have a mutual friend in Scott Crawford, who directed Salad Days, which you were interviewed for. That doc and my doc Life on the V: The Story of V66 were on the festival circuit at the same time playing similar festivals and we both have the same distributor as well. Do you think the experience you've had being interviewed for documentaries was something you brought to Documentary Now!, where you were lampooning not just popular documentaries but the tropes of documentary filmmakers as well?
FA: Wow, that's an interesting question. [pauses] I never thought about it, but now that you mention it, it does feel very separate. Because when I'm interviewed for documentaries, I just try to help the documentary itself. What can I say in an interview that's on the subject matter. Where can I contribute to it without trying to make it into too much of a big deal. Like one thing I do is I always try to keep it concise. Just so I'm not lingering and talking about a band forever, keep it quick. With Documentary Now! it's almost like we're making fun of something that already exists. So they haven't crossed over yet, but they are very separate things. I feel like "let me do a good job being interviewed for this documentary" and the other is "okay, how can we parody this documentary that already exists".
Going back to what you said about working for AMC, that was an exciting time. I remember things were starting to happen on cable. Shows are starting to happen. A whole new world of shows. I remember The Walking Dead was so gigantic on AMC. To me, that felt like the first big show that really made networks re-think what they were doing. They had serious numbers, it was like there was a real pull audience out there.
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Armisen in Documentary Now!'s "Final Transmission" parody of Stop Making Sense
Me: Absolutely. I was there during the run of The Walking Dead and Mad Men on AMC and then IFC making a name for themselves with alt-comedy with Portlandia. It was really an exciting time when I was there. But, I think it's very cool that with IFC's Portlandia and Documentary Now! they are very different, but your voice is very much there in both. I do need to ask one quick question about Documentary Now!: I am a lifelong Jonathan Demme fanatic and I was curious if you ever heard from Demme or the Talking Heads about the Stop Making Sense parody?
FA: Oh yeah. I've talked to David Byrne about it. Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth helped do a promo for our version of Stop Making Sense, the Test Pattern. So we've mixed our worlds together. David [Bryne] knows about it, he's very familiar with Test Pattern. I have some friends who worked on American Utopia, David Byrne's Broadway show, and just as a joke he said he didn't have anyone as an understudy, so he was like "well, Fred can do it" as a joke. We're very much in touch about that. With Jonathan Demme, I never spoke to him but I would think he would know that we did it out of love. We just wanted to re-create what that was.
I remember when that movie came out. Boy, I loved that movie so much. That movie also used to keep re-coming out. It was always playing at the artsy movie theaters. So you'd go to the movies and there'd be some Terry Gilliam or Monty Python movie playing and then Stop Making Sense. But I went to that original tour for Speaking in Tongues, I remember seeing that show live. Talking Heads and David Byrne will always be a huge influence on me!
Me: In 2015, I was at a film festival, actually Salad Days was at that same festival as well. And they had a big anniversary screening of Stop Making Sense. It was an amazing sound system, a great venue. The entire audience was on their feet dancing and singing along the whole time. I later read that that was what their intention was for the documentary.
FA: Yeah and it worked. The screenings they've had this year, same thing. People dancing all the way through. We're so used to, I grew up later on MTV so we're so used to everything being so edited down. It's pretty wild to sit through Stop Making Sense and it's a full song, then another full song - you can't help but dance. It actually does become a concert.
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Armisen's Ian Rubbish sits down with members of The Clash in this LOL short The Clash: The Last Gang in Town
During our interview, Mr. Armisen took notice of my CD collection in the background behind me and asked about my collection and he briefly talked about his love of physical media. As our interview was ending, I thanked him and joked that next time he should check out my CD collection. He said "I'm glad you have it on your screen. Because there's a lot happening in politics and none of the candidates are talking about how we should be proud of our CD collections. We need to come to a time in our lives where we're displaying them. We all have CDs somewhere." I laughed and said "I think they need to court the CD vote". He laughed and I said "Wow - I just made you laugh, I'm so proud of myself" and he replied "That was a real laugh too by the way". I've had some cool celebrity encounters, but knowing I got to make Fred Armisen laugh is definitely pretty high on my list of coolest celebrity encounters ever!
For info on Fred Armisen
For info on his show at Wilbur Theatre on August 15
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yama-bato · 10 months ago
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Carrie Crawford
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cokedupblonde · 2 months ago
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details
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thembrace21 · 5 months ago
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I wonder how the women in the ‘girlfriends’ & ‘satc’ series would feel about dating apps…
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twopercentboy · 9 months ago
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god I'm devastated about almost 6 year old drama about a relatively mediocre show 😭 like they had options to either continue the show w the actors who actually cared about the project or at the very least give Riggs a happy ending and they chose neither ???? I'm devasted at the ending they gave Riggs, after all that character arc buildup for him to finally get his happily ever after and they do THAT like are you fucking with me right now 😭
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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago
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Kickstarting a book to end enshittification, because Amazon will not carry it
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My next book is The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation: it’s a Big Tech disassembly manual that explains how to disenshittify the web and bring back the old good internet. The hardcover comes from Verso on Sept 5, but the audiobook comes from me — because Amazon refuses to sell my audio:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation
Amazon owns Audible, the monopoly audiobook platform that controls >90% of the audio market. They require mandatory DRM for every book sold, locking those books forever to Amazon’s monopoly platform. If you break up with Amazon, you have to throw away your entire audiobook library.
That’s a hell of a lot of leverage to hand to any company, let alone a rapacious monopoly that ran a program targeting small publishers called “Project Gazelle,” where execs were ordered to attack indie publishers “the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle”:
https://www.businessinsider.com/sadistic-amazon-treated-book-sellers-the-way-a-cheetah-would-pursue-a-sickly-gazelle-2013-10
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[Image ID: Journalist and novelist Doctorow (Red Team Blues) details a plan for how to break up Big Tech in this impassioned and perceptive manifesto….Doctorow’s sense of urgency is contagious -Publishers Weekly]
I won’t sell my work with DRM, because DRM is key to the enshittification of the internet. Enshittification is why the old, good internet died and became “five giant websites filled with screenshots of the other four” (h/t Tom Eastman). When a tech company can lock in its users and suppliers, it can drain value from both sides, using DRM and other lock-in gimmicks to keep their business even as they grow ever more miserable on the platform.
Here is how platforms die: first, they are good to their users; then they abuse their users to make things better for their business customers; finally, they abuse those business customers to claw back all the value for themselves. Then, they die:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys
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[Image ID: A brilliant barn burner of a book. Cory is one of the sharpest tech critics, and he shows with fierce clarity how our computational future could be otherwise -Kate Crawford, author of The Atlas of AI”]
The Internet Con isn’t just an analysis of where enshittification comes from: it’s a detailed, shovel-ready policy prescription for halting enshittification, throwing it into reverse and bringing back the old, good internet.
How do we do that? With interoperability: the ability to plug new technology into those crapulent, decaying platform. Interop lets you choose which parts of the service you want and block the parts you don’t (think of how an adblocker lets you take the take-it-or-leave “offer” from a website and reply with “How about nah?”):
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah
But interop isn’t just about making platforms less terrible — it’s an explosive charge that demolishes walled gardens. With interop, you can leave a social media service, but keep talking to the people who stay. With interop, you can leave your mobile platform, but bring your apps and media with you to a rival’s service. With interop, you can break up with Amazon, and still keep your audiobooks.
So, if interop is so great, why isn’t it everywhere?
Well, it used to be. Interop is how Microsoft became the dominant operating system:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay
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[Image ID: Nobody gets the internet-both the nuts and bolts that make it hum and the laws that shaped it into the mess it is-quite like Cory, and no one’s better qualified to deliver us a user manual for fixing it. That’s The Internet Con: a rousing, imaginative, and accessible treatise for correcting our curdled online world. If you care about the internet, get ready to dedicate yourself to making interoperability a reality. -Brian Merchant, author of Blood in the Machine]
It’s how Apple saved itself from Microsoft’s vicious campaign to destroy it:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay
Every tech giant used interop to grow, and then every tech giant promptly turned around and attacked interoperators. Every pirate wants to be an admiral. When Big Tech did it, that was progress; when you do it back to Big Tech, that’s piracy. The tech giants used their monopoly power to make interop without permission illegal, creating a kind of “felony contempt of business model” (h/t Jay Freeman).
The Internet Con describes how this came to pass, but, more importantly, it tells us how to fix it. It lays out how we can combine different kinds of interop requirements (like the EU’s Digital Markets Act and Massachusetts’s Right to Repair law) with protections for reverse-engineering and other guerrilla tactics to create a system that is strong without being brittle, hard to cheat on and easy to enforce.
What’s more, this book explains how to get these policies: what existing legislative, regulatory and judicial powers can be invoked to make them a reality. Because we are living through the Great Enshittification, and crises erupt every ten seconds, and when those crises occur, the “good ideas lying around” can move from the fringes to the center in an eyeblink:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/12/only-a-crisis/#lets-gooooo
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[Image ID: Thoughtfully written and patiently presented, The Internet Con explains how the promise of a free and open internet was lost to predatory business practices and the rush to commodify every aspect of our lives. An essential read for anyone that wants to understand how we lost control of our digital spaces and infrastructure to Silicon Valley’s tech giants, and how we can start fighting to get it back. -Tim Maughan, author of INFINITE DETAIL]
After all, we’ve known Big Tech was rotten for years, but we had no idea what to do about it. Every time a Big Tech colossus did something ghastly to millions or billions of people, we tried to fix the tech company. There’s no fixing the tech companies. They need to burn. The way to make users safe from Big Tech predators isn’t to make those predators behave better — it’s to evacuate those users:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/18/urban-wildlife-interface/#combustible-walled-gardens
I’ve been campaigning for human rights in the digital world for more than 20 years; I’ve been EFF’s European Director, representing the public interest at the EU, the UN, Westminster, Ottawa and DC. This is the subject I’ve devoted my life to, and I live my principles. I won’t let my books be sold with DRM, which means that Audible won’t carry my audiobooks. My agent tells me that this decision has cost me enough money to pay off my mortgage and put my kid through college. That’s a price I’m willing to pay if it means that my books aren’t enshittification bait.
But not selling on Audible has another cost, one that’s more important to me: a lot of readers prefer audiobooks and 9 out of 10 of those readers start and end their searches on Audible. When they don’t find an author there, they assume no audiobook exists, period. It got so bad I put up an audiobook on Amazon — me, reading an essay, explaining how Audible rips off writers and readers. It’s called “Why None of My Audiobooks Are For Sale on Audible”:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/25/can-you-hear-me-now/#acx-ripoff
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[Image ID: Doctorow has been thinking longer and smarter than anyone else I know about how we create and exchange value in a digital age. -Douglas Rushkoff, author of Present Shock]
To get my audiobooks into readers’ ears, I pre-sell them on Kickstarter. This has been wildly successful, both financially and as a means of getting other prominent authors to break up with Amazon and use crowdfunding to fill the gap. Writers like Brandon Sanderson are doing heroic work, smashing Amazon’s monopoly:
https://www.brandonsanderson.com/guest-editorial-cory-doctorow-is-a-bestselling-author-but-audible-wont-carry-his-audiobooks/
And to be frank, I love audiobooks, too. I swim every day as physio for a chronic pain condition, and I listen to 2–3 books/month on my underwater MP3 player, disappearing into an imaginary world as I scull back and forth in my public pool. I’m able to get those audiobooks on my MP3 player thanks to Libro.fm, a DRM-free store that supports indie booksellers all over the world:
https://blog.libro.fm/a-qa-with-mark-pearson-libro-fm-ceo-and-co-founder/
Producing my own audiobooks has been a dream. Working with Skyboat Media, I’ve gotten narrators like @wilwheaton​, Amber Benson, @neil-gaiman​ and Stefan Rudnicki for my work:
https://craphound.com/shop/
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[Image ID: “This book is the instruction manual Big Tech doesn’t want you to read. It deconstructs their crummy products, undemocratic business models, rigged legal regimes, and lies. Crack this book and help build something better. -Astra Taylor, author of Democracy May Not Exist, but We’ll Miss It When Its Gone”]
But for this title, I decided that I would read it myself. After all, I’ve been podcasting since 2006, reading my own work aloud every week or so, even as I traveled the world and gave thousands of speeches about the subject of this book. I was excited (and a little trepedatious) at the prospect, but how could I pass up a chance to work with director Gabrielle de Cuir, who has directed everyone from Anne Hathaway to LeVar Burton to Eric Idle?
Reader, I fucking nailed it. I went back to those daily recordings fully prepared to hate them, but they were good — even great (especially after my engineer John Taylor Williams mastered them). Listen for yourself!
https://archive.org/details/cory_doctorow_internet_con_chapter_01
I hope you’ll consider backing this Kickstarter. If you’ve ever read my free, open access, CC-licensed blog posts and novels, or listened to my podcasts, or come to one of my talks and wished there was a way to say thank you, this is it. These crowdfunders make my DRM-free publishing program viable, even as audiobooks grow more central to a writer’s income and even as a single company takes over nearly the entire audiobook market.
Backers can choose from the DRM-free audiobook, DRM-free ebook (EPUB and MOBI) and a hardcover — including a signed, personalized option, fulfilled through the great LA indie bookstore Book Soup:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation
What’s more, these ebooks and audiobooks are unlike any you’ll get anywhere else because they are sold without any terms of service or license agreements. As has been the case since time immemorial, when you buy these books, they’re yours, and you are allowed to do anything with them that copyright law permits — give them away, lend them to friends, or simply read them with any technology you choose.
As with my previous Kickstarters, backers can get their audiobooks delivered with an app (from libro.fm) or as a folder of MP3s. That helps people who struggle with “sideloading,” a process that Apple and Google have made progressively harder, even as they force audiobook and ebook sellers to hand over a 30% app tax on every dollar they make:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell/posts/3788112
Enshittification is rotting every layer of the tech stack: mobile, payments, hosting, social, delivery, playback. Every tech company is pulling the rug out from under us, using the chokepoints they built between audiences and speakers, artists and fans, to pick all of our pockets.
The Internet Con isn’t just a lament for the internet we lost — it’s a plan to get it back. I hope you’ll get a copy and share it with the people you love, even as the tech platforms choke off your communities to pad their quarterly numbers.
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Next weekend (Aug 4-6), I'll be in Austin for Armadillocon, a science fiction convention, where I'm the Guest of Honor:
https://armadillocon.org/d45/
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/31/seize-the-means-of-computation/#the-internet-con
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[Image ID: My forthcoming book 'The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation' in various editions: Verso hardcover, audiobook displayed on a phone, and ebook displayed on an e-ink reader.]
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maratus-araneae · 1 year ago
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I started writing a Crawford sex pollen fic a week or so ago and got stuck and should probably rewrite, and while I'm not in the mood to do so right now it is certainly on my mind
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oh-sewing-circle · 4 months ago
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Claudette Colbert (born Émilie Claudette Chauchoin; September 13, 1903 – July 30, 1996) was an American actress most known for It Happened One Night (1934). Despite both her marriages being seemingly legitimate and loving, rumors of Claudette’s affairs with other actresses such as Katharine Hepburn, Joan Crawford, and Marlene Dietrich followed her for her entire career. Most notably, Claudette had a very public intimate relationship with the "out" lesbian artist Verna Hull in the 1950s. Although Claudette denied the rumors that she was bisexual or a lesbian, she and Verna rented a home together in New York City and even had neighboring vacation homes in Barbados. The relationship ended abruptly and on bad terms in the early 1960s after the death of Claudette’s husband. When Claudette passed away on July 30, 1996, she left her entire estate to another woman named Helen O’Hagan, whom she instructed in her will to be treated “as her spouse.” "She certainly moved with great ease in gay circles," said a friend. "I used to see her at George Cukor's, and there would be quite the carrying-on. She was never shocked. It was a world she was comfortable in. It was taken for granted that she was gay, or at least not conventionally straight." "We used to call her "Uncle Claude"," said Don Bachardy, the lover of the writer Christopher Isherwood. "Actually, I think she's really a good example of a very closeted situation. Only well within her own circle did they know the truth."
-Source
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ficnation · 8 months ago
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Chapter 9: Intentions
Series: “Eat Your Heart Out ”Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,7k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence A/n: I know we're still not out of Su-zukana, but we're getting there. I probably won't follow everything that happens in the show. I will skip through some parts. Also I'm not super satisfied with the last scene no matter how many times I rewrite it, so I'm leaving it like this. (unedited)
Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist
PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER
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Hannibal and Will’s eyes lock in a silent duel, the latter’s gaze unforgiving, tinged with feigned ignorance. Will Graham wishes he could stop caring about what happened and what is yet to happen, but he can only pretend.
He studies the psychiatrist from head to toe, silently pleading for a sign from the universe that would reveal what sick ideas were brewing in his mind.
“You were able to reconstruct this killer’s fantasies,” Hannibal’s voice is almost a melody. “One dead creature giving birth to another. The bird, his victim’s new beating heart. Her soul given wings.”
Will’s gaze shifts away from the man before him, his mind conjuring the brutal image of Sarah Craber’s lifeless body, her eyes forever staring into the void. The way the psychiatrist describes it aligns with your words, and Will finds himself reluctantly agreeing. It’s a brutal kind of poetry, one that leaves an indelible mark on the soul.
“Rebirths can only ever be symbolic,” Will states, seemingly uninterested.
“You’ve been reborn.”
That piques his interest; he looks at Hannibal with raised brows. “Wasn’t that the goal of my therapy?”
A pregnant pause hangs between them as the other man carefully selects his words. Will finds it disappointing when the topic of conversation is swiftly shifted.
“How does it feel consulting again with Jack Crawford and the FBI? Last time, it nearly destroyed you.”
Will blinks rapidly and licks his lips in annoyance, a subtle sign of his inner turmoil. He knows he can’t allow his emotions to overpower him. Certainly not now.
“Last time, you nearly destroyed me,” he states the obvious. Hannibal’s gaze shifts to his hands lying in his lap, a subtle indication of his own contemplation.
“After everything that has happened, Will, you still believe—” his words trail off into silence as Will cuts him off swiftly, his voice almost amused.
“Stop right there.”
Hannibal blinks slowly, meeting the other man’s gaze head-on. Will notices he almost looks ashamed, but he’s not entirely convinced that the killer in front of him is capable of feeling anything, let alone shame.
“You may have to pretend, but I don’t,” Will asserts, his tone firm and unwavering.
Hannibal’s gaze softens, a glimmer of understanding flickering in his eyes. “No, you don’t,” he agrees, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity. “Not with me.”
There’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a moment of unspoken connection between them, despite the chasm of their differences.
“I don’t expect you to admit anything. You can’t. But I prefer sins of omission to outright lies, Dr. Lecter. Don’t lie to me.” Each word is enunciated with deliberate care, emphasizing the gravity of the statement.
As their eyes meet, the sunlight streams through the window, casting a golden hue that dances across their faces. The gentle rays illuminate the room, creating a warm and serene atmosphere despite the tension between them. The dim sunlight seems to linger, as if highlighting the intensity of their quiet exchange and emphasizing the gravity of the moment.
“Will you return the courtesy?” the psychiatrist’s question hangs in the air, awaiting a response.
Will remains silent, knowing that Hannibal will interpret his lack of response as agreement.
“Why have you resumed your therapy?” his voice is steady, probing for the truth.
“Can’t just talk to any psychiatrist about what’s kicking round my head.” Will replies, his tone casual yet guarded. Hannibal scrutinizes him closely, searching for any telltale signs of deception or sincerity.
“Does she know?”
“About me being back in therapy with you? Yes.”
“You know that’s not what I meant, Will. Does she know?”
Will sits in silence for an excruciatingly long moment, contemplating which pieces of truth he should divulge and which he should leave behind.
The room grows unbearably hot and airless, and his breath comes quick and heavy. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest, demanding to be let out. He’s struggling with a familiar feeling, the kind that threatens to overwhelm—to swallow him whole. And he’s powerless against it.
Finally, he finds the words, but they’re hardly a relief to the growing burden in his chest. “Yes.”
“What did you tell her, Will?” Hannibal’s voice carries more curiosity than anger. Will isn’t sure if he expected something more profound or revealing from his response.
“Everything.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but his expression remains unreadable.
Will feels an intense urge to elaborate, to fill in the missing pieces, to explain the whole picture. But he bites his tongue, choosing to stay silent instead, to keep his secrets. Hannibal remains still for a moment, taking in the information, assessing Will and his answer.
After a while, he speaks, “Does she know why?”
“Hannibal, I don’t even know why you did what you did.”
“Perhaps you never will,” Hannibal replies cryptically, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement. His eyes narrow, piercing Will like a knife. “And yet, you came to me in spite of that.”
“You wanted her to come back. Why?” Will asks. He’s not going to give up that easily.
“Because she’s brilliant, Will. She understands people in ways no one ever has. She’s perceptive and intuitive, and she’s not afraid to stare into the abyss. I’ve been searching for such an individual for a very long time.”
“I reckon asking you to leave her alone would be futile,” Will suggests with a resigned tone.
“Indeed,” Hannibal acknowledges with a faint smile. “But I promise to handle the situation delicately.”
“Handle it delicately?” Will asks, unable to keep the surprise and amusement from his voice. He’s never expected such words from Dr. Lecter, not when it comes to you. “Can you promise me she’ll be safe?”
Hannibal hesitates for a moment, clearly weighing his answer before speaking. “I can promise you that I have no intention of harming her,” he replies, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “However, I am also aware that my intentions may not always be the most relevant factor when it comes to such matters.”
Will finds himself contemplating the psychiatrist’s words, feeling an intense frustration at the answer, despite knowing that Hannibal will never offer more. He wants to ask further questions, to keep digging for answers, but the words won’t form. He’s been given an answer. For better or worse, that will have to be enough.
He speaks, his voice barely registering above a whisper, “Thank you.”
“Do you fantasize about killing me, Will?”
“Yes.” Now, more than ever.
Hannibal raises an eyebrow, his eyes studying the other man carefully. The question hangs in the air for a silent moment, the two men locked in a tense staring contest. Will breaks his gaze, his eyes dropping to his lap. There’s an uncomfortably long pause, one that leaves him feeling more exposed than he ever has.
The psychiatrist speaks again, his voice carefully measured but still carrying a hint of curiosity, “Tell me. How would you do it?”
Will feels an intense surge of anxiety, the idea of sharing his murderous fantasies almost too much to bear. His heart beats rapidly, his breaths come short and shallow, and his palms are damp with sweat. He hesitates, taking a deep breath in an failed attempt to settle his nerves.
Finally, he answers, his voice trembling slightly as he speaks, “With my hands.”
“Then we haven’t moved past apologies and forgiveness, have we?” Hannibal studies his face quietly for a moment, his eyes scanning Will’s features, searching for any hint of deceit.
“We’ve moved past a lot of things. I discovered a truth about myself when I tried to have you killed,” Will says slowly, a hint of reluctance in his voice. 
Hannibal’s gaze remains unwavering, a steady, almost calming presence. He’s unfazed by Will’s blunt statement, his face uncommonly relaxed as he listens.
“That doing bad things to bad people makes you feel good?”
Will blinks and nods, a tinge of surprise in his eyes. No one has spoken this truth before, not even himself. But the words seem to provide a sense of closure. There is no judgment, no criticism; merely a statement of fact, a mutual understanding.
“Yes.”
“I need to know if you’re going to try to kill me again, Will.”
“I don’t want to kill you anymore, Dr. Lecter.” The man swallows and shakes his head. “Not now that I finally find you interesting.”
There’s an intense silence between them, Hannibal’s face betraying no sign of shock or surprise at the confession. The man merely listens calmly, processing Will’s words as he studies the man’s every feature.
“Your honesty is both refreshing and concerning,” the psychiatrist says with surprising ease.
“Thank my wife. She makes an honest man out of me.”
As you lie asleep in your bed, the quiet of the night envelops you, broken only by the gentle hum of the old bedside lamp and the crackling of the fireplace. You’re lost in a dreamless slumber, your mind temporarily free from the weight of the day’s responsibilities. It’s probably the best sleep you’ve had in a while. Sadly, it doesn’t last long.
The shrill ring of your phone shatters the stillness, jolting you awake with a start. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you fumble for your phone on the bedside table, heart pounding with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.
With a groan, you swipe to answer the call, your voice husky with sleep as you mutter a tired, “Hello?”
On the other end, Jack’s voice crackles through the line, urgent and insistent. “Agent Avant, we need you at the crime scene immediately. There’s been a development in the case.”
The words cut through the fog of drowsiness, instantly sharpening your focus. You sit up in bed, running a hand through your tousled hair as you process Jack’s message. “What kind of development?”
“I can’t discuss it over the phone. I’ll send you the adress. Get here as soon as you can.”
“Understood,” you reply, your tone firm and decisive. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
With a sense of urgency, you throw off your covers and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You reach for your clothes, hastily dressing in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, your mind already racing with possibilities. You grab your badge and gun, slipping them into their accustomed places on your belt, and make your way to the door.
As you step out into the cool night air, you feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Though weary from the abrupt interruption to your rest, you know that duty calls, and you’re ready to answer it with unwavering resolve, just like in the good old days.
With each step towards your car, you embrace the night’s unexpected summons, steeling yourself for the challenges that lie ahead. In the world of law enforcement, there’s no such thing as ordinary hours—only the relentless pursuit of justice, no matter the hour or the cost. Oh, how you hate it.
You slide into the driver’s seat of your car, the engine rumbling to life beneath you as you buckle up and prepare to head to the address Jack has sent you. You’re glad to have your own car back; depending on Will wouldn’t do you any good in situations like this.
Before pulling away, you instinctively reach for your phone, hoping for a message from your husband to ease your mind.
As the soft glow of the screen illuminates your face, you quickly navigate to your messages, heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread. But as you scan through the notifications, disappointment washes over you—there are no new messages from Will, and he isn’t home either.
A knot forms in the pit of your stomach, a nagging sense of worry gnawing at your thoughts. You remind yourself that Will was never one to provide constant updates on his whereabouts. He’s always been independent, often immersed in his work with little regard for the passage of time. Yet the silence from him tonight feels different somehow, unsettling in its absence.
Pushing aside your concerns for the moment, you tuck your phone back into your pocket and focus on the road ahead. There will be time to address your worries later, but for now, duty calls, and you must answer—no matter the personal cost. With a determined set to your jaw, you shift into gear and press on into the night. Having agreed to return to work for Crawford, you’re determined to give it your all.
“We found Sarah Craber’s grave and fifteen others,” Jack Crawford informs you the moment you step out of the vehicle.
“Fifteen?” you repeat, unable to hide the stunned note in your voice. You knew the killer had murdered others before Sarah Craber, but the discovery of fifteen additional victims is shocking on a whole different level. “How long has he been active?”
Jack’s face is grim, his expression somber as he speaks. “The earliest victim was buried eight years ago. The most recent grave is only two weeks old.”
You dare to focus your eyes on the crime scene behind your boss’ back. The sight in front of you takes your breath away—not in a good way.
The dim light of the night provides only limited visibility, casting the landscape in shadows and silhouettes. Yet, the shapes around you paint a clear picture, a horrifying image of a killer’s work. 
You can see the dug-out graves, dotted here and there—the final resting places of his victims. You can see the rows of police tape, marking off a boundary that no one is allowed to cross. You can see the solemn faces of the technicians, the detectives, the forensics, and other members of the investigative team.
“Fucking hell, Crawford.”
There’s a beat of silent hesitation before he continues, “And I’m afraid it gets even worse—”
You look at him with wide eyes, annoyance bubbling up beneath the surface of your skin. “You said I didn’t have to look at the bodies. You said that to me, Jack.”
“I said you didn’t have to get close to the bodies,” he corrects you with a hint of irritation. “But you’ll have to see them, at least from a distance. We have to assess the situation, and you’re our best profiler. It’s your job.”
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Didn’t you? You came back to the agency. This is what we do. You know that.”
“Yes, I came back. But you said I wouldn’t have to see the bodies.”
Jack sighs, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I thought I could shield you from that side of it, but it’s not worth risking your expertise when you can make a valuable contribution here.”
You feel your blood boil as you duck under the police tape and head toward the graves. “Let’s just get this fucking done,” you mutter through gritted teeth, your frustration evident in every word.
As you make your way toward the nearest body, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. It’s one thing to know that a serial killer has been active in this community for years, but it’s a completely different thing to actually see the proof of his crimes. The graves offer no comforting illusion—they’re real, and they represent the brutal truth and senselessness of the killer’s actions.
As you gaze upon the rows of bodies, or rather what was left of them, a realization dawns upon you with striking clarity.
“They’re all women?” you remark, the observation coming swiftly and without hesitation as your eyes sweep over the somber landscape.
Each marker bears testament to the lives lost, their identities hidden by the earth until this moment. There’s a solemnity in the uniformity of the graves, a shared narrative of female lives cut short, each one a story untold and a voice silenced.
In that moment, amidst the hushed whispers of the wind and the solemn rustle of leaves, you can’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the women who now rest beneath the earth, their stories lost to time but not forgotten.
“Alright, he got comfortable.”
“Too comfortable?” Jack questions, eyebrow raised, ready to find out if you’re close to catching the serial killer.
You nod in agreement. “Way too comfortable.”
When a predator becomes comfortable, it means they believe they’re in control. And when they’re think they’re in control, they’re more likely to make mistakes.
The killer’s overconfidence in his ability to evade detection is evident. He’s been operating for years, right under your noses, taking the lives of innocent women and burying them in shallow graves that are easy to uncover once people start paying attention. You realize that this killer has been playing a dangerous game long enough to develop a deep sense of hubris; he truly believes he’s invincible. Arrogance seeps from every part of his crimes.
“So, it’s not Peter Bernardone?”
You crouch nearby one of the dug-out holes and observe as a forensic inspects the decomposing body. “Tell me, Jack, does Peter Bernardone ooze arrogance?”
Jack ignores your snarky remark as he considers your question for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I wouldn’t say so,” he decides. “Quite the opposite.”
“You really had to think about that one, huh?” You snort and shake your head in disbelief. “That man is a sheep, Jack. And this was done by a big bad wolf.”
Jack allows himself to crack a small smile at your analogy. “You’re right, this doesn’t fit Peter Bernardone; the arrogance doesn’t match the man. But there are a few others I have my eye on.”
“No, I don’t think he’s one of them.” 
Jack raises an eyebrow. “I’m interested to know who you think it is then.”
“How the hell would I know?” you retort, shrugging your shoulders in frustration.
“Your job is to figure that out,” Jack scolds you, growing tired of your complaints and excuses. “So what are you going to do now, Agent Avant?”
“I—” you start, then stand back up with a sigh. “I will find a bottle of good booze to lull me to sleep today.”
Jack’s face softens at the joke, the slightest hint of a smile gracing his lips. “That sounds like a plan. I don’t suppose you’re going to share?”
“You’re welcome anytime, boss.”
Jack nods, then gestures for you to continue examining the bodies. “Go on. We’re not done here yet.”
“Thought sharing the booze meant we’re ditching,” you mumble in resignation.
“Not until we’re finished here.” Jack indicates the bodies in front of you. “This is hardly the kind of case where you can get drunk and call it a day, Agent Avant. We still have work to do.”
“Alrighty.”
When you return home, the cold seems to have intensified. You lock the car, clutching a bottle of cheap wine under your arm. Sure, you could have splurged on something better, but right now, good taste isn’t your priority. You are aiming for a one-way ticket to Drunkville, with fingers crossed that the morning hangover won’t be too punishing.
The cold air nips at your cheeks, the bottle of wine under your arm a tangible reminder of the purpose of your excursion. You seek a distraction, anything to divert your mind from the day’s grim events. Yet, even as you hum a lighthearted tune, your thoughts stubbornly gravitate back to the graves and the haunting visages of the deceased women interred in the damp soil.
A complex array of emotions churns within you—grief, anger, irritation... perhaps even a touch of admiration? It was an unsettling sensation, one that you had experienced all too often before.
You dare to look ahead, your eyes tracing the outline of the forest behind the house, barely visible in the darkness of the night. It’s a mistake.
As soon as your gaze settles on the trees, you hear a faint scream emanating from that direction. You try to convince yourself it’s just your imagination playing tricks on you, but you can’t shake the feeling of unease that settles over you.
The scream gives you pause, causing you to hesitate on the icy pavement. You entertain the fleeting thought that it might be your tired mind, but then it comes again—a desperate cry for help echoing from somewhere near the woods behind the house. The sound sends a chill down your spine, a stark reminder of your solitude in this desolate place.
Despite knowing better, your legs carry you forward through the clearing behind the house, drawing you closer and closer to the trees where the sound originated. The urgency in the scream compels you to move, your heart pounding in your chest as you approach the edge of the forest.
Your footsteps are unsteady on the icy ground as you pause just outside the woods, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. The dense trees obscure your vision, and the faint light barely penetrates the forest, leaving your visibility limited to mere feet around you. You press on, determined to uncover the source of the distressing sound.
The screaming fades into silence, leaving only the sound of your own unsteady breathing echoing in the stillness of the night. You slip further into the woods, each step cautious and deliberate, the snow crunching under your boots. Despite the chill in the air, your clothes provide little warmth against the biting cold, and the shelter of the trees does little to shield you from the relentless wind.
The wind carries the cold air deep into your lungs, making your breath come out in cloudy puffs. Your coat offers little protection, and you feel the wind whistling through it, chilling your body to the core.
You take a few more steps, the trees growing thicker around you with each passing moment. 
You pause, listening intently, trying to discern the direction from which the cries for help emanated. But in the silence of the night, your own heavy breathing is the only sound that reaches your ears. 
The shrill of a scream shatters the stillness of the air, bursting through right behind your back, no more than a few feet away. It’s so loud that you instinctively cover your ears, feeling the jolt reverberate through your entire body.
In the chaos, the bottle of wine slips from your grasp, crashing to the ground and shattering upon impact with a nearby rock. Red wine splashes onto your boots and calves, staining the pristine snow with dark splotches.
You gape at the scene with wide eyes, heart racing in your chest as adrenaline floods your system. Your whirl around in an instant, your eyes scanning the area for any sign of the origin of the scream.
But the woods remain still, enveloped in an eerie silence, with only the moonlight filtering through the trees, casting shifting shadows that seem to dance around you. A shiver runs down your spine as you become acutely aware of just how isolated you are in this dark forest, surrounded by unknown dangers.
Your legs carry you as fast as they can, propelling you back the way you came, away from the ominousness of the forest. Panic surges through you, urging you to flee, to escape the darkness closing in around you.
Every step feels like an eternity as you race through the woods, your heart pounding in your chest, the echo of the scream still ringing in your ears. All you can think about is getting away, getting back to safety, away from whatever lurks in the shadows. Your senses are on high alert, every rustle of leaves and crack of twigs makes you jump.
The darkness seems to press in on you from all sides, suffocating and oppressive. Adrenaline courses through your veins, fueling your desperate flight through the underbrush.
You can’t see what’s behind you, but you can feel its presence, a looming specter haunting your every step. Terror grips you in its icy grasp, driving you onward, even as your legs threaten to give out beneath you. You push through the pain, pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion in your frantic bid for escape.
You look behind you, but all you can see is darkness. You’re just about to reach the clearing when you collide with someone with so much force that it takes both of you down.
Your breath rushes out in a startled gasp as you scramble to disentangle yourself from the other person, heart hammering in your chest. With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you push yourself away from them, scrambling backward on all fours until you’re a safe distance away. Panic surges within you, making your movements frantic as you try to orient yourself in the darkness. The shadows obscure the details, making it difficult to see who or what has you so rattled.
The person mutters your name in panic. It’s Will.
The instant you hear the familiar voice, you know that you’re safe—that whatever was chasing you is gone. You let out a shaky sigh and release the tension in your muscles, suddenly realizing how close you were to losing control of the situation.
But his sudden appearance leaves you confused, and you can’t help but ask, “What are you doing out here?”
“I heard your scream. Are you alright?” He stumbles in your direction in panic, hands outstretched to grab your arms.
The confusion only grows as you listen to his question, certain that you never made a sound. You didn’t scream, yet he’s insistent that he heard it. And even though you know your voice would be distinctive in the silence of the woods, he still seems to be under the impression that you were the one who called out for him.
“I didn’t scream,” you insist, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to make sense of the situation. “I heard it too, but it wasn’t me.”
You don’t know what to make of it, and the uncertainty makes your nerves flare. You start backing away from his touch, keeping an eye on him as you try to make sense of what’s happening.
“I don’t understand,” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly with a mixture of fear and confusion. “I didn’t scream. It wasn’t me.”
“What do you mean you didn’t scream?” He seems taken aback by your response, his gaze darting around as he tries to process what you’re saying. “I ran here as fast as I could after I heard you. Are you trying to tell me I imagined it?”
You can feel the tension in his voice, the confusion mirrored in his expression. There’s a palpable sense of urgency in his demeanor, as if he’s desperately trying to make sense of the situation.
You shake your head vigorously, repeating like a mantra, “It wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it?” He glances around the woods again, searching for clues in the darkness. “Who else could be out here?”
“Let’s go home,” you say, ignoring his question and rising to your feet with the help of his steady arms.
Your legs still feel shaky after the run through the woods, and you lean on his arms for support as you try to regain your bearings. The cold air nips at your cheeks, making it hard to breathe, and the sudden burst of adrenaline has left you feeling exhausted. You let him guide you toward the house, not wanting to spend another moment in the dark woods.
“Don’t ever let me near those woods again,” you mutter, the words tumbling out without thought. Your voice trembles with a mix of fear and frustration, the events of the past few hours weighing heavily on your mind.
As you take the final few steps toward the house, you’re grateful to be out of the forest, but a lingering unease gnaws at you. Something about the whole evening feels off, and the fact that Will is here only adds to your discomfort.
As his arms envelop you, you feel a creeping unease settle over you, intensifying with each passing moment. His embrace should be reassuring, but instead, it triggers a disturbing sense of déjà vu. In this moment, you find yourself unable to be reassured by anyone or anything.
His eyes seem to darken, and before your startled gaze, antlers begin to emerge from his head, a surreal and terrifying transformation unfolding before your eyes.
The longer he holds you, the more your anxiety mounts, until you can no longer bear it, pulling away sharply, desperate to escape the unsettling sensations gripping you. Blinking in disbelief, you look back at him, finding no trace of the eerie transformation you just witnessed.
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