#dance of the cuckoos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fichinescu · 2 years

Text

2022: El año de too much anime

Este fue un año raro. La simulación de normalidad post-pandemia me pegó de forma particular, ya que volví a trabajar en oficina y, por primera vez en años, fuera del ambiente nerd/televisivo en el que me siento cómodo. Flotando en lo desconocido, el anime fue mi cable a tierra. Un lugar seguro. Un espejo que refleja 40 años de identidad cambiante.

El anime está de fondo en mis primeros recuerdos conscientes, en los dibujos de Mazinger y Rick Hunter en mis cuadernos de primer grado. En la adolescencia de Big Channel, Magic Kids, y los VHS doblados que compré en B.L. (frente a Camelot, de los mismos dueños). Más tarde, lejos de la burbuja familiar, está en la cola de Fantabaires en la que conocí a mi otakísima mejor amiga y en “Protocultura”, el proyecto de programa de divulgación que presenté en 1999 a Claudio Morgado y que fue mi puerta de entrada a la televisión en una resurrección (trágicamente breve) del querido Cablín.

Gracias a aquel proyecto conocí a Pato Land, editor del legendario fanzine Ran. Un par de años después, Pato fue el primero en publicar mis textos en la revista Nuke, entre verdaderos eruditos del tema. Nuke colapsó post-2001, y aunque mi amor por el periodismo freak ya estaba activado, cada vez me sentía más alejado del fandom. Una palabra que en ese momento ni usábamos, pero que puede definir al círculo cerrado de entusiastas, una colmena de cánones establecidos y opiniones incuestionables sobre artistas, estudios y géneros completos.

Esa incomodidad con la colmena no terminó ahí, y siguió en lo profesional. Me tocó chocar contra el fandom gamer en sitios especializados, el fandom marvelita/snyderesco en publicaciones de cine, y hasta el fandom de mi propio programa durante cuatro años como director de contenidos de un reality show ecuatoriano de continuidad más compleja que cualquier universo de superhéroes.

Nunca dejé de ver anime. Después de los años de Nuke veía alguna que otra serie que me llamaba la atención, en general relacionada con sus directores o guionistas. Ikuhara, Yuasa, Mari Okada, y poco Reddit. En la pandemia me suscribí a Crunchyroll y descubrí un par de series interesantes. Empecé 2022 en la espera de confirmación de un puesto de trabajo, y la distracción perfecta fue ver al menos un capítulo de la treintena de series que se estrenaron en la temporada de “invierno”. Y no paré. Entre novedades y revisiones anoté más de 600 capítulos de anime vistos en el año.

Lo que me costó fue encontrar con quien comentarlos. Mis amigos, freaks maravillosos, no me iban a seguir en mi aventura. Twitter, la red social pavloviana a la que pertenezco, tiene su propia comunidad (“anitwt”) que se comunica casi exclusivamente en base a shitposts que, para este old, parecen encriptados. Reddit es ese mismo fandom de comiquerías multiplicado por 1000 y más facho que nunca, al igual que los foros de sitios como Anime News Networks, más interesados en sus batallas culturales que en hablar de meros dibujitos.

Elegí las series que iba a ver por sinopsis, diseños, temática. Alguna por estudio o por conocer el manga. Y cada vez que volvía a una de estas comunidades 4chanescas me sorprendía de nuevo por las opiniones formadas sobre algo desde antes de que se estrene, la interpretación absolutamente literal de cada historia e ideas rígidas y arbitrarias de lo que es “buena” o “mala” animación. Por lo que entendí, simplemente es buena cuando es mucha. Ah, y cuando no se notan las computadoras. Un ludismo que ya era irritante en 1999 y hoy es inexplicable.

Por supuesto, esta es una generalización. Tampoco es que me metí a buscar en profundidad gente con quién hablar sobre mis series favoritas. Es un buen proyecto para 2023.

Por lo pronto, esta es mi forma larga de aclarar que vi unas 200 horas de anime en 2022. Y como la mayoría de las series que me gustaron no le resultaron interesantes a nadie que conozca, me toca gritar a la nada, en una red social de la que todavía ni sé por qué tengo un perfil.

ESTO ME GUSTÓ BASTANTE

Rumiko Takahashi es mi estrella guía, y las comedias románticas me pueden. Creo que vi todo lo que se estrenó en este año. Mi favorita está en mi top 10, pero quedó afuera por poco Sasaki to Miyano, una de las pocas historias BL que vi en televisión abierta, que aprovecha diseños impecables y dos protagonistas bien delineados para hacer que 12x20 minutos de miradas robadas y monólogos internos sean atrapantes.

El resto, lamentablemente, fueron decepciones. Ninguna tan dolorosa como A Couple of Cuckoos, que empieza muy bien y desbarranca en episodios temáticos trilladísimos, complicaciones forzadas y el típico tonito incestuoso del “harem anime”. Lo peor de todo es que tiene mi opening favorito del año. Tanto que la seguí viendo durante varios capítulos solamente por la inyección de felicidad que me dan estos 90 segundos (por suerte en el capítulo 13 cambiaron la intro y la pude largar).

youtube

Otra comedia que desbarrancó fue Heroines Run the Show, un animé original que roba la mayor parte de su historia a un lindísimo manga llamado Skip & Loafer (que tendrá adaptación el año que viene). Esta historia de una chica normal infiltrada en el mundo de los “idols” arranca con un buen meet-cute, grandes canciones de HoneyWorks y un excelente uso de rotoscopia para los shows y coreografías. Pero de repente se vuelve un canto a la pureza y el celibato de los idols que resultará hilarante para cualquiera que lea Oshi no Ko (o haya visto Perfect Blue).

Otro género en el que no pude entrar fue el “slice of life”. No me molesta la lentitud o las historias sin mucho conflicto, pero en general son historias sobre la vida interior de personajes femeninos mezclados con una mirada cosificante “moe” que me termina sacando de la historia. Lo peor es que estas series suelen ser excusas para experimentar con animación un poquito más impresionista, como pasa con Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, que hace cosas maravillosas con la luz y los peinados de las protagonistas. Pero también hay que bancarse a la cámara recorriendo de forma obsesiva cada milímetro de las protagonistas mientras se ponen la ropita del título.

Ningún “slice” está mejor animado que Bocchi The Rock!, uno de los grandes placeres visuales del año. A diferencia del resto de estas series, el foco está puesto de lleno en el humor, pero como los personajes son clichés sin mucho para decir, el equipo creativo decide reírse de ellas con gags profundamente inventivos que bordean la crueldad y mezclan 2D, 3D, y hasta un stop motion improvisado. La música, también, es excelente. Aunque mi interés por Bocchi y su banda sean nulos, me encanta escucharlas tocar.

Me enganché más con la historia de Do It Yourself!, de animación falsamente simple y figuras “cartoony” que me recordaban a las series de la escuela Masterpiece Theater de los ‘70s (¿qué es Akage no Anne, por ejemplo, si no es un slice of life?). En el centro de la serie están dos amigas distanciadas que se vuelven a acercar gracias a un club de carpintería, y todas las escenas con ellas son bellísimas, y ni hablar de los (pocos) momentos en los que trabajan, perfectas coreografías artesanales. Los secundarios son atroces, eso sí, en especial una rubiecita tsundere que dice “good job” con menos caracterización que un NPC de un Dragon Quest de 8-bit.

MUCHAS segundas temporadas/segundas mitades interesantes. Komi Can’t Communicate es más repetitiva que El Chavo del 8, y aunque se pusieron las pilas para animar uno de mis arcos favoritos del manga (el viaje a Kyoto con Y.Y. HANNYA), me parece que funciona mejor cuando potencia la romcom por sobre los momentos “slice of life”. Espero con ansias la tercera temporada y la llegada de Rumiko Manbagi.

Shadows House perdió un poco del empuje narrativo de la primera temporada, pero quizás expandir el elenco sea lo mejor a futuro. Princess Connect siguió siendo una delicia, una parodia del isekai con grandes guiones, animación ultra creativa y un elenco que solamente se puede pagar cuando seguís juntándola con pala en uno de los gachas más exitosos de todos los tiempos.

No voy a simular que entiendo el 20% de lo que pasa en Pop Team Epic, pero pude disfrutar varios ejemplos de mi estilo de comedia japonesa favorita, con esa estructura “manzai” de personajes profundamente idiotas acompañados de sufridos partenaires y los remates sin remate de los peores 4-koma.

Nada estuvo a la altura de mi rey del humor tonto Keiichi Arai (Nichijou, CITY), pero hubo cosas lindas. Mi favorita fue The Little Lies we all Tell, la demostración de que si no tenés una buena idea para hacer una serie, ¿por ahí sale algo interesante si mezclas cuatro malas ideas? Cuatro amigas de secundaria normales que guardan secretos. Una es una ninja. Otra es telépata. La más “moe” es una invasora alienígena con rasgos de pulpo. La chica masculina es un chabón. Esta última podría ser una red flag, pero por suerte no cae en la usual transfobia casual del animé. La amé porque la premisa parece pensada en joda, los guiones tienen cero esfuerzo, y la animación es nivel South Park. No importa nada.

Teppen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (no los cuentes, son quince) fue un paso más allá al tratarse específicamente sobre chicas practicando ese estilo de comedia. Una ametralladora de chistes pésimos que disfruté como el sol de la mañana.

Aparte de Princess Connect, gran año para las parodias de isekai. Life with an Ordinary Guy Who Reincarnated into a Total Fantasy Knockout agota el concepto muy rápido pero mientras dura, se disfruta. My Uncle From Another World fue LA gran pesadilla de la temporada en términos de condiciones laborales (empezó en julio y lanza capítulos con cuentagotas), y es una pena que opaque su sentido del humor deliciosamente reiterativo (en especial si los chistes sobre Sega te hacen reir mucho).

También salieron muchas parodias de tokusatsu, un género que conozco poco, pero lo suficiente como para morir de amor con Miss Kuroitsu from the Monster Development Department, Love After World Domination y Fuuto Tantei (que no es una parodia pero suma elementos de 55 géneros distintos).

Tiendo a gravitar más hacia la comedia o el misterio. Entre las series de ciencia ficción me sorprendí con Sabikui Bisco, una adaptación de light novels que mezcla cyberpunk y fantasía oscura que empieza con tres capítulos excelentes y diluye sus ideas casi de inmediato. Otras decepciones: Yurei Deco, Tatami Time Machine y The Eminence in Shadow, y My Master has no Tail, que me hizo rezar aún más fuerte por un anime de Akane-banashi.

No vi muchos de los tanques de la temporada. Estoy atrasado en los shonen y seinen grandes, y por mucho que quisiera ver lo que hacen con mangas que leí como Mob Psycho 100 o Golden Kamuy, no me da para empezar a ver las series desde los arcos actuales.

Sí vi SPY X FAMILY, por supuesto. Amé el primer “cour”, amé un poco menos el segundo, pero es difícil procesar del todo una adaptación tan literal cuando un manga está entre lo mejor que jamás se hizo en el género. Tatsuya Endo es un mangaka de talento sobrenatural para la arquitectura, la narración cuadro a cuadro, anatomía. Un mix imposible de Hugo Pratt, Neal Adams y Naoki Urasawa. Cualquier anime, aún uno técnicamente impecable como este, tendría problemas para estar a la altura.

La serie adapta 42 capítulos de manga en 25 episodios de anime. En los mejores episodios (la partida de quemados) resulta ser una gran decisión, pero los arcos más extensos (la aparición de Bond, el torneo de tenis) pierden empuje mucho antes de llegar al final. También, como otra serie de la que voy a hablar un poco más adelante, está obligada a adaptar los arcos menos interesantes de un manga que eleva su calidad poco después. La tercera temporada debería empezar con el arco del crucero, que le dará merecido protagonismo a Yor Forger.

La nueva Urusei Yatsura es inexplicable. Primero, porque el anime original sigue siendo perfecto. Segundo, porque esta adaptación superficialmente más fiel al manga pierde el frenesí y la inventiva infinita de la joven Rumiko. Tercero, porque va a durar 4 temporadas y por lo tanto anular por un año el bloque “noitamina” de Fuji TV, donde se suele estrenar el anime más original. Un desperdicio.

Otro que me dolió fue Love of Kill, un excelente manga convertido en un animé medio pelo que censura la violencia brutal del original y no logra transmitir un miligramo de la química de los protagonistas. Requiem of the Rose King no busca más que ilustrar el manga, pero a pesar de que le dieron una temporada larga para explayarse, no es el medio correcto para contar una historia que depende de sutilezas psicológicas, alianzas frágiles, y mucho background sobre el período histórico en el que está ambientada.

Número uno en la lista de “animes que quise amar” está Lycoris Recoil, que tiene dos protagonistas ultra carismáticas, interesante construcción de mundo, y escenas de acción estilo Noir-Black Lagoon muy superiores a la media… pero que sufre la extraña maldición de ser demasiado corta. Quizás soy yo que vengo de la época en la que un anime duraba un mínimo de 26 capítulos, pero en este caso sentí que la historia de Chisato y Takina necesitaba respirar un poco más. Los giros y revelaciones del último capítulo resultan chatos cuando no logramos generar lazos con el extenso elenco.

Y de ahí, lo que no se donde poner por cuestiones de formato. Boku to Roboko es una maravilla. Cortitos de cinco minutos repletos de humor que adaptan la genial parodia de Doraemon de Shonen Jump. Lo mismo I'm Kodama Kawashiri, capítulos de solo un minuto sobre la vida cotidiana de una freelancer. Slice-of-life sin un miligramo de adorabilidad, que me hicieron pensar lo lindo que sería un anime de Kabi Nagata.

Ah, y mi media hora favorita del año de anime sin duda es “Él toca nuestra canción”, el capítulo de Naoko Yamada de Modern Love: Tokyo (se puede ver en Primer Video), una peliculita que parece una relectura de Only Yesterday, con momentos inolvidables y una gran protagonista.

Pasé años escribiendo sobre lo que amo, así que leer puntos de vista estimulantes y perspectivas originales me causa tanto placer como ver anime. Atesoro los sitios imprescindibles que descubrí estos años: Animation Obsessive, Full Frontal, el blog de Matteo “Animetudes” Watzky, y cuentas de Twitter como Manga Mogura y el argentino Dastier92.

ESTO ES LO QUE MÁS ME GUSTÓ

10. Gundam: The Witch From Mercury

Entre los lugares comunes del fandom noventero estaba la idea de que Gundam Wing era una serie “menor” porque mezclaba los elementos de ciencia ficción bélica de Gundam con adolescentes mala onda a lo shonen jump. Wing no era perfecta, pero sabía lo que quería ser, y en la balanza siempre pesaba más el drama shonen que los robots. Witch From Mercury hace algo parecido, con la primera protagonista de la serie y una ambientación escolar… con la que el equipo creativo no parece saber muy bien qué hacer.

Todavía falta el final de temporada, pero queda claro que Witch está lejos de ser Rebelde Way con robots. En estos 11 capítulos no creo que hayan ido a clase más de tres veces, y el grueso de la serie consiste de duelos de robots basados en conflictos más cercanos a la energía adolescente de Final Fantasy VIII que a cualquier otro Gundam. Ah, y los duelos son impresionantes. Demuestran la precisión para narrar combate de un equipo entrenado durante décadas en dibujar estos robots.

Narrativamente parece una serie distinta en cada capítulo, una historia reescrita, comprimida, caótica, que resuelve conflictos en cuestión de un episodio, sugiere secretos que revela de golpe, y pierde constantemente el foco de quién es la verdadera protagonista… hasta los últimos tres episodios de la temporada en los que todo funciona: los robots, la geopolítica, el suspenso y la relación entre las dos protagonistas.

9. Hakozume - Kouban Joshi no Gyakushuu

Un gran ejemplo de la diferencia entre comedia costumbrista y “slice-of-life”. Hakozume es la historia de dos mujeres policía. Una experimentada que ha sido obligada a bajar de rango por su comportamiento incontrolable, y una novata que está profundamente arrepentida de haber elegido esta posición.

Cada capítulo cuenta dos historias completas de 10 minutos que se sienten como una serie con gente de los años ‘70. Cada una toca un conflicto social con humor, personajes originales, y observaciones sobre la relación de los japoneses con la autoridad que nunca había visto en un anime. Nadie está en peligro de muerte ni hay giros dramáticos sorpresivos, pero cada historia tiene algo que decir, y avanza de cierta forma la psicología de dos protagonistas que (espero) tengan una temporada más, ya que el manga tiene como 20 volúmenes.

8. My Dress-up Darling!

Tardé en conectar con lo que al principio parece una rom-com formulaica, la típica historia de amor entre la chica popular y el nerd que se sienta en la última fila de la clase. En este caso, ella es cosplayer y él es un descendiente de artesanos de muñecas tradicionales con manos mágicas para la costura. Pero capítulo a capítulo se van notando las diferencias con otras series. El protagonista, Gojo-kun, no es un perdedor ni un antisocial sino un artista que no sabe cuán valioso es su don. Y ella, Kitagawa-san, es una presencia intensamente positiva en su vida sin sentirse como la fantasía del autor.

Tiene sentido, ya que la mangaka es mujer, y a los pocos capítulos la perspectiva narrativa pasa a ser la de Kitagawa y el amor que ella empieza a sentir por él. Por la mitad de la serie entran otros personajes que enriquecen las cosas realmente interesantes que la serie tiene para decir sobre la relación de un adolescente y su cuerpo, o la diferencia entre aficiones y obsesiones. Es admirable el nivel de detalle que pone tanto en el meticuloso fan service como en los mangas, animes y juegos ficticios de este universo, tan bien realizados que uno querría que fuesen reales.

7. Deaimon: A Recipe for Happiness

Como Hakozume, esta es una comedia dramática tradicional disfrazada de slice-of-life. Un treintañero abandona sus sueños de rockstar para volver a trabajar a la dulcería familiar en Kioto. Al llegar, descubre que sus padres han adoptado a una melancólica chica de 10 años que hace su trabajo mejor que él. De a poco, otros personajes se suman a la historia, igual de perdidos que el protagonista, procesando cada uno la angustia a su manera.

Como el “wagashi” tradicional que está en el centro de la historia, Deaimon es una serie delicada sobre la posibilidad de reconstruir algo que creías que estaba roto. En lo técnico, es un ejemplo de compresión narrativa, que hace sentir que pasamos un año junto a tus personajes a pesar de que la temporada tenga solamente 13 capítulos. La cereza en la torta: un tema de apertura absolutamente perfecto de la gran Maaya Sakamoto.

6. Chainsaw Man

Además de anime, en este año vi varias adaptaciones de manga a doramas live action. Y me suele sorprender la libertad con la que se toman una adaptación, comparado con el cuadro a cuadro que se ve en aún los mejores saltos de manga a anime.

Chainsaw Man es la excepción. El manga es sublime, lo mejor que Shonen Jump publicó en la última década. Y la adaptación respeta las líneas narrativas pero busca formas estrictamente cinematográficas de llevar las ideas visuales del maestro Tatsuki Fujimoto a la animación.

Lo “cinematográfico” es clave. En la página, Fujimoto juega con planos apaisados que simulan pantallas de cine, planos repetidos para sugerir una cámara fija, manchas de tinta que rompen la cuarta pared entre lector y autor. Estos recursos se espejan en el anime con secuencias de acción que incluyen desplazamientos del plano que simulan travelings, un punto de vista inquieto tipo cámara-en-mano, puntos de vista subjetivos y composiciones sobrias, despojadas. Hasta las actuaciones de voz abandonan la exageración típica del anime, como hacía la brillante adaptación de Aku no Hana.

Seguramente haya una referencia más actual, pero Chainsaw Man me recuerda muchísimo a los ‘90s de Madhouse, una época en la que el estudio quería romper con la narrativa previsible del anime televisivo. La era de Yoshiaki Kawajiri y especialmente de Satoshi Kon, otro cinéfilo que tenía más respeto por Hitchcock que por Miyazaki. Kon está por todas partes. La tragicomedia de Tokyo Godfathers en la unidad familiar de Aki, Denji y Power, el surrealismo de Paprika en la prisión del hotel, y por supuesto, la violencia sorpresiva y catártica de Paranoia Agent.

A simple vista, entonces, el anime no se “parece” al manga. Esta pesadez cinematográfica se traslada al tono, bastante más pesado que la contrastante ligereza de los primeros tomos de Fujimoto. Los personajes más cómicos, como Power o el mismo Denji en sus momentos más relajados, pierden protagonismo, pero la historia de Himeno cobra mayor densidad dramática y opaca la original. O mejor dicho, la complementa. Hay una conversación entre los dos medios. Lo mejor que uno puede esperar de una adaptación.

5. Akiba Maid War

El chiste debería haberse agotado en el capítulo uno. Akiba Maid War imagina una versión alternativa de 1999 en la que los “maid cafés” del barrio otaku de Akihabara están organizados como una versión adorable de la Yakuza. Alternar comedia costumbrista y fan service con violencia salvaje digna de Takashi Miike, en especial los primeros cinco minutos de su obra maestra Dead or Alive (casualmente, de 1999)... ¿pero qué se puede contar después de revelar este muy, muy gracioso remate?

Mucho. El primer toque genial es dar personalidades definidas a las “maids” del café en el que se centra la historia. El deseo de una vida kawaii de la protagonista Nagomi contrasta con la escalada de violencia, y va tomando tintes patológicos de negación capítulo a capítulo. La administradora del café está dispuesta a traicionar a cualquiera y rogar perdón después de (indefectiblemente) ser descubierta. Hasta el panda que parece ser un gag visual resulta tener su propia, desgarradora, historia.

Pero el corazón de Akiba Maid War es Ranko, una maid de 36 años de voz grave y temperamento severo, el opuesto absoluto de la cultura “moe” de las maids. Lo que podría ser un chiste cruel resulta ser conmovedor cuando entendemos las razones por las que actúa así.

Lo que es milagroso de Akiba Maid War es que logra romperte el corazón sin nunca abandonar la comedia. Un giro dramático en la mitad de la temporada podría haber llevado el tono en otra dirección, pero para ser una serie en la que mueren unos 20 personajes por episodio, nunca se trivializa la violencia y su impacto en las protagonistas.

Y todo culmina en un final perfecto, absurdo y emotivo, con una escena post-créditos que logra un equilibrio casi imposible entre sentimentalismo y humor. Pocas veces se ve tanta confianza de un equipo creativo en su material y en que la audiencia va a acompañar cada volantazo. La verdadera joya inesperada de esta temporada.

4. Raven of the Inner Palace

El mejor capítulo del nuevo podcast de Hideo Kojima consiste en una larga conversación con el director Mamoru Oshii (Ghost in the Shell), que habla de forma cándida de los trucos con los que se estira el presupuesto en anime, y el placer de descubrir nuevos recursos narrativos que nacen de esa austeridad. La imagen clásica de Oshii es un plano abierto, quieto, casi detenido. El sonido ambiente invade los oídos. La anticipación se eleva. Y finalmente algo ocurre, más rápido de lo que el ojo puede detectar.

El espíritu de Oshii se percibe en cada plano de Raven of the Inner Palace, un anime que parece resistir cualquier moda o tropo de la industria.

El “cuervo” del título es Shouxue, una de las muchas concubinas del emperador de lo que parece ser, al menos al principio, un país inspirado por la antigua China. Shouxue vive bajo ciertas reglas. Es una concubina dotada de poderes sobrenaturales, y no tiene deberes maritales hacia el joven emperador, y se permite tratarlo con una displicencia a la que nadie en la corte se atreve. Esto, por supuesto, fascina al impulsivo pero inseguro gobernante, que busca una y otra vez el consejo del “cuervo” para lidiar con fantasmas irritantes.

Los primeros episodios mantienen una estructura del “fantasma de la semana”. Casos que se investigan y resuelven en uno, a lo sumo dos, capítulos. Pero de a poco se van plantando elementos de una mitología más compleja.

La economía de recursos se adapta a la perfección a una historia en la que los personajes no quieren revelar más de lo absolutamente necesario. Planos abiertos, largas conversaciones, dos o tres locaciones repetidas en cada capítulo. Raven of the Inner Palace compensa esta carencia con detalladísimos diseños de personaje, cuidado meticuloso en la escenografía y vestuario, y un uso del color audaz, saturado, pero nunca excesivo. Las actuaciones de voz complementan el ritmo. Se sienten casi como la lectura de un libreto, un poema hipnotizante que hace que cada variación sea un milagro.

Hay mil cosas para destacar de este extraño anime. Mi parte favorita son los flashbacks narrados como ilustraciones de antiguos libros chinos, animados casi como si fueran recortes en papel. De a poco los finales de capítulo dejan de ser ganchos y pasan a ser cortes abruptos, delatando su origen en una serie de “light novels”. Una estructura literaria que la hace ideal para maratonear. El final, por suerte, cierra suficientes hilos como para no dejarnos añorando una segunda temporada que quizás nunca llegue.

3. Dance Dance Danseur

En los años oscuros en los que el anime no iluminaba mi existencia, alguna que otra serie entraba por la ventana. Y ninguna resultó más disfrutable que el “sports anime” de patinaje artístico Yuri!!! On Ice, uno de esos éxitos que trascienden el fandom y encuentran nuevas audiencias, en especial en una comunidad LGBT que está muy poco representada por el anime en general.

Dance Dance Danseur comparte estudio con Yuri, y al girar alrededor del ballet parecía tener algún punto de contacto con ese nuevo clásico. Nada más lejos de la realidad. Danseur empieza como una variante japonesa de Billy Elliot. Junpei se enamora del ballet de niño pero lo rechaza por prácticas más masculinas en la adolescencia, hasta que un encuentro con una familia de artistas lo hace retomar su camino.

Desde el principio, Danseur te captura por su belleza. Las secuencias de ballet usan una variedad de técnicas y estilos (3D, rotoscopia, expresionismo) para transmitir el impacto emocional de cada movimiento. Pero donde Danseur destaca (un poco como Yuri) es en que los personajes se siguen moviendo como bailarines aparte de las escenas de ballet. Es un placer ver a Junpei correr a un compañero o a su rival tener una rabieta con la delicadeza de Rudolf Nureyev.

La historia tarda en empezar, pero al tercer capítulo se vuelve menos predecible, única. Con el tiempo Junpei empieza a relacionarse con la familia de artistas que incluye a Miyako y Luou, primos que parecen tener una relación casi sobrenatural. De a poco va descubriendo secretos dignos de una novela gótica, entre espectaculares presentaciones de ballet, amores adolescentes y una rivalidad memorable.

Ah, y tiene el mejor capítulo final del año. Estallido emocional nivel Evangelion.

2. Made in Abyss S2

No había visto la primera temporada de Made in Abyss en su momento, confundiendo los diseños infantiles por una versión descolorida y televisiva de las películas de aventuras de Studio Ghibli de los ‘80. Por supuesto, nada más lejos de la realidad. El poder de la serie está en el choque de la estética clásica infantil con horrores salidos de la peor pesadilla de David Cronenberg. La primera temporada se toma su tiempo para construir una realidad relativamente segura antes de desatar un tsunami de dolor sobre los personajes. Luego de la película (espectacular, pero que repite muchos de los mismos giros) mi sensación era de que la historia se podía agotar muy rápido.

No fue así. La segunda temporada es mucho más ambiciosa que la primera, una película de 4 horas cortada en capítulos que toma lugar casi por completo en una única locación, una ciudad que se parece más a la ciencia ficción de Jeff Vandermeer o China Mieville que a los yokai y hechiceros de Miyazaki. La historia de esta ciudad, sus secretos y su destino final se desenvuelven a lo largo de episodios brutales, que parecen estar desafiando constantemente el lugar del espectador con respecto a los hechos. No hay víctimas ni villanos fáciles en esta temporada, y la violencia casi insoportable de los episodios finales no tiene valor catártico.

Pero ojo, a pesar de lo que he leído en análisis relativamente superficiales, no hay crueldad en la construcción narrativa de la serie. Amo las series “para llorar” como Anohana o Your Lie in April, pero Made in Abyss no busca tanto la empatía como la compasión. Es difícil identificarse con los personajes de la serie, en especial en una temporada en la que los protagonistas son casi espectadores de lo que ocurre, pero siempre aprecié la manera en que los guiones, la dirección, y las actuaciones de voz obligan a considerar la motivación de cada acción, sin importar lo inhumana que parezca.

En lo visual no hay nada que se acerque en esta lista. Con excepciones históricas como Cowboy Bebop o Conan el Niño del Futuro, nunca vi un anime como este, al menos en televisión. No me entra en la cabeza el nivel de inversión y trabajo que hay en la serie.

1. Call of The Night

Los primeros seis capítulos de esta serie fueron lo que más disfruté en el año. Más que cualquier película, libro, manga, serie, juego. No es que esos 120 minutos de anime hagan algo muy original o complejo, sino lo contrario. Son seis episodios despojados casi de historia. Simples conversaciones entre dos, tres, cuatro personajes que viven fuera de los parámetros de la gente “normal”. Ah, y uno de esos personajes es un vampiro.

En cualquier historia de vampiros están los primeros 10 minutos antes de la conversión. La seducción, el peligro, las razones por las que nuestro protagonista es vulnerable al hechizo de la vida eterna. La noche de Jonathan Harker en el castillo. La caminata de Louis y Lestat por las calles oscuras de Nueva Orleans. El acercamiento entre animalitos heridos de Let The Right One In.

Call of the Night tiene algo de cada una de estas historias, pero la clave está en el nombre. La gente normal vive de día. Estos personajes prefieren la noche. No entienden muy bien por qué, no están buscando algo particular, pero ese “click” los hace cuestionar cada uno de los lazos con las experiencias cotidianas ¿saben lo que es la amistad, por ejemplo? ¿quieren un trabajo, un título, una profesión? ¿y el amor? ¿y el sexo?

Un anime sobre un puñado de solitarios que charla en la noche infinita de Tokio parece un gran proyecto para un estudio que tiene bastante más creatividad que presupuesto. El énfasis está puesto en las líneas punk incompletas de los diseños de personaje, los audaces planos subjetivos, y un uso del color que hace que la noche desierta nos parezca tan atractiva como a los protagonistas. Los planos abiertos con cielos violetas y naranjas, el reflejo de la luna a través de las ventanas, el brillo de las luces como piletas de calor en la calle. Un uso evocativo, ecléctico de los pocos recursos técnicos.

Entre las muchas decisiones geniales de esos primeros seis capítulos está la franqueza en el tratamiento del sexo. Las escenas de intimidad entre el protagonista Kou y la vampiresa Nazuna incluyen algún que otro mordisco, claro, pero son acercamientos entre dos personas que no están muy seguras de lo que quieren, y agradecen un lugar (relativamente) seguro para empezar a definir la idea del placer en sus propios términos.

Y si insisto con seis capítulos, es porque en el séptimo el hechizo se rompe. El mundo se expande, la burbuja perfecta de Kou y Nazuna se pincha, y entran nuevos personajes, antagonistas, e historias con moralejas más simples que las observaciones ambiguas del inicio. Los capítulos siguientes no son necesariamente malos, pero las limitaciones de presupuestos hacen que la acción se sienta chata y la necesidad de cerrar pequeños cuentos en 20 minutos conspira contra una mitología de la que terminamos sabiendo bastante poco.

Los últimos dos capítulos, por suerte, encuentran un equilibrio natural entre el modo melancólico del inicio y las complicaciones vampíricas de la segunda mitad. La segunda temporada puede ser interesante. Y voy a estar ahí para verla. El anime ya no lo suelto.

11 notes · View notes

etakeh · 4 days

Text

I hate when I find a really good show and I don't know anybody who would like it as much as I do.

In this case, it's not the kind of show I usually watch, and definitely isn't the kind of show that anyone I know watches.

And it happens all the time.

#it takes place in a mental hospital #not a bad scary One flew over the cuckoo's nest kind of mental hospital #but one that actually tries to help people.#and also tap dancing interludes #and so many version of #come on eileen #I don't even know how to explain it #but it's very good #wakefield #dexy's midnight runners

1 note · View note

homunculus-argument · 3 months

Text

Things birds would make memes about:

when you're all fucked up and ready to GO but the male got too into doing his mating display and won't fuck before he's done dancing

when your hatchlings this year should be all grown up and you've taught them everything you know but they still follow you around beeping for food like GET A FUCKING JOB

lmao the stupidest fucking mf in the flock got stuck in a trash can

when your species mates for life and you just realised that your spouse that you imprinted on is a fucking idiot

stealing fluff for my nest straight off a sleeping dog because I fear no death and answer to no god

I think my huge idiot son is a cuckoo

THE SUN IS UP AND SO AM I, TIME TO SCREAM MOTHERFUCKERS

Birds of prey hanging around bird feeders waiting for rats, squirrels, smaller birds, and other bird food to show up.

I fucking hate seagulls, all my homies hate seagulls

suck my dick, I'm a seagull, fuck you

10K notes · View notes

teritelnirbenothing · 10 months

Link

#dance #sriped cuckoo

0 notes

houseofcuckoos · 1 year

Text

An ode to Lenny Crambag:

“There once was a silly wry man,

Who danced in a unitard oh so grand.

On the street corner he’d prance,

With a strange Cuckoo stance,

Bringing odd smelling laughter to all in the land!”

@HouseOfCuckoos

#funny #weird #comedy #stoner #awesome #geek #dance #art #House of Cuckoos #wtf is this #wtf #420 #420culture

1 note · View note

greenorangevioletgrass · 10 months

Text

fever pitch (b.b) - prologue

soundtrack: mastermind - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: Bradley shoots his shot in public, but will he fumble when he meets you in person? warnings: language, drinking, meet cute notes: my first series in a while! this is shamelessly based on the epic Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce saga currently happening rn, and combine that with my innate love of football (the kicking kind, not the NFL kind) and... voila! I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks. Happy reading! <3 ✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Soccer Sensation Bradley Bradshaw Fails To Shoot His Shoot With Y/N At Her Concert?

Arsenal captain Bradley Bradshaw may be among his club’s top scorers this season, but even he misses a chance in romance like the rest of us.

The 29-year-old athlete spoke about his missed opportunity with the multi-platinum songstress Y/N while speaking to his former teammate Héctor Bellerín on the latter’s podcast, “More Than A Footballer”, earlier this week.

When asked about any fun stuff he did last weekend, Bradshaw replied,

“I went to the Y/N concert at Wembley [Stadium]... it was awesome. It was pouring rain, but it was amazing. I don’t remember Wembley ever being that electric aside from, like, cup finals. She was sensational.”

Bellerín nods in agreement, having heard great things about the famed singer-songwriter’s live concerts.

Unprompted, the American midfielder then continued,

“If you’ve heard about the tour, there’s this tradition of trading friendship bracelets. And I actually made one with my number on it, hoping I could give it to her after the show…”

The Cockney-raised Spaniard cackled in surprise and teased him, “But she didn’t wanna see you, bruv? [That is] legend!”

“No hard feelings!” Bradshaw raised his hands in defense over the Zoom call. “She needed to dry off and get warm. Gotta make sure she stays healthy, protect those vocal cords. But yeah, I was a bit bummed out about it.”

Bellerín laughed and jokingly addressed the camera, “Y/N, if you’re watching, give my boy a chance, will you?”

Mononymous pop sensation Y/N is hot off of her Kaleidoscope North American Tour, which wrapped in September. Her six-show run at Wembley Stadium this November officially kicks off the European leg of her sold-out tour.

Will they be the next pop royalty and conquer the stadiums with their own crafts, or will this fizzle out as this week’s viral anecdote? The ball is in your court, Y/N.

Y/N’s representatives have not responded for comment.

***

Your Miu Miu heels click and clack against the ground. The pavement gleams after the rain and glistens under the streetlights. Everywhere you look, your eyes hurt. Down, and you worry about slipping into a puddle and falling on your ass. Forward, and a million camera flashes are ready to give you an aneurysm.

All in the name of reporting your night off of work, performing live in front of 90,000 people in a stadium.

In other words, all in a day’s work.

There’s a moment of reprieve, when the silvery white blitzes disappear into the dim tangerine lighting of the lobby. The flight down the stairs is so dark, you’re seeing green. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but as soon as they do, the thumping bass line of some dance music hits your ears. Clashing perfumes doused on the dancing, dressed-up bodies that you have to weave through.

You are seriously regretting your girl friends’ invite to a night out. You could’ve just had them over to your hotel, open a bunch of red wine, and you would’ve still had a blast. But no. You had to say yes to going to the Cuckoo Club with Lacey, Amara, and Jo.

And this evening is making you feel quite cuckoo.

There’s champagne at your booth and you’re much too eager to take a glass and start a toast. “Cheers, bitches!” you yell over the music, clinking your glass against theirs before downing the whole thing in one go.

It’s nowhere near enough.

There’s not enough buzz to dull the assault to your senses—not even after the three glasses of wine at dinner earlier. Everything is still too loud, too bright, too crowded, too… much.

“Hey!” you nudge Amara, who is sitting right next to you. “Let’s do shots!”

She turns to you, eyes widening at the slightest. “I thought you wanted to take it easy tonight!”

“Changed my mind,” you shrug, as you get up to the bar.

While you make your way through the crowd on the dance floor, Bradley Bradshaw looks up from his booth and does a double-take at the girl who just walked by. Even in a high-end club full of the well-dressed and well-heeled, people still get starstruck. And why wouldn’t they? You’re about as famous as an iPhone.

His eyes widen and immediately whips out his phone to shoot a text to his oldest and most trusted friend Natasha Trace.

‘Dude, I’m in the club and Y/N just walked in. What do I do??’

Natasha thankfully texts back almost immediately. Then again, maybe being a Communications Director for a major company requires her to be a good texter. ‘Wdym what do you do? Just go talk to her.’

‘You were supposed to introduce us!’ Bradley replies, eyes darting between his phone and you at the bar, conflicted.

Natasha is a mutual friend of yours, too, and when the Bracelet-gate clip went viral, she laughed in his face for a full 5 minutes before deciding to set the two of you up. But the schedule never really aligned, so he hasn’t got a chance to see you. Not even after he went to your concert with a friendship bracelet and a dream.

And now, seeing you here in the same room at the same time as him…

‘What do you want me to do, get down there and do it for you?’

‘...Can you?’

He senses the judgment even as the three dots appear on his screen.

‘Stop being a pussy, Bradshaw. Let me Netflix and chill with my gf in peace.’

Bradley scoffs, half-annoyed and half-fond. ‘Asshole. Have fun.’

The dance floor clears up, just enough to see that you’re right there. Leaning against the bar in your dress like a dirty daydream, talking to the bartender, and he couldn’t just let you go without a word. He thought about it, and he simply couldn’t.

“Oi, where are you off to?” His teammate Martin hollers, while the others watch him make his way to the bar in determined strides.

He squeezes past patrons across this jungle of a club, hoping to God that somebody hasn’t beaten him to talk to you yet, or you haven’t ducked out completely. Oh fuck. You’re still there, though. Good. You’re still at the bar, still glimmering under the mirrorball. Just a tap on the shoulder away. You can do it, Bradshaw…

“Excuse me, I—”

You feel the hand on your shoulder just as you turn and stand up, and in a flurry of miscoordination, looks up just as the other person moves in.

In a stroke of dumb luck, Bradley feels the top of your head slamming up against his nose and he groans in pain. “Ohh!”

“Shit! Oh my God…” you gasp, reaching out to the man in front of you. He’s tall, very tall, and you can’t quite see his face with his massive hand clutching his nose. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay. My bad…” It really doesn’t seem like it, so he lets go of his nose and smiles sheepishly. Gosh, he must’ve looked stupid right now.

But you see it differently. What you see is a dashing man in a sleek tieless navy suit and a well-groomed mustache, straight out of a Cinemascope flick, ever so handsome despite his reddened nose from the way you just accidentally headbutted him. “No, that was totally mine. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are crystal clear even in the dim light, the concern is palpable in your gaze—and rightly so. It’s just that he’d take the headbutt any day, if it means he can look at your beautiful face. “I’m… I’m swell. Y/N, right?”

There’s a shift in your gaze. First, alert—you’re assessing how much of a potential threat this person is, whether they’re gonna be weird about you— and then it relaxes. Not a threat. Then a slightest hint of mischief, like she wants to know what kind of dynamics they would have. “Have we met?”

And boy, can he.

“We haven’t, actually. But I went to your show at Wembley earlier this week. You were amazing.” He offers a handshake. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You didn’t quite catch his name over the blaring music, although you shake his hand anyway. “Sorry?”

He leans into your ear, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

You don’t know which one makes your heart skip, the sudden close proximity, the warmth of his timbre, or the whiff of his perfume.

“Right. Nice to meet you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You accept his handshake, hoping he doesn’t see how flustered you are in the strobing purple light.

“Likewise.” He nods with a smile. “And may I just say… you look stunning.”

“What, this old thing?” You brush down the art nouveau-inspired Balmain dress on your body. You’re just being modest, of course; you know you’re dressed to the nines. You have never been much into facial hair, but somehow that mustache suits him very well. “You don’t look so bad yourself. You remind me of a… young Robert Mitchum. Or Paul Newman— or one of those Golden Age leading men.”

His face lights up. It’s hardly the first time he received that kind of compliment, but when it came from you, it feels… different. It feels special. It makes him just a little bolder. “Yeah? Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be quoting lines from Butch Cassidy. Or would you prefer Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

This piques your interest. A man of culture, it seems. But of course, you can’t be too sure. “I’m more of a Paris Blues kinda gal, I’m afraid.”

Gosh, you don’t swoon so easily and he likes you so much for that. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good underrated musical movie, for the musically gifted… And Sidney Poitier was just fantastic in that.”

“Huh.” You raise your eyebrows. You honestly thought he was just spouting the famous titles. But the fact that he has likely seen this hidden gem might just mean he’s really into it. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

He leans in to speak in your ear yet again. “If you stick with me for a bit, I might show you another surprise or two.”

The music drowns out your racing heart just barely, and the bartender places a whole set of tequila shots on the bar top, and it snaps you out of your reverie for a moment.

“Wanna get some air?”

He seems surprised, but of course he wasn’t gonna throw away this shot. “Sure. Why not?”

You instruct the bartender to send the shots to your booth, not even spending ten seconds to ponder staying in this deafening hell hole. Not when this man looks like peace. Perhaps an undercurrent of mystery underneath, but his whole demeanor is as calm and comforting as those old-school movies you put on to fall asleep. At the same time, something about this person pulls you in, it’s almost magnetic, and you can’t help wanting to see this through.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fluff #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

421 notes · View notes

rel124c41 · 4 months

Text

IN ALL MY DREAMS I DROWN. poly!octotrio

Husband/Captain says the best medicine is sleep. You plead and beg with him to find another remedy. "I know what is best for you," Husband/Captain says.

tags: mythical beings & creatures, references to scottish folklore, seasickness, implied/referenced abuse, prophetic dreams, blood and violence, forced marriage, rape/non-con elements, no abuse done by octotrio, eventual happy ending, rescue mission, & happy mermay

word count: 6,690

There is a storm on the horizon. Alas, that is normal. Your husband has terrible luck with sailing.

Truthfully, it has felt for as long as you have breathed, you have breathed in the calmness before a storm. Anticipation for something awful on your tongue. Dry, warm air before a storm hits in your lungs. There is always a storm on the horizon. You have never seen another type of sky while sailing.

Dark clouds pile onto each other like stones. Icy blue and cold black spreads across the south like rivulets of oil. There is a faint tingling in the air. You look down. So deeply tired, the motion almost causes your eyes to lock close – like when a rocker-eyed doll is tilted. Blankets of goosebumps sleep on your arms. You know with sighed resignation that the upcoming weather will be one of the worser ones you have experienced.

No matter how many waves you sail upon, your husband cannot escape the looming storms, try as he might.

In your hand, you hold a lantern. It walks with you. Burning brightly, it works effectively to prod off the combined darkness of night and storm. Hypotonic red and yellow twirls over each other. A caged calamity which sways somniferous with each step you take.

This is the forty-second time you have paced the entirety of the ship. From stern to bow, croaking wood weeps under your aimless poltergeist motions. Some cuckoo clocks, upon the stroke of each hour, release little trapped dolls to dance and spin in circles upon the stroke of each hour. You are quite similar to them. Except, you are a doll in a broken cuckoo clock who works its dancers tirelessly. Spinning and spinning, stern to bow, then again, stern to bow, repeat, stern to bow.

With each step, the fire in your lantern sways like a hypnotist's watch, undulating red and yellow.

You have been awake for two days so far. However, you only walk at night to fend off sleepiness. In the daylight, you keep yourself busy with menial tasks. Walking helps to fight off the sleep before it envelopes and rains upon you.

Yet, it seems you are making too much noise with your endless pacing. Your scolding comes with the cry of a single creak. The wooden door of the captain’s cabin opens.

Eyes once up to absorb the sight of the creeping storm, the layout of the ship, and any sight you wanted to see suddenly drop down. Eyes now on the floorboards, you listen to the pitter of feet marching down steps. Wind howls in your ears and rakes through your hair. Endless pacing comes to a sudden halt. With retreating eyes, you stand by the shrouds.

When a pair of boots enter your eyesight, thorns wrap around your heart. Panic settles in when he speaks, “Another sleepless night, my dear?”

You have no idea what your husband looks like. Never gathering the bravery to look up and with him never having the want to tilt your chin up, neither of you have made eye contact. His face is like tenebrous darkness casted by storm. Numerous features could lay on it. Numerous possibilities yet no answers. No beard though; you know this when he places a palacting kiss on your forehead where your brain stews with undreamed dreams. No coarse hair tickles your skin.

However, your husband knows what you look like. Taller than you, stronger than you. Knowing your features and face shape in this uneven marriage, that is his right in nuptial laws. Spouses should submit to their husband, he told you when the ship first departed from the dock of your hometown.

Though, you cannot remember your hometown. Or really anything before him.

All of your life (because you must have had one) before him is blank like empty waters. From the Memory Sea, you search desperately for something. No matter how many lines you cast out, all you pull up is stringy, golden brown kelp or thick, ebony black kombu. The fishing rod of your desperation cannot possibly successfully make a catch in empty waters. How foolish of you to even cast a line, Husband/Captain would tease.

You know him only as your husband. He never gave you his name. You heard the men under his command call him captain. He adopts two names on your tongue, Husband/Captain; though you hardly use either.

You hardly address him first. He addresses you.

“My dear (Name),” a finger oscillates gently on your cheekbone. “I do not think the moon is as lonely as I am without you in bed. I miss you.” When you move your head to the side in shame, the finger guides you firmly to look at him – or at least his shoes.

“Speak.”

Lips feeling looser, you weigh your next words carefully. What can you possibly say this time around? Is there anything left to say? Fitful in your resolve, your eyes travel to take in the pulsing glow of your lantern and how it illuminates different colors. The image paints itself in your memory: the empty lantern that is devoid of anything but a pile of ash, the chest in the corner which you are not allowed to open, the bed with its silky sheets that inundate you with dreams of drowning.

You dream of drowning every time you sleep. When your head hits the pillow, it is like falling into a bottomless puddle that goes much deeper than anticipated. Idiosyncrasy to yourself, you are only one of this swaying ship that fears the reality of drowning.

Below your feet, almost breathing, the ship rocks back and forth. It feels like you imagine how it feels to be rocked gently by a mother. Maternally, even the ship wishes for you to sleep. The captain and his vessel conspiring against you together.

But – you cannot – so you must bargain some way to stay awake until the vessel docks. “I was … I was growing a bit uneasy over the storm. And I could not –.”

Husband/Captain hums and you know to immediately fall silent.

The pattern of the lantern handles indents in your hand. Digging steel hurts like a bad punishment. What a silly excuse. For two months all you have known is encroaching storms, why would you suddenly develop an anxiety over them now? You look out upon the ebony, mature cumulonimbus clouds.

“Isn’t there an old saying: out of sight, out of mind. I’m positive that watching it does little to quell this uneasiness,” he says.

If anything a rainstorm would be a blessing, diverting his attention from you.

“If I’m aware of it, it helps dispel that anxiety. If I’m away from it, not watching it, I feel quite worried about what could happen.”

“I share that sentiment. I’m quite anxious with you out of my sight.”

So it seems, you think, so it really seems. Your husband has pulled you away from the ship’s railings on multiple occasions, hand a shackle on your wrist, reeling you back onboard. Staying within his sight is an unspoken wedding vow.

You tense prematurely, already knowing his next words. You have lost for the night. Oh, how you have lost deeply. “I don’t want to sleep tonight … please … –” in all my dreams, I drown. But you cannot talk anymore because –

“Now hush, love,” Husband/Captain coos.

“Here’s your gown.”

What he holds out to you is rivulets of soft cotton. A sleeveless gown with fragile, ornamented straps which will hang gently on your shoulders. The pattern is a delicate stitch like doyle napkins and a little bow rests on the chest’s center. Ending at the shin, white lace replicates the look of distance waves, twisting up and down.

You take it within your scarred arms. Diagonal slashes racing down and then another group of diagonal scars racing up coat your forearms. Memory Sea has yet to unveil how you got these scars.

“Please,” you plead. It takes so much bravery to say that one word that you feel winded after.

Your head is patted in fruitless consolation.

The captain is not happy about today’s catch. Not happy is really too subtle of a way to put it. He boils with a rage known of a tyrant’s disposition, body exploding into a mess of volcano-esque fire. It is a strange sight to the men. What they pulled up from their nets would feed the crew without the need of rationing. Their catch was bountiful; what is there to be possibly upset about?

It is because all they caught is codfish. Codfish pyramiding upon codfish. A family reunion of hundreds of generational codfish. Oh, and one common ling. Which he took from the nets, it serpentine amber and white body oscillating in hand, as he howls at his crew, “A fucking ling! A ling!”

Eyes down, you had a perfect view of the ling being dropped to the floorboards and the captain raising his boot to mallet it down upon the fish’s head. Red and white puss splattered in a gory firework, piscine epidermis popping loudly.

Then, the captain stomped off, leaving a one-footed trail of red behind him.

Antipaction and questions lingered in the eyes of the crew. The crew looked upon you with high expectations. Well, aren’t you going to follow the yellow-brick road, the red footprint trail? Weren’t you going to head into the captain’s cabin and help your husband – lie on the bed, stomach down, as he punched fireworks into you, until he worked out his anger? This ship’s crew really has no delicate manner of speaking with their eyes.

Averting your eyes, sheepish, you shake your head. You are not inclined to want pain. Fleeing, you took to entering the kitchen to cook, growing ill at the sight of nets.

Nets. Just the cross-hatching pattern could make you feel consumptive. Like your stomach is empty or your stomach is bloated, it makes you so incredibly sickly to watch the crew pull up their meshwork that cradles school upon school of fishes.

Upon your forearms are scars, scars of an identical pattern.

When the men take to dumping their catch into a circular, steel tank that is about the size of a Queen bed, you thank them in a whisper. Looking into their eyes is like falling off a cliff, missing the water, and landing upon a bed of jagged stones. Eyes like stone, not resentful but still dangerous. You work to keep your head down until they all leave.

With the captain so vexed, you delegate yourself to preparing his meal first. The rest of the crew can wait until mid-afternoon. So, you prepare a dredging station with quick work. Find a shallow bowl, cut the lemon, mix together a double serving of spices with the flour. Your husband is fond of sharp herbs mixed in with fish.

You have learned to cook with his guidance. He likes to say, “A country’s cuisine reflects their culture and history. It’s a fascinating field of study.” Then, fingers guide you with firm resolve to work upon dicing, cutting, and slicing.

Now, you are almost a veteran at preparing fish. Mostly codfish, though you would have longed to experiment with a ling – you remember the pomace of oozing brains and otoliths, multiple streaks of red like lightning on the floor.

But you suppose you are not allowed to. It is probably for the best. Staying with your routine.

Seasonings scenting the air, you hear your stomach growl. Ah. Perhaps just a bite won’t hurt.

Triple-checking, you make certain that none of the crew lingers by the kitchen. No curious eyes are peeking through the window. When you are assured in your resolve, down to the bone and up to the skin, you crouch down by the bucket. Into the pool of threshing codfish, your hand swims.

The one you take out is a medium-sized portion. Green and yellow skin a similar hue of summer moss. As it squirms wildly, you turn it belly-side up. It takes a great deal of effort with such dull teeth. Yet, after a bit gnawing, the piscine epidermis finally breaks with a loud pop in your omnivorous mouth.

Rotating it around like corn-on-the-cob, you munch down upon the live and raw codfish with ravenous hunger.

A fortnight after, you wake up gasping for breath. Saliva is like a second tongue in your mouth, overcrowding. Unhesitant, you turn over the edge of the bed and wait for a soup of briny seaweed, torrential waves, and a codfish to splatter upon the captain’s bedroom floor. A single jellyfish tail of bubbly saliva is all that hits the ground.

Lungs so incredibly strained cannot comprehend where all the water went.

Coughing, you cringe against the sensation of water in your mouth. The natural lubricant of saliva is suffocating, pressing hard on the walls of your buccal cavity.

And though your lungs kick painfully, there is nothing more to spit out the tiny dime of water already spat out. Coughs come and go until they ebb to you panting softly in bed. Fatigued breaths eventually wither, to you just breathing steadily and staring off to the only light source.

Pointed spirals of light move in a kaleidoscope pattern. Leather red brightens to a bloody crimson. Rich blue wood absorbs the glow. You are a bit unsure what is really rocking back and forth, swaying with such somnolence: the boat itself or the chest where a star is locked inside.

The chest you are not allowed to open.

In your ears, you hear the ocean gnash and moan.

Blech and blarghhh. Blech and blarghhh, you go.

Over the bow of the ship, you puke.

Bile falls heavy into the awaiting waves below. One teary, squinting eye watches the pallid greenish-yellow sludge sink. Your nose is sour by the scent of imaginary citrus oranges; your head is a spinning dreidel. On the night of your three month anniversary on the ship, you woke up from another drowning dream with a secondary heart heavy in your throat. Prisoned, it banged and banged for release. So, you rushed up to the bow and granted its plea for freedom.

To the sea, let me go to the sea, your bile begged. And you listened.

A powerful blech and blarghhh has you stumbling feverishly. Your feet skid on wood like a lynched cowboy’s who kicks fruitlessly to feel solid ground. Stomach and railing biting each other, you lean far with the force of your next hurl. Far enough where you too could fall into the awaiting waves below.

Your heart spikes because you realize, puke only halfway out and face winking in agony, that you are falling in. You have gone far enough. Cerulean waters seem to reach out in an awaiting embrace.

Just as your feet start to lift from the ground, the saltine noose around your neck pulling, a hand wraps gently yet firm against your waist. You gasp wetly, bile lipstick thick, as you find yourself back on solid ground.

“Easy there. Easy. I got you,” Husband/Captain murmurs. He presses a kiss to your neck but does not hold your hair back when you gurgle again. Throat fluctuating with heaving breaths, he lies his nose on that weeping patch of skin. Salt is thick on you. “Sudden sea-sickness will pass. Happens even to the veteran sailors.”

Not this extreme, you want to argue. You are too cowardly to object. And besides … Vomit acts as a reliable tape over your hatred. You wish his hand would stop rubbing a thumb on your stomach and instead gather up tendril-esque hair.

“Though I would have never expected you to succumb to such an illness,” he says, awestruck as if you are breaking some bodily law. The thumb on your stomach becomes more pressing. “Perhaps … perhaps it is not the matter of the seas that turns your stomach so.”

You realize with a cold sweat what he is referencing. “It is not that.” A helpful hand (your own) rises up to start wiping off the pallid greenish-yellow cosmetic. Fingers fling and flick the remains of your regurgitating stomach into the waves.

“I would be able to tell.”

“Is that possible,” his voice doubts. “How could you?”

“Of course I could. It’s my body.”

Husband/Captain chuckles like you have told a funny joke. Now it is not his sole thumb that oscillates back and forth on the skin of your nightgown, he opens up his hand like a flower. He takes to rubbing your stomach until his hand goes down to cradle the spot between your legs.

You wish the ocean would take you.

The night sky is full of stars. Stars are a rarity. You never get to see them often because of how normal it is for your husband’s ship to be caught in a storm. Tonight, all is tranquil. Tonight, you are in the embodiment-al heart of the calm before the storm. And, lastly, tonight, you will try something new and exciting. You will use those pinpricks of light to paint pictures; you doubt anyone has ever thought of such a fabulous game before.

It takes a while for you to get into the groove of it. When there is this strange, thrusting force behind you, bile pops out your lips like blood. Stars align to make a teddy bear, fashioned with a little bow. When your tears fall into the awaiting waves, they catch them with so much tender sorrow.

There is a melody in the air. A little different from blech and blarghhh. Far different from the harsh hit of his hips. It howls below you. Water licking on the side of the ship seems to say: dont worry dont worry i will save you.

When you strike the match, it hisses and balloons with a fierce flame before shrinking down to something petite, something weaker. With great care, you press the match through the open lantern panel. It transforms with a fiery jump.

You stick the match between your lips once you wave it in the air harshly, killing it. Lantern panels now all closed, you hold it up to illuminate the revolutionary sight before you. It has been a day and three months … you have to know what’s in there. The rich blue box sits in your path with all the magnetism of precise metals. You crouch before it, nun-like.

The top of the wooden chest is an arch, so you rest your lantern to the side. Out of your sock, you pull two fishbones – ones you had cleaned down with your tongue and whittled down to points with a kitchen knife.

You cannot remember anything of your life before this boat. Against his wishes, you have been trying to remember what could have been of you before this boat. The storybook must have more pages, a prologue of sorts left unsaid. This boat … nothing but him lives your memory. Hand outstretched like thorns, sand, snakes, poison, fire, and nightmares. A hand that puts a glittering circlet on your ring finger. Your first memory is being wed.

Into the mouth of the lock, you slowly slide in the first fishbone. Behind you, the sound of a blanket hitting the floor thumps. Thin and fragile, the fishbone snaps halfway in the lock as you rise to your feet – and you rush, hand just managing to grab the lantern, as a raging storm at your back runs at you.

“YOU UNFAITHFUL FUCK!”

You run up the stairs three at a time, heart jackrabbiting with fear.

Tears are already in your eyes before you comprehend them. Your hand depresses on the door. Wood clatters and shakes with tremendous rage below you, growing closer. Run away, you scream at yourself, just as you realize there's nowhere to run to. When the door opens, water pelts your face in a thousand exploding fists.

This is the closest the storm has ever been. But it was clear yesterday ? – calm before a –?

A scream tears from you as a reaching hand misses your arm, his dirty nails almost tickling the goosebumps coating your skin. With reckless abandon, you jump down the flight of seven stairs just outside of the cabin. The deck catches you with all the care wooden arms have – which is very little. Wide yet still finite, the deck faces off with you in the fierce, piercing rain. Where to escape to, it asks, as violent waves rock below.

Left knee bleeding and a section of your nightgown ripped, you sprint towards the bow. And from the south, a savage, ravening storm follows. Dark clouds pile over. Icy blue lunges. Maybe it would not be so bad to fall off the edge. Is that what all those ceaseless dreams of drowning meant — you have to drown to finally be at peace?

An ethery scent explodes in the rain. The marriage of the sounds of breaking glass and petrified screaming kisses in the gusty air. In the blimp of chaos, both of you hit the floor, right next to where fire from a broken lantern starts to eat up the wood.

“No … No, please,” you cry. “Please no!”

By his hateful hands, you are turned on your side. Before you can make eye contact, he punches you across the face with an intensity reserved for crewmen in brawls. The wind howls mournfully in your ringing ears. Blood pops out of your mouth in tiny lightning bolts.

As ringing and blustery winds ebb in sound, you catch the last of your husband’s words, “...I know what is best for you.”

“Scold or hit me! I cannot go back to sleep! Please!”

He grabs your head in a vitriol grip. Acid burns pierce where his fingers dig in. Husband/Captain lifts you by his hold on your head, like a lion might do with a cub by the scruff of its neck. Eyes stomp shut in fear. You fear the intensity of his face will overwhelm and drown you.

“Help me! Someone! Please, help me!”

“Now hush, love.”

“SOMEONE! ANYBODY PLEASE –!”

“Here’s your gown.” Then, he slams your body on the ground. Your head cracks with the fragility of an egg. Molten dreams with rainbowing incandescence slip out from the lightning-shaped fractures, spilling all over deck.

The moon is full tonight.

You feel in your bones that you have not seen a full moon in a very long time. Despite it being a monthly occurrence, storm clouds shield it away; even when unveiled, the nude moon is caught waning or waxing. This phase of the lunar sun kisses uncloudy skies with a powerful completeness. How you missed it with a whirlpool fervor. You feel so at peace.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Hanging on a vertex, it hums with the sprinkling song of moondust and moonlight. With that melody, it shaves the weight of weakness that has shackled you. Avoirdupois lightens; the full moon brightens.

I have not seen a full moon this serene since I was a little boy/girl, you remember that much. It is such a wondrous sight that you do not notice the water rising up by your ankles.

No – not water, bedsheets. Bedsheets that snake serpentine like individual rivers connecting together. With a fluidity unique to water, white linen slithers across the curve of your calf and climbs up in gusts of silk to the tendons in your hamstrings. Moisture still clings to you; dry sheets juxtaposingly soaking you.

I am going to drown again. You frown delicately at the sentiment. Yet, despite the acknowledgement that watery suffocation is going to repeat itself, you think this time it will be a metamorphosis. Something different from previous dreams.

You only think this because moondust and moonlight hug your slowly submerging body and tell it to you. Reassures you of it, to wade off fear of drowning.

Sheets climb up to your sternum. With rocking motions, they purl and lick at your shoulders. Ribbons weaving in and out of each other, pulsing up in gigantic breaths to climb upon you. Cloth falls over your mouth and silences you. Tendrils of linen rush into your nostrils. You keep your breath for as long as you can. As the bedsheets engulf you, you keep your eyes trained upon the full moon.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Complete. I want to be complete again.

Once fully submerged, you open your eyes. There is a tentacle in front of your face.

There is a tentacle in front of your face. It lies on its side. Facing you like how two lovers might turn to pillow-talk at one another. About as thick as an elephant leg, it stretches fully across the deck, dipping down into unseen depths over each side of the ship.

Suckers squirm like a breathing wall before you. Voluminous in numbers. Almost replicating plasma barnacles of the underside of aquatic vessels. Individual suckers purl and roll with fake breaths. Fluctuating up and down in uneven patterns, unorganized hive mind motions. Most of them were a vibrant lavender yet – like moles on a wrinkled face – cheetah spots of violet-whitish squirms in slower beats. Moving like bubbling lava, lavender stirs and beckons.

You cannot resist. Pushing your hand upon the breathing wall, you breathe in the scent of salt.

There is an ocean beneath the surface. Blood and plasma swims warmly underneath the skin. Despite the cold and salty water that falls like tears over shells of suckers, there is a warmth. An alive warmth.

It cannot wrap itself around you; this particular tentacle is wrapped from one edge of the boat to the other like a behemoth bow strangling a Christmas present. However, touch is reciprocated in other methods. Like an expanding stomach, lavender pushes into your starfish spread out fingers. Suckers harmonize in a circle around the area where you put pressure.

Hypnotic, eldritch beauty finds primitive comfort in you. Even though the side of your head is still sticky with clotting blood, you think you feel comfort too. It is only ripped from you when a crewman shouts, “God, help us all! A Kraken! By God, a Kraken!”

Beyond the goliath, shielding tentacle, the ship and its crew are in discord. And once it reaches your ears, awareness of it crawls into all your other senses. Drawing away from the tentacle, you realize while standing up that the scent of ether in your nose is overwhelming. Half of the deck is engulfed in flames. Warmth from fire blankets you in heavy sheets. And –

“Someone! Anybody please –!!” And men are being dragged off the boat and killed by twisting, gnashing tentacles.

The boat tilts. Stumbling feet are magnetized backwards; you trip over the tentacle you were just touching. A shriek that pains the wound on the side of your head erupts from you as you are rolled across the deck like a dice across a game-board.

Your tentacle (the one you caressed) does not reach to steady or save you. Instead, it squeezes tentatively on the vessel ensnared in its grip. Splintering wood spreads up like a field of pointy grass. Then, after a moment, it slithers back into the ocean just as your spine hits the railing of the tilting ship.

Over your shoulder, you see a raging sea. Waves curve into each other, resounding claps of exploding water striking your ears. Above, bullets of water clip fast upon the awaiting ocean. That familiar saltine noose reemerges around your neck, as your feet lift with gravity. Everything happens in a millisecond and in an eternity, dream-esque.

Your knees hit the deck when a hand pushes you away from the edge. You suck in deep breaths in a panic, prematurely housing oxygen away before you were doomed to fall in. But you had not fallen in … because … because there was a hand. Sprawled on the wet and burning deck, both elbows down on the ground, you turn over your shoulder one final time.

His hair is the color of the sea. You never expected to see hair a different shade than black, brown, or blonde, perhaps a rare red, but his is breathtakingly blue. Coping, your mind fixates on it because you cannot comprehend the three-points of fins growing where his ears should be. There must be a mystified expression on your face regardless. The man smiles at you with covetous patience.

“Hello, (Name). I wanted to be first to say on behalf of us, we are terribly sorry for our delay.”

Delay? “I don’t understand.”

“Do not stress. A great deal will soon resolve itself. Are you hungry? Can I do anything for you?”

Kindness is far more alien to you than the sight of piscine traits that your mouth falls open in a tiny circle. Words fail to form. Just as your bottom lip starts to quiver, the man amends, “Is there perhaps something you don’t want me to do?”

Meekly: “Do – Don’t go.” Apologetically (and quickly too): “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Desperately, you wish you had something to hide in but all that you wear is a slim cotton gown. It is innate to leech onto goodwill after such a drought of it. An amused warmth settles of his features, then it softly falls into a deep sadness. Once more, you fumble for words, upset that you have upset him … “I’m sorry – I –!”

A loud noise breaks the moment. There is a pyramid of hundred or so noises caterwauling in this storm, mixing together like how a tornado tears up earth and neighborhoods to mix a smoothie of different items. Something salient breaks through all that cacophony – Husband/Captain shouting, “Give that back, you beast!” And then three consecutive popping sounds as he fires his gun.

You watch the figure of your husband, his spine facing you, wrestle with a tentacle. Like an obsidian tongue, the tentacle emerges from the door to the captain’s cabin and sways back and forth, trying to tug something from your husband. It is a tug-of-war with a predictable winner.

Strength evolves into desperation. A shout undulates into the rainstorm as Husband/Captain is thrown up. His body somersaults in the air. The tongue churns back into the mouth of your bedroom like a retreating snake. Clutched in a protective grip is the blue chest. Defeated, Husband/Captain pushes himself up on his elbows, nose broken.

Through sheets of rain, you two make eye contact for the first time in ninety-two days.

People say he is the fairest of them all. Women and men in the town swoon over him. And with a husband/wife to match, those jealous men and women think when their eyes land upon your awe-striking beauty. Yet, when you look upon him now, all you see is a hideous man. Like a swan (yourself) marrying a condor (him) – he is ugly beyond putridness.

His bloody mouth moves. His shaking hand moves. You do not move.

You cannot tell if the next sound you hear is the ring of a gunshot or the bang of a lightning bolt.

It is like when I bite into the codfish, you think deliriously, watching red soak your nightgown. Hah. What a strange color. You think the man with the blue hair is trying to get your attention but the crimson color has you in a trance. Like mold, it grows slowly on the wrinkled creases of your nightgown, a little bit below your ribcage. So much – so much red.

Yellow interrupts your mesmerization. Cheeks squished together, you look into a black pupil ringed by a honey wedding band then backdropped by a white planet. The triptych of color has you equally magnetized as the man takes his dominant hand and settles it under your rib.

“Breathe in.”

You do obediently.

“Breathe out.”

Once more, you follow instructions. With your exhale, the wound in your abdomen closes up like a sleepy eye. He cards his non-dominant hand through your hair with excellent care. “There, there, are you feeling better?” When you nod, he whispers lovingly, “I’m so glad to hear that, my dearest.”

He smiles and reveals a collection of cutting instrumental teeth, shark teeth.

The man looks like he is about to inquire more yet a voice interrupts in a lazy drawl, “Caaan I kill him now?”

You turn to see your husband covered in red, down to a level where it almost looks like a second skin or a set of clothes upon him. His body is bent over the railing and a man with almost identical features holds him by the top of his torso, a piscine hand tight around his throat. “Kinda gettin’ of tired of his squirmin’ – he’s all sticky.”

Jade knows that is not a truthful admission. Floyd likes when they squirm. Jade wants that vile man dead too with as much intensity as his brother does but – “Come now, we are not barbarians. We have rules for our way of life.”

“Don’t care. He made Sealy cry. I’mma tear off his penis.”

“Please, refrain from such violence for a moment longer. Sir – well, that is too polite for you. Hm, Captain. Captain, we have customs where we challenge the owner of a particular vessel to a certain game. Will you play along?” The only response is an opaque red-white trail of slime dropping from his trembling lips. “Good. I will say the first two lines of a poem. You must complete them.

“Floyd, if you would, please.” The squeezing hand releases and your husband gasps for breath as if he has just escaped drowning on dry land. Shadow and light from the flickering flames shudder across his choking lips. “O my Luve’s like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June.”

“Get off my fucking boat!”

“Hm, another verse then. As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I.”

“I’ll roast you alive, you overgrown fish! (Name), get away –”At the mere utterance of your name, the man returns to strangling your husband with an explosive vitriol that it almost seems his gold and olive-brown eyes will bulge from his face in anger.

“Shut the fuck up.” He seethes with rage.

The other man responds to your husband. “Sorry but the responding lines are: And I will luve thee still, my Dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry. Go ahead, Floyd.”

Red. So much red. It sprays out when Floyd rips off the skin enveloping around your husband’s throat. Glittering seafoam rivulets that arch beautifully. Leaping and pirouetting through the air. Thicker rivers start to follow after the initial misting, jetting shower. Some of the spume lands upon your temple. Already sticky with salt and blood, you do not flinch at the sensation.

Then, the man, the man named Floyd, falls spine first into the thrashing sea, taking your husband with him. It takes a few moments before you realize the other man is gone too.

You are not sure how long you stay sitting on the deck, letting rain drench you. It could be three or thirteen minutes of absent minded staring at the skies. Cords of white lightning are thrown across the canvas like spools of yarn, wavy and disorganized. Water pelts your face angrily; the weight of it hurts. Below you, the watery depths wail with ghastly noises.

The noise does not lessen or quiet to announce his presence. He simply emerges. One tentacle pushing up from the railing is followed by a hand which is followed by another hand. Then, hovering about three feet in the air above you, the Kraken analyzes you.

Wind picks up, howling. If you were standing, it would be a very real threat to push you off the ship. Tangible winds pick up tendrils of your soaked hair and cheerfully play with, whipping it back and forth in painful, fast-paced oscillation. Entranced, you watch the Kraken’s very dry hair flow in the air with gentle grace.

“Hello.”

You almost faint. His voice is each raindrop, sleeping in each ebon cloud, racing through each electrical bolt that shatters in loud cracks. Blue eyes with a horizontal, pill-shaped pupil squint in worry at the shiver you give at his voice.

“Are you cold, angelfish? Ah, here,” only two behemoth tentacles have to umbrella over your form to completely stop the downpour. You lose sight of the man due to the massive, lilac parasol of muscle that covers you. He enters your sight again when his upper body slithers forward under his tentacles. “Is this better?”

He is so inhumanly gorgeous that he leaves you spellbound. Around you, his numerous tentacles wrap across the deck and into holes he has made into the ship’s helm like hungry snakes in a garden of mice. Prism-like, Stygian black glitters with each rain freckle that races down the arches of muscular tissue. Light shimmers evangelical on each part anatomical droplet.

Yet, his real eldritch splendor is in his human-mimcing top half which leans towards you amorously.

Silver hair, like the color palette of a full moon has dropped into it, sweeps across his face gracefully. The skin of his neck and collarbone pulse with each measured breath. A blue much mellower than the typical rough ocean hue shines in his eyes. His lips move and your eyes dilate just a smidgen.

He whispers to you in your little pocket universe. It feels you two are floating on a planet designed only for the two of you, heave ho-ing back and forth on waves made of stardust. He speaks so softly.

“I’m,” his voice breaks slightly like a chipped mug, “I’m terribly sorry for being so delayed. We tore down countless ships before we arrived upon this one … That is no excuse though. I should’ve been stronger and taken all of them down in a week.”

You do not really get what he is talking about but you still ask, “How many did you take down?”

“A hundred and thirty seven. Each one just another bleak joke. My angelfish, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite a number.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose. We would have done a thousand more. Floyd, Jade, and I –”

“Who’s Jade?” Then, as an afterthought. “Can I please know your name as well?”

He blinks at you in confusion. After a heavy, contemplating moment, he states resolutely, “Let’s get you out of this wrong skin and into something proper.”

“Proper?” You blink in replicating confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Hush now, hush love,” Azul says, more tender than – than someone that has drowned in Memory Sea, never to be remembered again. Honestly, you do not recall there being any reasons for apologizing.

The parasol of tentacles peels apart and, hand in hand, Azul guides you towards the railing. You take care not to slip.

“Here’s ya gown.” The man who had ripped out your husband’s throat – you do know his name is Floyd – holds something out to you, leaning over the railing.

What he holds in his hand is unlike soft cotton. It is wetly sleek, patterned with black and white which diffuse into each other with freckling gray. There are no straps for your arms to slip and where the train of a dress should end is hind flippers. A dog-esque face with long whiskers stares at you with hollow eyes, awaiting for you to slip it on. It is a seal pelt.

Boldly, you look into his eyes. Gold and olive-brown, warm eyes. They are so earnest that you have no inclination not to believe him. That is your possession in his webbed hands, and he is returning it to you.

In the span of three months and one day, you have had seventy-three dreams where you drown in them. In the span of three months and two days, you rejoin the ocean where you were always supposed to be, sunrise and clear skies on your tail.

#twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #if you notice the obvious azul favoritism hush i miss writing for him in 2022

256 notes · View notes