#even for other stuff. I want to make art of dune

[floweroflaurelin]

have you seen Minecraft sos?? Pixlriffs made a new vigil!

YES! Im catching up on it and I love everything about the new series 😆

Believe me I’ve been meaning to make art of the lore shenanigans on there hehehe—unfortunately I am genuinely very very sick right now and haven’t been able to paint anything all this month (got covid again on top of other issues) (that immuno can compromised)

But hopefully soon!! I can’t believe I haven’t painted the tool graves yet, or Jimmy going at it in Pix’s hole… I mean. Um,

[emptyjunior]

It looks like with the movies taking off, everyone is on the Dune train now!! Which is very exciting, I’m glad a bunch of new people are discovering this media and reading the books, but can I recommend you the David Lynch, Dune (1984) movie.

First of all, if you are invested in the lore of the books and the deeper messaging of the story, you’re going to need to turn that part of your brain Off. If you love kick ass shit and are willing to be slightly tipsy while you watch and have a great goddamn afternoon, this is the flick for you.

Now first fun fact I’m going to share with you. David Lynch (twin peaks, eraserhead director, celebrated surrealist) turned down the opportunity to direct Return of the Jedi for this film. A film that was devastatingly slow to make, changed hands multiple times, had a pricy VFX budget of $40 million and then made barely $31 million, David Lynch turned down Star Wars to work on it. And he did this when he had never read the novel, and did not even like or engage with sci fi media. THAT’S how you know we’re really in for something.

Now this film has some big names in it! We’ve got a young Kyle MacLachlan who is rocking some Devastating outfits:

We’ve got Sir Patrick Stewert as our Gurney and Sting, lead singer of the police, playing the 15 year old Feyd Rautha! If you wanted to see a grown man, sprayed orange, basically naked playing a free wheeling maniac you are in for a treat! And another fun fact, David Lynch also did not know who these actors were, he made a mistake and thought Patrick Stewert was someone else and when Sting said he was in the police he assumed he was in an organization of lawmen.

Now these characters are familiar to you, but let me get into the unfamiliar. Lynch made some directorial executive decisions throughout this film, for I suppose the ease of the viewer? I mean an adaptation is supposed to adapt so he went let me change some stuff up👏👏👏.

Those who paid attention to Jessica’s backstory may know about the Weirding Way. This is a martial arts style created by the Bene Gesserit, and practiced by Paul. It is more than just a fighting style but also an important philosophical concept, like Aikido or how Kung Fu has foundations in Buddhism.

You may also be familiar with the quote “My name is a killing word.” This inner monologue of Paul’s refers to how his title Muad’dub will be used to spur a holy war. A simple name is what people will die and bleed for, it will be what they scream as they cut down enemies.

Dark! Intense! That’s Dune, anyways in the novel it’s easy to take your time exploring these concepts. Introducing the audience to the religious ramifications of a simple name and fighting practice and how these things can have rippling repercussions upon a society like the Freman.

Now David Lynch didn’t have time for that! He had the belief (that may be right🤷‍♂️!) That watching a bunch of people kick each other on top of a sand dune would be Lame😭😭

So he made the choice for his film that “My name is a killing word” was to be taken Absolutely Literally and invented a device where if the freman said the name Muad-dib, shit would explode.

If they said Paul’s name, they could Explode Stuff. Let it sink in how rad that is. Hell yeah man, hell yeah. Imagine me interpreting religious text that way, imagine if I made a bible movie and the moral I took from a parable is that when Jesus asked for food and everyone donated fish, I concluded that Jesus was a mutant who had fish powers and could immediately conjure fish with magic and gave him fish death rays that shot out of his hands.

So that’s what you can expect from this interpretation, the weirding way now means everyone has Lasers its rad as hell.

Some other incredible choices made! This is a spoiler, but in the novels and the new films you can see the Freman collecting every scrap of water they can. Dr Liet-Kynes, the planetologist, reveals to us it’s because they have a long, multiple generation spanding plan to fix the planet. By introducing this water back they hope to reset the ecosystem over centuries of work. The reason they have been unable to do this is because a green planet would obviously not have worms and sand who produce spice, the most coveted drug in the empire, so imperial and harkonnen forces have been stopping this from ever happening. They want to be free from oppression so that they can start to work on slowly fixing their world, a project that plays out in Paul’s adult life and has its own dramas and complexities.

In Dune 1984??? The moment, the Moment Paul lays out his cousin and throws the final punch, it begins to rain in Arrakis. As if they were all under a magical curse and were just waiting for a teenager to come fight another teenager and then the water will come back. It’s so good, it’s so funny.

Also Pugs! House Atreides official Pugs! Paul has pugs in his lap!!

This is honestly an adaptation choice that I really really like! Paul is the result of centuries of selective breeding, this practice is an artform to the Bene Gesserit and a skill that they monitor closely. It produces bizarre and sometimes terrifying results and is the reason for Paul’s existence.

I think having an animal that was also created through selective breeding, was engineered from a wolf into an animal that can hardly breathe is an incredible metaphor! A smart and identifiable symbol for the audience, I think it’s a slam dunk and the new movies should have done it to.

Anyways can not recommend this film enough.

-The body suits the bad guys wear are made out of real body bags, that actually had been used.

-David Lynch to this day hates it.

-The original cut was four hours.

-The cast and crew were sick the Entire shoot with something they called Montezuma's Revenge, which was probably just food poisoning, side effects from the constant smog because they shot the whole thing on backup generators, illness from the cockroach infestation and terrible morale.

-Frank Herbert saw it multiple times and said he absolutely loved it.

-When they ride the worms, sick rock jams play.

If you love electric guitar, lasers, worms and will forgive me for not including all the trigger warnings cause Yes this film will gross you out, then go watch this movie.

[exiledelle]

so ever since i saw undertale yellows merciless route, ive been having a thought about it:

which is also helped by me having had a big interest in undertale aus back in the day dfhjkg

UNDERTALE YELLOW MERCILESS SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

what would happen afterward in that timeline? what happens to the underground after asgore is killed, and theyre shot back to square one?

what would happen if frisk still fell down in that timeline?

so if youll excuse my still-practicing pixel art (i did end up grabbing the hat and pistol off a clover spritesheet on spriters resource though, and the pose and poncho were built off a couple kris sprites), a small sprite edit, and a maybe-meh teen clover design:

for right now im calling this Vengeance AU for a lack of a better name that wouldnt just be [blank]tale or under[blank], with or without a "yellow" attached

also i made clover a teen just to set this version of them apart, plus a blue, starry poncho instead of their usual bandana, and spurs on their boots

(IF ANYONE PICKS THIS AU UP FOR ANTHING, CLOVER AND FRISK (and chara, if included) USE THEY/THEM PRONOUNS!!)

an au where after the events of yellows merciless run, frisk still falls down mt ebott, whether because of clover, or their own reason,

but clover, who once made the climb themself to get vengeance for the other 5 fallen humans, isnt about to let yet another go missing under their watch, and decides to chase after them, and bring them back home. by force, if necessary.

so it ends up with frisks journey through the underground being constantly chased by clover. and while clover doesnt want to intentionally hurt frisk, since their motivation is the "protection" of humankind, it would still no doubt be terrifying for frisk, and clover WILL hurt the monsters.

ruins end up being mostly the same, minus clovers pursuit. toriel, still locked in the ruins, probably wouldnt have heard about asgores death, and would only realize upon seeing clover, grown up, covered in dust, and detached from the world around them.

outside though, things would take a much more bleak turn.

the royal guard is more present after a surge of recruitment, monsters have mostly accepted that theyre stuck down there for eternity, some making the most of it and trying to live happily, others not so much. and when it comes to humans, monsterkind is just a little more on-edge.

papyrus also ends up being recruited, however hes only a lookout/watchman, and not a fully-fledged guardsman, due to undynes biases. she WOULD have preferred he wasnt hired at all, but the guard was desperate, and didnt have many other volunteers

also due to hotlands evacuation at the time, martlets final stand is mostly forgotten, only seen as a rumor with little ground. the only thing people know of is that there was a strange withered flower on the roof of the apartments, but no one thinks anything of it. there is, however, still a lingering resentment in the air around it that makes monsters uneasy, but also weirdly enough, like theres someone watching over all of them

other than that, im not too sure where this au would go, how frisk would end up dealing with clover by the end, or even if frisk would end up in places like the dunes or steamworks, or if theyd stick to roughly the same areas.

i mostly just thought itd be interesting to start to imagine how different things would be, and considering clovers personality and motivations in merciless, i thought itd be interesting if they became an antagonist, following frisk down to drag them back

i might think more on this and add stuff onto it in the future, but for right now this is all there is, but people are free to build on it in their own ways, if they like!! (and/or send an ask and i can TRY to think of an answer, but knowing myself i cant promise anything)

[triplesilverstar]

Retrospective, A Of Bullets, Bandits, Ghosts and Typhoons blurb

Rating: PG

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Physical description, mentions of pain, Vash POV, Boner

Word count: 981

A/N: So a while back I had some art of what I picture when I think of Snipes commissioned. So I didn’t want to just share the art (even though it is amazing!) so I figured why not write a little blurb from Vash’s POV about it? So here it is. As well under the banner is both the art that was done by the lovely and amazing Creamson and the blurb. Please check her out here!

As well, do not reupload/repost her art anywhere as I was also on the fence about sharing this commission because of art theft. Please, seriously, do not steal her artwork.

Vash had to admit as the sun rose you were far more than he had ever expected to meet in his long life. On the surface you looked like so many he had met before, just another bounty hunter. 

Yet.

You were far from that. 

He’d noticed it the first time in the diner at Jeneora rock. That felt like ages ago now,  when he spied you at the bar eating your meal. Your dust stained coat that at first he had thought was just tan. Now he knew better, the dark fabric was simply easily stained allowing you to blend in more with your surroundings when you were traveling. The inside lining was bright by comparison and housed far more pockets than the thin material should have allowed. 

Vash had also learned it was far heavier than it looked, and had seen it hold up to the largest of small arms fire. Just bruises left in your supple skin that were usually gone the next day. Something else that had surprised him more than once, something that had brought him closer. 

Watching you on the other side of the camp as you rose giving your shoulders a shake and tilting your head to the side until he heard a pop that made him flinch as you sighed in relief. Doing his best to not let the sliver of skin revealed by the rising of your form fitting shirt get the best of him as his pants felt tighter than they should have. Your pants were slung just low enough that with your shirt it gave the appearance of you having hip windows. 

Turning away to gulp as Vash rolled his blanket up to stuff back into his bag, hoping the thoughts of some old ladies from the last town would help get his little problem to fade. 

If it had just been your appearance he might not have found you as intriguing. Your well worn cargo pants that were the shades of sand and brown boots certainly didn’t leave anything about your lower half to the imagination. Your backside was a nice view on days when the two of you were traveling through the dunes. 

Giving his head a shake as those thoughts were not helping his little problem. 

What had truly drawn Vash in had been your eyes, not the color, not the shape. The sorrow and pain hidden in their depths, your eyes reminded him of his own. A fake smile plastered to fool others when you choose to interact with people, but unlike him you were content to let your look of bland disinterest rule your visage. 

It had been enough to make him interested in you past that first meeting, and your attempts to catch him afterward. Well and the fact you held true to your word about giving him time and space. He wasn’t used to humans always keeping their word, not that he could ever hold it against them. 

A grunt pulling him back to the present as you pulled your jacket on and slipped your gloves back on your hands before running one through your short locks. Had watched you once take the knife you kept in your boot to hack chunks of it off your head, stating it was getting too long to manage in the desert. You were like that so often, function over form. 

You ignored convention. Snorting as he remembered when you made a proposal to an unknown cook because it was the best tasting food you claimed you had. Sure it had been him, but it was a rather unconventional proposal he had been happy to turn down. Certain that back then you would have turned him in for his bounty if he had walked out of that kitchen. 

And yet. 

Part of him wanted to be wrong. 

So he had taken risks and gotten to know you better in strange and yet unconventional ways. Then when he got caught while trying to lay low by those bandits that doubled as kidnappers he thought it would be the end of him. Instead you appeared, so when that ramshackled place fell apart he couldn’t leave you. Something more pushed him to reach down and grab you, the surprise on your face had been clear. 

From there it had been a wild ride of learning more about you as the two of you traveled together. You didn’t like flashy things, and you weren’t a fan of loud spaces most of the time. You were used to being on your own but you had zero sense of direction, another thing that didn’t add up for him. 

Yet with all of your adventures, he kept coming back to the same thing. You had dark secrets locked up tight inside of you, and you sought some kind of redemption. Just like him. 

“Vash!” His head snapping towards the sound of your voice, standing there with your bag on and your rifle in hand, a look of concern on your face. “Sheesh, you ready to leave or what? I’ve been calling your name for a few minutes now.” You move closer, eyes narrowed before your hand is shooting out to press your fingers against his forehead. “You look a little flushed, are you feeling ok?” 

“I’m fine, Snipes. Really. Just lost in thought.” Sending you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and he knows you don’t buy his mask but neither of you questions the other. 

“Well let's get going then, cus I wanna sleep in a real bed tonight.” Nodding Vash hoists his bag from the sand, both of you heading off across the planet towards the next town. Maybe one of these days he’ll get around to telling you how much you mean to him, knowing if he said something now you’d think he’d have some kind of fever or something. 

Back to the series

And now the Art!

Cream, if you're reading this I will say it again. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!!! THANK YOU!!!

[praeteritus-memories]

ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜɴ

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ(ꜱ) ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ?

Some of them it's hard to really pinpoint an exact reason why I pick up some muses, mainly I just get an itch to write a specific archetype or character, but usually it's because something about that character resonated with me! An example being that I really relate to Noriaki Kakyoin or with Alastor/Alucard, I just really wanted to write a sort of villain or character with some fucked up morals. It's fun and it challenges my writing a lot! I guess mainly, I like characters I feel I understand well or characters that push me out of my comfort zone.

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ?

Anything to do with SA, it's an absolute NO from me but I would think that's obvious that writing SA is kinda gross for roleplay? There's other stuff too, I really don't like ABO AU's, I just think the whole "alpha" and "beta" thing is just really weird and not my thing. Finally is just weird fetished, man. I'm not gonna RP a character getting blown up like a balloon or anything like that, no offence but it makes me EXTREMELY uncomfortable.

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ?

I love writing angst, romance, fluff, slice of life or even action!!! Those are all really fun genres to RP for me, especially angst because I'm a sadistic son of a bitch, so I get super hyped to RP messing with my muses!

ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ?

I'm usually inspired by music or fan art. Sometimes it's just me making a general observation and running with it or basing a headcanon off of life experiences!

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ?

Music, absolutely. When I'm having trouble writing a muse, I listen to a song from a private muse playlist I made on Spotify that I associate with that muse and it REALLY helps me get more into character.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇꜱ ᴏʀ ᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ?

Heavily depends on the RP! If it's a plotted RP, I do plan my replies for the most part but if it's one where I don't 100% know where it's going, I just wing it and hope for the best lol

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ?

YYEEESSSSS

ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ/ɴᴀᴍᴇ?

Lu!

ᴀɢᴇ?

26

ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ?

November 17th

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ(ꜱ)?

Black, purple and pink!

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ(ꜱ)?

UGH THAT'S HARD. In Iolite by GHOST-P Ft Prinz, World Behind my wall by Tokio Hotel, Beautiful Times by Owl City, Patches by CircusP Ft KAITO and DEX and The Prayer Song For Rain by HitoshizukuPxYama Ft Rin/Len Kagamine

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

Dune 2. I got roped into seeing it and I didn't see the first one. It's good, I mean the costuming and design is incredible, but eehhhh I'm not a huge sci-fi person. I do like the anti-chosen one message though!

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

The Tudors, I'm almost done with season one!!!

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ?

Rabbit Hole by Deco*27 Ft Miku Hatsune

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ?

That's so hard when I'm honestly such a foodie lol It's a solid tie between papusas and alfredo pasta, gosh they're so damn good!

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ?

Fall! I love weather that's nice, cold and breezey so I can take walks and open windows!

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ?

Absolutely! @solartomes and @solacanis are some of my best friends on this site! I adore the both of them with my whole heart and they've been there for me through some pretty rough times in my life. My other best friends don't RP on Tumblr anymore, but we've all been one big group that I love to death!

Tagged by: @origami-assassin , another friend!!!! Tagging: @sncwlight , @featherchan , @waywardsculs , @hcttrick , @sacredpit , @swordsxandxsakuras and @gctchell !

[miloscat]

[Review] Avatar The Last Airbender: Bobble Battles (PC)

A budget licensed RTS, it's about what you'd expect.

Frima Studio is a successful French Canadian developer: over the years they've done lots of casual, Flash, and mobile games, as well as some console stuff. I just found out they're working on a Risk of Rain spinoff currently. But one of their first jobs was making a tie-in Avatar strategy game in 2007, and they did it competently enough.

Based on Books 1 and 2 of the show, Bobble Battles takes its name from the "bobblehead" art style, better known as chibi or super deformed, which was employed in a few other spinoff projects like animated shorts, comics, and video games. It's an appealing look and helps a bit with readability of the characters when you're zoomed out (although character design could have differentiated common unit types a lot more), but you can't appreciate the look too well unless you're zoomed in, in which case the game is much less playable.

As a real-time strategy game in the vein of your Warcrafts and Dune 2s, it's been simplified and streamlined to the nth degree. There's only one resource, no upgrading, a handful of unit types that act identically between factions, and a basic control scheme. The limited nature of the controls hurt it as moving between the arrow keys to shift your view and the numbers for control groups is uncomfortable. Those are pretty much your only functions by the way; there's no attack-move or other specialised move commands, although hero units do have more flashy attacks.

I'm no RTS die-hard but even having played a bit of Starcraft and Age of Empires back in the day I couldn't help but find Bobble Battles wanting in gameplay. There's no rally points, few hotkeys, and just getting your units to do anything is a hassle. Selecting control groups instantly shifts the camera over to them, there's always a pause before they execute your commands, and they need to be heavily micromanaged to attack targets. Pathfinding in narrow spaces can be atrocious, with your guys often milling around or getting stuck on walls when you're on a city-based level. On the whole there's a lot of pain points in the micro scale, and little need for macromanagement at all. I understand the desire to create a game in this genre for younger audiences, but it's not just dumbed down, it feels shonky and shallow.

The game is structured in three campaigns. The first two more or less cover the heroes' journey through the first two seasons of the show, while the third has you playing as the Fire Nation trying to stop them. After completing these you unlock the Timeline mode, which rearranges the scenarios into chronological order... this seems superfluous. The missions do try to have some variety between small-scale hero exploration and production maps and to give you different kinds of objectives. They do a decent job at this, although the scope never gets very big. The most that will ever be demanded of you is juggling three control groups to defend three settlements that are pretty close together, but again this is baby's first RTS so I don't knock it for lacking difficulty.

As an Avatar game, it's kind of cool seeing events from the show reinterpreted into a new genre. You rarely had squads of people running around battling in the series, so there's some novelty to that. The characters having unique abilities is fun, and I got a kick out of seeing the designs of building and units between the nations. There's even one unique creature here, the goat-like mount that Water Tribe riders use. [EDIT: This beast does actually appear briefly in the North Pole episodes.] Only covering two-thirds of the show is a bit of a letdown, although to be fair it's an unavoidable consequence of the passage of time and when the game was commissioned. Can't argue with the immutable laws of time and space.

Bobble Battles is essentially fine. It works. There's even some creativity in how it's interpreting the source material and in the scenarios, but by attempting to simplify what is generally a complex genre, I think they went too far and actually hurt the playability. And that's before mentioning the dodgy behaviour of your units. It gets points for its uniqueness within the sphere of Avatar games, but it's hard to recommend except for completionists like me, and they would just play it anyway so it doesn't matter what I say about it!

[lsdunesarchive]

How (Don’t Call ‘Em a Supergroup) L.S. Dunes Saved Its Own Members’ Lives

Words by Cassie Whitt Photo by Mark Beemer November 4, 2022

For anti-supergroup L.S. Dunes, the magnetism of friendship and love of their craft made coming together a no-brainer, especially during a particularly turbulent moment for the industry and within their personal lives.

In this excerpt from a conversation with drummer Tucker Rule (Thursday) and vocalist Anthony Green (Circa Survive) we learn just how much swapping sound files during a global pandemic helped heal their hearts and minds.

The band's lineup is a scene dream, also comprised of guitarist Frank Iero (My Chemical Romance), guitarist Travis Stever (Coheed & Cambria) and bassist Tim Payne (Thursday), and while fans may be quick to brand them a supergroup, that's not the sentiment these members harbor. It isn't about assembling an all-star band as the scene equivalent of the Justice League superheroes and more about bonding with like-minded musicians and, more importantly, dear friends.

Being cutoff from our regular social circles and points of contact helped frame a new perspective for us all amid the pandemic, and losing out on this essential element of the human experience led Green in particular down dark paths. Prioritizing mental health, and with the support of his L.S. Dunes bandmates, he confronted these issues and is grateful to have bettered his relationships as a result.

Get your copy of L.S. Dunes' 'Past Lives' album (out Nov. 11) here and follow the band on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and Spotify.

They're not a supergroup, they're SUPER BUDS!

TUCKER RULE: All of us in our bands are the ones that are heads-down, want to write music and enjoy playing music. That's why we all have multiple bands.

When we get together, we joke about the "L.S." standing for "low stress" because we just want it to be fun. People love to throw around the term "supergroup," and we don't like that. We're a group of super buds, and this is just our circle of friendship. It's not like, "Oh, we've got to get the guy from Coheed and the guy from Circa and the guy from MCR..." These are my dudes and I know we get along musically.

Another thing with "supergroup" is that [people think], "Oh, they're just going do one show here and one show there." Why start a band if you're not going to go bring it out live? That's our goal — to play as much as we can. This is another full time job.

ANTHONY GREEN: I don't really get to have many friends that are outside of this business. It kind of sucks because you end up feeling kind of lonely when you're not working or when you're home.

Once we started connecting more, it was like, “Man, I'm talking to Tucker every other day.” I didn't realize how much I was lacking in my life. It's hard to even find two people that connect on a creative and personal way level so that they can make stuff, so when people have bands that are so good together, it's like, “These guys just bring out the best in each other!”

It’s hard to find people that creatively mesh well, and this is five people who fit together creatively just perfectly.

L.S. Dunes, "Permanent Rebellion" Music Video

It's not business, it's personal

AG: If at any moment Travis called us and was like, "Hey, I'm going through this and I need X, Y, and Z," that's the most important thing from the get-go. No matter what comes our way, we're able to deal with it because we're not looking at this like it's a business, we're looking at it like this big art project.

We all know from our other bands that when you have a business that's run cutthroat where it's about the bottom line or getting as many streams, or making as much money, it can become convoluted. Whereas, if you have a situation where everybody's just looking out for one another because of the fact that this is an emotionally driven band where we're processing a lot of really heavy shit together, you end up feeling so safe and secure and strong because you know that everybody has your back.

The most important thing is that everybody's mental health and personal relationships. Everybody's life is more important than just a song or a stream. That makes a project strong and fun... and no one's judging [personally or creatively].

Creativity is life-sustaining

TR: I would wake up or go to bed hoping somebody would write a riff so I could wake up in the morning and get to work on it [laughs]. And vice versa — I would write a drum beat and send it out and I'd be like, "Please, somebody work on this" and then I'd get something back. It [felt] like it was Christmas and it was during COVID, too, so there was very little to look forward to.

I think it saved all of our lives, to be honest with you.

It was a time where none of us knew what was going to happen with our industry. I know everybody had it rough and all industries suffered, but I can only speak for myself and the music industry was in shambles. We knew that it might not come back for a really long time and we had no idea how we were all going to make money. When you've done this for 20 years, you kind of get really good at it and not good at other things. For me, getting another job was not an option.

All of us are dads and at that time I had an infant. I was trying to figure out how to make money and was writing these songs with these dudes that I love, not thinking that we would make money from it.

So, why did it save our lives? It was like this was out of necessity to feel like we were a part of something, again.

L.S. Dunes, "2022" Music Video

Even so, life was still very challenging through all this

AG: We got laid off [amid the pandemic]. People were talking about when shows come back or when things reopened, but it was so scary [having the mindset of], "Okay, well let's save up until everything comes back," and then I was just like, "Hey, this is never going come back. It's never going to be like it was and we're going have to get used to playing through our computers." It was almost like a comforting thing for me to close the book on that chapter in my life.

I was so depressed. I had been going to AA and NA meetings where you make a pretty hardcore connection with other addicts and people who are struggling and that was gone. My therapist was not seeing people face to face. Yeah. [This band] was almost like an excuse to miss therapy a bunch.

I was also diagnosed as bipolar shortly after my my overdose. I was struggling with it, and I didn't want to admit that I was bipolar. I was really scared of even saying it. It's crazy to think about it now, but I just didn't want anybody to know. I wasn't medicating at all, and I was trying to figure out how to go through life without getting fucked up to deal with my problems, but also not doing any of the recommended things that you do to manage bipolar.

I was in this manic low, hallucinating, and this project coming to me at that moment... I hate saying this because your kids are the reason why you want to live... I thought my kids would be better off without me. I was convinced that I was just going to be a bad dad, and that I was going hurt them at some point.

That's what friends are for

If I didn't change my shit, I would've [wound up hurting them in some way], but the faith that Tucker, Tim, Frank and Travis had in me really did so much for my confidence and did so much for me in that moment and in those few months. It was like a fucking life preserver. I wasn't looking at my family, my life and my career as something worth fighting for. I was just so lost and there was so much joy anchored in the fact that I had this band that wanted to make songs with me, that believed in me, that wanted me to be in their group.

It really helped me see that my kids would be better if I got my shit together and went to therapy and figured out how to maintain. My family and my friendships would all be better—nobody'd be better off if I was dead.

When you don't see that yourself sometimes, it takes somebody else reminding you. And these guys did that and the songs did that. This band and these songs were like a little box of sanity. It became like a drug, almost. When I was feeling crazy, I would think about the fact that we had this thing that we were building and it would bring me back to earth every time.

Thanks to Tucker Rule and Anthony Green for the interview. Get your copy of 'Past Lives' album (out Nov. 11) here.

[burnwater13]

Concept Art by Christian Alzmann, The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 4, The Siege

Yes. He likes food. All sorts of food. Almost any kind of food. Some foods were better than others. A few were worse. These little sweet crunchy disks were pretty great and Grogu didn’t understand why the Mandalorian didn’t keep them in stock on the Razor Crest. They were perfect. 

They weren’t too big for him to hold in his hands like so many of the things that came out of a rations pack. They smelled like they had been freshly manufactured, however that worked. They were crisp. Flavorful. Packaged for convenience. He could take them with him wherever they went and no one would notice. They were perfect.

“I sure noticed that you ate too many of them.” 

Uff. Always with the wisecracks, this one, Grogu thought, hearing the Mandalorian’s comment.

Then Grogu laughed at himself. First he sounded like Master Yoda. Second, Din Djarin wasn’t always cracking wise and laughing and stuff like that. It was quite the exaggeration on Grogu’s part. The whole packaged treat fiasco as it was called onboard the Razor Crest was something that the bounty hunter wasn’t going to let him forget about any time soon. 

Grogu would have defended himself the first time Din Djarin had gotten upset about the incident if certain conditions hadn’t prevented him. First, his stomach wasn’t happy about losing contents that Grogu had really enjoyed consuming. Second, and importantly, Grogu absolutely, positively didn’t want to lose more of those sweet crisp things by opening his mouth to defend himself. That would totally undermine the purpose of making the comment. 

So what defense could he offer now that he was at no specific risk of losing anything like that? A full and complete one. A defense that would make sense to anyone with a Mandalorian guardian or who had even ended up doing loop-d-loops in a starship trying to evade TIE fighters. A defense that was the envy of every other person who had ever lost their cool or their lunch. 

But first, the setting and conditions that Grogu had been exposed to were important to know about and understand prior to him presenting his defense. First things first. 

His dad, Din Djarin had decided to come to Nevarro to get the Razor Crest repaired. Grogu would have balked at that if he’d been able to. After all, Peli Motto’s garage was on Tatooine and that was on the other side of the Outer Rim. Peli would have made sure that Grogu had all the food he wanted, lavished him with attention and let him play games with the pit droids. 

Instead they went to Nevarro, which smelled of sulfur dioxide and carbon dioxide from all the lava flows. Grogu didn’t like the smell of either of them. Sure, eggs could smell like that if they went bad. But even he didn’t eat eggs that went that bad. Who would. 

And then, to make matters worse, instead of being able to stay with his dad and supervise the repairs to the ship, Cara Dune and Greef Karga needed the Mandalorian’s help with a problem. Well, that was fine. Grogu liked to solved problems. He was pretty good at it all things considered. You couldn’t be on the run from Imps for the majority of your life and not learn a thing or two about solving problems. But no. That’s not what he had to do. Uff. 

Grogu was assigned to assess and evaluate the teaching abilities of the protocol droid that had been assigned to the brand new Greef Karga School for Aspiring Pirates and Smugglers. Okay. Okay. That wasn’t the school’s name. That’s just what Grogu called it in his notes. For some reason the protocol droid’s programming hadn’t been modified enough to teach the students something more useful that the common routes used by pirates and smugglers. The children had been attentive enough of course, so maybe they really enjoyed those lessons. But for Grogu they were history. He’d met plenty of smugglers in his time and he really didn’t think the galaxy needed more of them. 

As the droid instructor droned on Grogu had realized with a shock that his dad hadn’t left him any snacks or ration packs or food of any sort. That didn’t make any sense. Din Djarin always made sure that Grogu had all of his needs met before placing him in a new and unique situation with an attention to detail… Ha! Grogu couldn’t even finish spinning that tale it was so far off from the truth. Din Djarin hadn’t even thought Grogu would get hungry before he came back for him and that was situation normal. Just ask the Frog Lady and her family. Or Peli Motto, who they should have been visiting. 

So time passed as the protocol droid lived down to its programming and Grogu got hungrier and hungrier. As other students began to pull out their snacks and nutrient bars and ration packs, Grogu realized that his dad had let him down. No snacks in his coveralls. None in the desk. None with his name on them anywhere. Nope. Nothing but the continuous discussion of smuggling and smugglers. 

Which was the real problem. It was clear that some of the students had taken those lessons to heart and had smuggled things into the classroom you never would have found in the classrooms at the Jedi Temple. Not just the regular snacks, ration packs, and nutrient bars, but the special ones. The sweeties. The yummies. The shareable treats that were used the galaxy over to make friends and influence people. 

Grogu wanted to be influenced. He wanted to be a friend. He was in this galaxy. But the smuggler he had identified was not the sharing sort. That just couldn’t be ignored. Grogu was performing important fact finding and data collection. He needed to test and evaluate those sweets to see if they were typical of the genre or if they were somehow unique. It would indicate the skill of the smuggler and their length of their smuggling networks connections. 

Following the advice of his friend Ian, to always test then draw conclusions, Grogu determined that he needed to sample the sweets and use that as the primary indicator of their value and likely point of origin. When that was determined he could make a proper assessment of the impact such cargo would have on the overall economy of Nevarro and the amount of risk they would incur if additional supplies were laid in on a regular basis. 

With that as the backdrop of his actions it was pretty clear that Grogu’s defense was simply the altruistic demand that his Jedi training had placed on his small shoulders to ensure that the peace and wellbeing of a population could be maintained despite attacks implemented by an implacable and subtle Imperial Intelligence apparatus that wanted to crush descent in the Outer Rim. 

He just hoped that the Force was with him. 

“Buddy, you ate all the cookies and got sick. Plain and simple.  Next time, don’t just gobble them down like their dung worms.”

Grogu sighed. Din Djarin would never appreciate the subtle beauty of his truth, Force or no Force. Dank Farrik!

Photo from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 4, The Siege

[violetsquare111]

dangit i deleted my pinned by accident uhh i'm violet! (they/them) i reblog stuff on here sometimes and post things i make even more rarely. currently undertale yellow + rain world posting sorry the brainrot is severe you know how it is

my warning tags are formatted as "[thing] tw". i try to tag what i can but i will probably miss some things, so let me know if you want something tagged.

anyway thanks for checking out my blog! links and other stuff below

---

art tag

general post tag

transparent undertale yellow sprite gifs i've put together. if there's any animation (very preferably an overworld one) from the game that you want gif'd, shoot me an ask!

image credits: avatar by me, desktop theme made with sprites from undertale yellow (background is a compiled version of that one dunes room by me, flowey dance is from the UTY underevent 2022 teaser)

[brightestorangedawn]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* About Me ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Hi, I'm Beth! I'm in my 20s and I live in Australia (so imagine everything I say with an Australian accent). I'm incredibly, incredibly shy, so if we're mutuals chances are I do really want to talk to you, but I'll almost never make the first move.

I wouldn't say this is primarily a Star Wars blog but it does take up a big chunk of my attention on here ngl. I'm primarily interested in prequels stuff, and primarily in Anakin/Padmé, but I do also really love the OT too, although I don't really write about it.

Other stuff about me is I really love art (although making it is absolutely not my skillset), I love books (especially narrative non-fiction), and I really love to analyse and pick things apart (in a good way).

I'm not really into any other fandoms in the way I'm into Star Wars, but I am a very big NGE enjoyer (if you couldn't tell from the pfp), a big Dune enjoyer and honestly just a very big 80s sci-fi in general enjoyer.

I'm not sure what else to write here to make this interesting so I'll just tell you some random things about me like the fact that I'm scared of carpark elevators and I really love mustard and my favourite book in the whole world is The Shining and my favourite painting is Circe Invidiosa by John William Waterhouse.

I'll put my masterlist of fics below (and then watch as I forget to ever update them). I really like writing character study stuff, or about love and obsession, grief, loss, mourning, being doomed to the narrative, the burden of power - I don't tend to ever write very happy endings (sorry). 99.99% of the stuff I write is either about Anakin or directly from his perspective because he's my favourite and also the easiest for me to write <3

If you read my stuff on Ao3 a while ago and wondered where it went, well ... all I can say is that it's back.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Masterlist ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One-Shots

First Time/Last Time

Summary: Cool evening mist on the lake outside, fireplace warmth turning the sitting room golden.

Her veil on the floor, her dress on top of it.

'Do you trust me?' he asked.

'Of course.'

'Do you love me?' he asked.

'Even more so.'

---

The first time Anakin and Padmé sleep together, then the last time.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé

Rating: E

Tip of the Tongue

Summary: On Naboo, Padmé shares her favourite dessert with Anakin. Vader is haunted by the memory of it.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé and Vader/Padmé

Rating: T

(personally my favourite thing I've ever written heheh)

What's In a Name?

Summary: Anakin and Padmé try to decide on a name for their unborn child. However, they know that whatever they choose there is one name the baby can never have: Skywalker.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé

Rating: T

How Will I Let You Slip Through

-

Summary: "Don't grow up too fast, my son.” She murmured it into the gold of his hair.

But as much as she could want it, as much as she could will it, she still couldn’t stop him slipping through her fingers.

Four little interconnected stories about Skywalkers facing big moments of their lives over tea, caf, and (of course) blue milk.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé, Vader/Padmé , Luke & Owen, Anakin & Shmi

Rating: G

I Dug a Grave For You

Summary: I dug it with my own hands, no help from the Force at all. Nothing to make the task easier, nothing to make the task more bearable. Just the sound of the shovel cutting into the soft sand, moving it aside, throwing it over my shoulder. Over and over again, a rhythm, a song, a hymn, a dirge.

Pairing: Anakin & Obi-Wan

I wanted to feel every second of it, every moment of pain and discomfort. Some sort of penance for what I did to you. Some sort of way to say I’m sorry.

---

In the aftermath of the duel on Mustafar, Obi-Wan escapes to Tatooine to live a life full of shadows and grief.

Rating: T

Multi-Chapter Fics

Cestrum Nocturnum

Summary: Summer on Naboo, the Clone Wars have yet to begin, and Anakin is tasked with protecting Senator Amidala after an attempt is made on her life. It's too bad that every moment with her has him in agony, and every moment apart is even worse—especially after that night in the courtyard ...

Or: Anakin spends a torturous time on Naboo in the company of the person he loves because he doesn't know how to tell her his true feelings.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé

Rating: E

Chapters: 1/2

The Grove of Silver Leaves

Summary: In 1890, Anakin is an artist, apprenticed to the wealthy Sheev Palpatine. He meets Padmé at a party and she quickly becomes his muse. Of course, Anakin falls desperately in love with her—it’s just too bad she’s married to someone else.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé

Rating: E

Chapters: 1/?

A Changing Fate

Summary: During the Clone Wars, Padmé nearly dies, and in a moment of impulsivity, the secret of Anakin’s marriage gets revealed to the Jedi Council. Not a lot goes to plan for him after that.

Or: Anakin learns what is really important to him. It’s not always what he thought it would be.

Pairing: Anakin/Padmé

Rating: E

Chapters: 1/15

[stevensavage]

They Don’t Care, I Don’t Care

(This column is posted at www.StevenSavage.com, Steve's Tumblr, and Pillowfort.  Find out more at my newsletter, and all my social media at my linktr.ee)

The modern media sphere is a strange space. We’re overwhelmed with some great stuff on way-too-many streaming services. Potential hits like “Coyote Vs. ACME” are being killed by tax purposes. AI art controversies are everywhere, to the point where “bad AI” is an insult.” Some once-beloved figures are revealed on social media to be complete numpties (my new favorite insult). When you just want to watch something for fun, it all seems a bit weird.

What I find is that, more and more, I feel like I care less about media.

There’s so much B.S. that it feels like all media executives and no small amount of other people just don’t give a damn about making neat stuff. It’s tax writeoffs and script changes to extend a season and sudden cancellations and number tweaking. Look, I’m not going to act like a lot of media has been high art, but it feels like the amount of people in media who don’t care is high or has always been higher than we’d like.

Then it makes me hard to care either.

This feels weird. My fiancee recently watched Resident Alien which, though I didn’t get into, was a delightful mix of Northern Exposure and My Favorite Martian - if the Martian was really sort of a jerk. She also started Ripley, which has a compelling film-noir-meets-Bergman vibe that surprised and delighted me. This is just the last few weeks, there’s great things out there in the media.

But any of these wonders could vanish in a moment because of some bad executive decision. They could be archived because of obscure tax codes. Someone might get recast with an “edgy” actor who will then drown in scandal like everyone predicts. Without things on hard media, good things can disappear.

It’s just hard to care when so many people with power and money don’t, or even seem actively hostile to what they’re supposedly doing (Warner Brothers). Why care when they don’t and might destroy something to get a stock bump?

At the same time, I look at zines I read, obscure films and up-and-coming mad geniuses like Mike Cheslik. These are made by people who care and that leads me to care, because there is something about enjoying media that requires both parties to give a damn. I think one reason people will enjoy even sleazy exploitation flicks and bad b-movies is the people behind them cared in some relatable way.

Someone who wants to pay the bills and slam out a film with the proper percent of explosions and dinosaurs I can at least get, you know?

So here I am, surrounded by truly great things I take time for - Dune II, Delicious In Dungeon - but I wonder how many other people care less now, or who’s interests have changed. Reach out to me and let me know your experiences.

Steven Savage

www.StevenSavage.com

www.InformoTron.com

[scrumpledorph-writes]

Koben’s Final Battle (Putting Her Past To Rest)

I

Just past third sundown, doubt anyone else can see much of anything by now. Fully integrated night vision doesn’t make up for everything The Empire’s done to me, but at least I can put it to good use now. My armour won’t stick out so much against the sand either. No way the regular Troopers ever got something this advanced.

Glad Jaxon brought a more suitable troop transport – My speeder caps out at four seats, and Vranki insisted on coming along to “watch the fun”. At least she brought a blaster. ‘Stop it here Jaxon. We need to go the rest of the way on foot.’ Can see the top of his ship just over this dune, no way we can let him see our vehicle coming, that would completely give us away. His ship’s not too big, couldn’t possibly fit more than a squad of Troopers comfortably. Real step down from what he used to field, bet he never let it go.

Two out front, guess they’re the girls’ problem. ‘Vranki, are you sure about this part? We’re pretty far out of town; if I were stationed somewhere this remote I’d be highly suspicious of visitors.’ Blasters are up. I should keep a sight trained on them, just in case things go wrong.

‘You wouldn’t be happy to see a pair of beautiful, flirty women saunter over to spice up your long, boring night shift? I guess that’s why you were an elite – just relax and keep watching.’ She’s right, they’ve stowed their blasters. These girls are good: I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can already see the Troopers’ body language relaxing.

They’re deserting their posts, just like that, to wander off with these women they just met. Unbelievable. Looks like Blackmire still runs a pretty loose ship after all. ‘How long will your girls be able to keep them distracted?’ I can’t imagine even the sloppiest Trooper is going to ignore blaster fire.

‘Well, they’ll be injecting those boys with some of my strongest stock as soon as they’re out of sight, so at least the rest of the night. Forever if they choke on their own tongues.’ Certainly an effective use of resources. Should give them a few minutes to get that done, go over things with Jaxon.

‘While the girls finish their job, I just want to clarify our procedure one more time. Stormtroopers have a high pain threshold and their armour is designed to dissipate blaster fire. Try to keep this quiet as long as you can, knock them out with blunt impact or stab them in the gaps between plates – but if it turns into a firefight be sure to aim for center of mass and double tap.’

He’s lightly armoured. Double layered leather over the torso, and a solid pauldron over the dominant shoulder – but clearly an outfit that favours agility over protection. We’ll be in a tight environment, so that will be of limited help, and I have no intention of trading his life for Brayli’s. ‘Right, got it. Stick to what you taught me, save the flashy stuff for the holovids.’ At least he understands the situation.

The girls are coming back, signalling the all clear. They’d make good assassins. I suppose that means it’s time to go. Hold on just a little longer Brayli.

II

Can hear laughter coming from the front of the ship. Probably playing cards to pass the time. Should check the back first, that’s where brigs usually are – and it’s good to eliminate the obvious before starting to jump to the fringes. If we’re lucky we can get this done with minimal casualties. There’s only one person on this ship I want to kill.

His sense of style is awful. Brayli makes the clutter work because it’s all her own creations, but just lining the walls with a bunch of expensive pieces of art with no sense for how they compliment each other like this – just to surround yourself with wealth: it’s absolutely tacky. Even I can tell that.

Passing by personal rooms now. Jaxon’s followed my lead well so far, but need to give him a finger over the mouth just in case. For as much as we need to keep it quiet, we can’t linger either; a single Trooper coming out could completely blow our cover. Nine standard Imperial Steel doors and one gold plated, subtle as ever Blackmire. If we get lucky I can strangle him to death in his sleep on the way out.

Into the cargo hold. One Trooper doing inventory. Usually one of the safest jobs on a ship, but not tonight. Pooling blood would be an easy giveaway for anyone passing by, so a choke hold will have to do. A shame all my requests to put a padded neck lining on the standard Stormtrooper uniform were never taken seriously, the seam where the helmet connects is effectively unguarded.

This is one of the things it’s hard to practice alone, but I still remember it well enough. His training isn’t bad, he went for his blaster right away – but Jaxon’s got quick hands and good instinct. Trying for my eyes, crotch; all the usual desperate last resorts. Not getting through plate though.

This is more personal than I usually like my work to be. Quick and professional is one thing, but holding him like this, feeling the life drain out of him so agonizingly slowly as his struggling abates – I didn’t used to flinch at things like this, but now it makes me sick. I suppose that’s a good thing in the abstract, but right now I need to power through it, for Brayli. If he wakes up angry and confused before we’re gone then all this effort will be for nothing.

He’s limp. We don’t have the time for me to keep the hold up until he dies. Going to have to snap his neck. Even through two sets of plate, I can feel his life in my hands right now. Don’t look under the helmet: I’m wearing the armour, I can slip back into the mindset. This isn’t a person with hopes and dreams, who doesn’t even know who I am or why we’re fighting. It’s an enemy combatant.

I can’t do it. He’s unconscious, and there’s an empty crate and some ties. It’s not perfect, there’d be one less loose end if I killed him – but I can practically see straight through that helmet to the person underneath. His only crime has been following orders – and Blackmire gave them to him.

‘Hey Koben, you alright? Your hands were shaking, even through the suit. They never did that in any of your old footage.’ Stand up, step back; breathe. I left him in recovery position, he’ll live. He was in my way, and I got him out of my way using the least violence possible. He’ll wake up with a headache, confused and maybe embarrassed – and then he’ll go on living. Just like me. ‘I’m fine. Growing pains is all.’

III

Must be getting near the back of the ship now, feels like we’ve walked about that much distance. It could be a single person cell, which would leave room for a little more distance I suppose. A bathroom, slight surprise to see it this far from the lounging area. Can’t hear anything from it, best to just keep moving.

The brig! It’s big enough for several, but only has one guest. She’s conscious, sitting up, no visible lacerations – and smiling. I’m so glad she’s alright. More than I can say, more than I can think, I just have to feel it. ‘Hey sugar. Fancy meeting you here.’ Lower than her usual boisterousness, but just hearing it still makes my heart swell.

I know it’s not a productive use of time but I can’t stop myself from hugging her. All I can feel through the plates is pressure, but I know what it signifies off by heart already. She feels like lazy afternoon cuddling, and barely fitting into a cramped speeder together, and laughing at stupid jokes, and everything wonderful in my life. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish a Jedi were here: they could rip the bars off or cut them clean in half so I could get her out of here and focus on wringing Blackmire’s neck.

‘We’re here to spring you, where’s the jailor?’ I suppose Jaxon wouldn’t have as intense of a reaction to her as I do. Good to have someone bring things back on track. We’ll have time for this later. It is strange that she’s unguarded, even low risk prisoners usually had at least one person on active guard at all times.

‘I’m right here.’ Trooper in the doorway. Key card dangling from his belt. Can’t afford to shoot him, and can’t expect to get him in a proper grapple. Just need to go for a tackle and try to control his arm, keep him from setting off the alarm. The fall knocked his helmet off, now I can – Stillwater?

‘Stillwater, is that you?’ His eyes are like combat knives, sharpened even more by suspicion. ‘Who the hell are you, how do you know my name?’ Don’t have the free hand to look him in the eye. ‘Jaxon, could you take my helmet off?’ I hardly recognized his voice, he sounds like he’s absolutely gone through it. I’d have figured he’d want nothing to do with Blackmire, especially after the trial.

‘It’s me: Koben Tarani. I’d say Lance Corporal, but that’s not the case any more.’ Recollection. I never forgot that drop, and it looks like neither did he. ‘Tarani? I – right, I’d heard you turned into a girl at some point. Wow, you look...haggard.’ Haggard. I suppose it would take a soldier to see that. ‘What the hell are you doing here? And, congratulations on the promotion I guess.’

He doesn’t even know why he’s out here. That he’s hunting me, and the woman he’s locked up is only the bait. ‘It’s a long story. To keep it short, you’re holding my girlfriend, who hasn’t committed any crime under Imperial law.’ That the courts are aware of, anyway.

‘Really? Blackmire said we were hunting an extremely dangerous criminal, and that this woman was her accomplice.’ Half truths, but overblown. I am dangerous, butuntil this – I’d done everything in my power not to disturb The Empire while I ran away, precisely so I could fall down their list of priorities as time went on.

‘You and I both know Blackmire says a lot of things that aren’t true.’ Doesn’t seem like he’s changed much, I feel confident saying that. Stillwater’s looking a lot less hostile. ‘I want to get off you so we can have a less constrained conversation. Would you mind me taking off your gauntlet just to be sure you can’t trigger the alarm?’

‘Heh, it really is you Tarani; never known anyone else that anal. Yeah, go ahead.’ Designs on the armour haven’t changed at all, still know the procedures like the back of my hand. Jaxon can hold onto this. ‘I...don’t necessarily not believe you, but it’d be disobeying direct orders to let her go. You know I can’t just do that.’ He said I looked haggard, but serving under Blackmire has put him through the ringer now that I’m looking at him.

‘Stillwater, I haven’t been entirely honest so far. I deserted five years ago. My commanding officer was going to murder a child, and I stopped her.’ Shock, disbelief. Betrayal. I can see the whole process playing out behind his eyes. ‘I’ve learned a lot of things as a civilian, and one of the most important has been that The Empire doesn’t care. Not about you, not about me. The whole reason you’re out here is because Blackmire’s a stupid petty bastard who’s been holding onto a two decade grudge.’

‘Two decade – we’re hunting you?! I can’t – that’s not...Give me a second to think about this Tarani.’ Stillwater was always a good soldier, and a good man. If there’s anything left of the him I knew that hasn’t been stamped down into nothingness by The Empire, we should be able to come to an agreement. If he’s headed down the same path I went, maybe I can even save him some time.

‘Alright, I get it. Blackmire’s been working us like dogs telling us we’re hot on the heels of an extremely dangerous criminal for the last six months. You are dangerous, and you are a criminal, technically – but you haven’t done anything since you deserted to warrant this.’ I knew he’d listen to reason. ‘I’m the second in command; squad leader, and I have the authority to declare this whole mission a waste of resources. I can’t imagine anyone but him complaining about it.’

If he won’t be able to come after me, maybe I can even let Blackmire go. As much as he has it coming, killing him would certainly undermine my position of not being worth pursuing. ‘Here’s the key card. I’ll pretend I didn’t see this, wipe the security footage, and you two can go home. With your girl gone, I’ll be able to call this off tomorrow morning. He’d need a real miracle to get permission to hunt you down a second time.’

Finally, I’ll be able to be done with The Empire. No more ghosts left to haunt me. Lock glides smoothly, let’s go home. ‘Oh, uhh, good evening sir. I was just-’ Blaster shots. One after the other. A double tap, but ringing out in slow motion. Stillwater’s falling. I have a moment, but I can’t seize it. All the well oiled machinery I’ve maintained for years is seizing up – the gears coated in despair. So this is how that feels. Can barely take my helmet back from Jaxon. It can’t protect me from the pain anyway.

IV

‘I never liked Stillwater anyway. Good to finally have an excuse; he reminded me of you.’ One more shot, to the head. His own man. ‘Nice to see you again Tarani, right on schedule. I’m sure you’re dull-wittedly attempting to comprehend how I figured out you were here.’ Now I want to kill him again. ‘It’s really rather quite simple: your teary eyed reunion with your old comrade here was so loud that I came to investigate while I was getting ready for bed.’

Footsteps coming down the hallway, the rest of the squad. Damn it, we’re trapped. I could maybe survive if I started shooting right this second, my armour would be obliterated but just might hold – but Jaxon and Brayli would be easy targets. ‘Hold your fire men. This is our target, but the hunt has been a long time coming. I want to savour it.’ Of course. The only thing worse than him killing me is him gloating about it first.

‘Before I kill you, and make no mistake: you will be dying here, and I will be delivering the killing blow – I feel it only appropriate that we do a little catching up!’ Condescension dripping from his mouth. It would almost be worth getting shot up just to kill him while it happens.

‘After you destroyed my career prospects, I was a broken man. I fell deep into a pit of existential ennui. Vice after vice I ran through to forget the pain of my shame, spending thousands upon thousands of credits when all I needed was time. Time for the emotions to fade away. All but one: hate.’ A familiar sounding trajectory.

‘I kept abreast of your exploits, even the ones that were supposed to be classified – not like the Imperial bureaucracy did a good job of hiding it. Despising you was the only thing keeping me going, for years. Watching you gain my glory, with my Troopers – stealing the recognition I deserved!’ Obsession, single minded fixation, self destruction. I’ve heard it all.

‘But then – then I was blessed with good fortune. You. Screwed. Up. Finally you fell to the level of a common Trooper. Even I didn’t have the credits and contacts to dig up the details on that incident, but I was nonetheless presented with a plain truth: my arch nemesis, the one and only person in this world who truly rose to deserve my scorn – was now an enemy of the state.’ Troopers are getting restless.

Just by the way they’re assembled I can tell he doesn’t engender any real loyalty, just the lash of authority. If one decides to cut this short and blast me, maybe I can take advantage of the confusion. ‘So I spent five years clawing my way back in. Looking up what – exactly – the conditions of my verdict were, finding the one loophole I could jump through, and throwing myself into my work to make it happen.’

‘In a way, I suppose I have to thank you. With the prospect of finally being here at the end of the tunnel, I truly put in my finest work for The Empire on the path to this very moment. They say a poor craftsman blames his tools, but let me just say now: these degenerates certainly weren’t much help.’ He doesn’t even realize how delusional he sounds. His body looks well into his sixties: graying hair, slumped posture, sunken in eyes. Everything thrown into the furnace of obsession because he just couldn’t let the past go. Two weeks ago I wouldn’t even have recognized anything wrong with it.

‘And now that I’ve taken the opportunity to thoroughly appreciate this moment, there is the unfortunate matter of that armour of yours. I don’t know precisely how many shots it would take to kill you with this ceremonial sidearm, and so I must make use of my underlings. Please riddle her with blaster fire now. You don’t even have to avoid shooting the other two, so it should be something you louts are capable of.’ Just from their body language I can tell they don’t want to do it.

I’d be doubtful if any more of them ever served with me, but with how much abuse he’s put himself through, I can only assume this is a tiny fraction of the abuse he’s heaped on them. That’s it. This is the longest shot I’ve ever tried for, but I’ve got a lot of practice.

‘Belay that order Troopers. As a member of the Purge Corps, I outrank him.’ A ridiculous assertion. Completely absurd, I modified this armour until I could plainly recite at least half a dozen dress code violations from memory. Then again, most people don’t read their manuals.

A dry chuckle, apathetic shrugs of the shoulders. Even a knowing elbow jab between comrades. Direct hit. ‘Don’t – this is – Are you all stupid?! Did you take turns shooting each other in the head when I wasn’t looking?! When was the last time you saw a uniform that was painted fucking purple?! Shower her with blaster fire now!’

‘I dunno sir, the silhouette lines up. Looks like a Purge Trooper to me. Don’t really get to see them too often, maybe those are just ceremonial decorations.’ This is a complete farce and they know it, but it’s been a long time coming. Just need to give them enough plausible deniability to escape a court marshalling.

‘In the wake of your squad leader’s death, I’m taking temporary command of this squadron. I’ll need to have a discussion with Bounty Acquisition Agent Blackmire to determine an appropriate course of action. Please do not disturb us. Dismissed.’ They’re filing through the door. The brig is closed. Just the four of us.

V

To his credit, I figured he’d be a lot more cowardly without his Troops. He managed to get a shot off before I got control of his wrist – it tickled. Finally I get to settle things. This stupid grudge that he’s kept burning for more than half my life. That he threw all of himself into. Only thirty five, but already a frail old man with nothing left. ‘Go on then Tarani, I never figured you for the gloating type. Do it. Kill me already.’ He’s pathetic.

I pity him. I’ve never understood that emotion before, but here it is. ‘Oh come on, don’t tell me you aren’t holding yourself back from it right now, savouring the moment just like I was.’ He’s been living in my shadow for decades. One event he refused to move on from. Looking at him is like looking into a mirror. A dark, twisted, broken mirror.

‘Do it! Settle the score! Fell the one and only person to ever rival you!’ I settled this grudge fifteen years ago, in the courthouse. This doesn’t mean a damn thing to me any more. I already won. Killing him would just let him salvage his dignity. He thinks we’re rivals? What a joke. I almost feel bad about it, but I can’t help laughing.

‘Get out of here Anton. It’s over. I’ve beaten you twice already, go do something with your life that doesn’t revolve around me.’ Doubt he’ll take that advice, but figure it’s the least I can do to give it to him.

‘You’re making a mistake Tarani! You’ve gone soft, and I’ll be back with an ar-’ A blaster shot. Another one. Brayli’s firing them. I was trying to be nice, but I can’t quite say I’m torn up about this. I didn’t want to do it, but if I’ve ever met anyone who deserved a few to the chest; it was Blackmire.

Not bad center of mass shots, though it’s pretty hard to miss at this range. Doubt he had any armour under his uniform, but I can’t fault her for making sure. She’s still going. He’s not even twitching any more. Maybe I should grab the blaster before it overheats, burns her fingers.

‘Sorry sugar. I know you were having a moment, but that scrawny sack of shit trashed my apartment and held me here all night. Even worse, he did it to hurt you. Nobody hurts my girlfriend.’ If we were alone I’d make love to her on the spot.

‘No – now that I think about it; you were right. I was letting my emotions get the better of me, still getting used to listening to them. This was never going to end without one of us dead.’ He doesn’t even have the quiet dignity most corpses do. Hopefully he’s at least a good meal for the carrion animals. A knock at the door.

‘Just checking in, everything good in there? Sounds like your meeting’s over.’ I suppose I have to keep up the charade so they can make a good report. Doubt they need any convincing, so let’s go with the standard protocol for covering up an assassination.

‘Yes. Blackmire’s blaster suffered a spontaneous discharge, and from there; a chain reaction. I suspect it was due to poor maintenance. He was dead before he hit the ground, so I didn’t bother calling for a medic.’ There, those are all the keywords officers like to hear before sweeping an incident under the rug.

‘Ah, I see. Sorry to hear it. Guess I’m in charge once you head out then?’ Ambitious. Hopefully he has better things to do than chase ghosts. Purge Trooper Tarani is dead, after all. I just share a name with her.

‘Before I relinquish command, I have one order. Ensure Stillwater receives a suitable burial.’ Tight, earnest salute. Probably the first one this soldier’s given in years. Never thought I’d be relieved to step out of an Imperial ship onto loose sand. Don’t even need to give the signal, Brayli’s the reason we came here. Seeing us hanging off of each other should get the point across.

VI

Can hear the engine starting up behind us. After spending long enough around them, I learned to identify each Imperial ship by sound. Hopefully I never hear another one again. Vranki and her girls are coming out from behind the dune. ‘Koben! Not a bad job by the looks of things. I don’t even see any blood on you, which is a first. I trust The Empire is out of our hair?’

Ever the pragmatist. A nod will suffice. ‘It’s done. It’s also late. I’d like to invite you all to my house. It’s very sparsely furnished, and out in the middle of nowhere – but I recently made some renovations on it and I’d be honoured if you all came and saw them.’

Odd stares from the girls. Jaxon understands what I’m trying to say. ‘Yeah, I’d love to swing by your place, for a little while anyway. Do kinda gotta be back at the manor at some point though.’ With how much time he’s no doubt spending trying to establish his rule over his new men, I almost feel bad for bringing him along, especially since he didn’t even get to shoot anybody. Like he said though, that’s what friends are for.

‘Now that you mention it sugar, it is getting pretty late. I suppose I’ll just have to stay the night at your place.’ Am I so easy to read, even through the helmet? That’s exactly what I had planned. It’s pitch black out, but that smile of hers is so bright it might as well be a fourth sun.

‘This is sounding like more of a friend’s only affair. I think my girls would like to get back to civilization, to the extent that Dunton qualifies – and I feel like visiting your personal abode might be overstepping the bounds of our professional relationship. Let me make a call.’ I won’t push her. She worded it politely, but there was a firmness to her tone. She’s still a crime boss after all.

Good to see Jaxon’s speeder truck. Not enough room for three in the front, but plenty of room in the back. ‘Jaxon, does that truck have a separator between the compartments? Brayli and I could use some privacy. I’ll plug in the address before we go, but it’s a long drive.’ I suppose Jaxon must have read that as an innuendo. My fault. All I wanted to do was cuddle, but this gonkrock isn’t bad listening.

I’ve never felt this good before. There have been a lot of highs lately, but even while I was enjoying them there was a little part of me that was doing damage control for when it eventually came crashing down. I think I left it back on the ship, with Blackmire. Can’t think of a situation where I’d ever need it again. That’s what these two are for.

END

[snotsloth]

"Writers steal things. It's just a thing."

Definitely recommend this TikTok on fantasy and science fiction writers "stealing" concepts from one another, and specifically Dune. Go watch it, it's quite good and has some great insights.

At times in my life, I really struggled with world building or coming up with story mechanics because I was worried my ideas weren't "original" enough. I was also coming up in the "TV Tropes" and "Cinema Sins" era where being derivative was like the worst thing you could be as a creator. Oh you use well known tropes? People can predict how your book is going to end? You're a bad writer.

Since then it's been proven time and again that predictability is not actually as much of a story killer as we were led to believe. If you think about famously bad TV show finales like Game of Thrones or Lost, a lot of them have one thing in common. The writers' main goal was to surprise the audience. They went with what was least expected, not what was narratively satisfying.

But surprising does not always mean satisfying and in story telling, it often leads to other emotions like disappointment, confusion, frustration, or outright anger. People actually like it sometimes when they can see a particular ending coming or identify a particular trope that they like and can follow to its inevitable conclusion.

This is because people like patterns. We're hardwired to seek them out, even where they don't actually exist. It's how we interpret the chaos of the world around us. Archetypes, tropes, and foreshadowing help ground your audience in the narrative. They serve as signposts to help them find their way and understand the story you are telling them.

I took a very basic music theory class as an elective at university and I remember the professor explaining music as a constant tension between repetition and variety. A composition often consists of variations on a theme. You'll have the same note sequence but played in different key signatures, or the tempo changes, or you may modulate up and down. But ultimately, keeping the audience's interest relies on keeping a balance between repetition and deviation.

The same is true when writing a story. It's actually a good thing to take inspiration from other writers and artists that you admire. You are standing on the shoulders of giants. Centuries of narrative experimentation and tradition have come before you and abandoning all that would be a waste.

Plus, as you explore and take ideas in from other writers you will also start realizing what you don't want to "steal." No work is perfect, and as you experience more of what you like you will also discover what doesn't work. Sometimes it's obvious stuff like racist tropes that are harmful to your audience, misogyny and lack of development for female characters, or even just plot beats that you find boring. (Citation: I love The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay but I always struggle to get through the part where Joseph is stuck in Antarctica.)

Very often, your early writing will feel like you just made a collage of all the stuff you liked most in your favorite stories. It will feel derivative because you are still processing the structures, tropes, and aesthetics that you like. As you continue to write, and continue to read and explore other modes of art, those edges will start to soften and blend into one another. Like the ingredients of a stew, all your inspiration will get mixed up and brewed together into something that is uniquely your voice.

That's what is really wild about honing your craft. You have to make shitty derivative projects before you can make something truly original and great. Creating a good story usually doesn't happen by just learning what has been done before and doing not that. A good, unique, personal story comes from embracing all the influences on your work that you've stirred around in your brain, stewed for 10+ years and poured back out as something brand new.

Michael Chabon, author of aforementioned favorite book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay once wrote, "All novels are sequels, influence is bliss." So, if you're tackling NaNoWriMo this month or just trying to get something on the page and keep getting stuck on the anxiety of "am I just stealing ideas from better writers?" Don't worry about it. You absolutely are, but so was every other writer you've ever admired. Anyone who says otherwise is a filthy liar.

Embrace your influences. Be mindful and deliberate with them in your work. Through them, you'll find a voice that is genuinely and uniquely you. And above all, keep writing!

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Headlights Girl

Genre: Urban fantasy + wlw romance

Words: approx. 8k

Summary: The story of a girl with headlamps for eyes and the moth-girl she meets along the way.

My book 🌸 Ko-fi  🌸 Patreon

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Most humans carry the night with them. Even during daylight hours, they can shut out the sun, turn off the light, recede into themselves and into that soft secret place behind their eyes.

Did you know certain animals don’t have eyelids? Gecko’s have nothing between them and the violent sun which wishes to cook the colors of their world. They have to use their tongue. Dust and sand and rain, can you imagine? I was obsessed with lizards as a kid.

I stacked up books on snakes and lizards and skinks. I traced the way that sand snakes crested across the dunes, sideways and wrong. I put glue on the pads of my hand and tried to climb the walls of my room— I didn’t even get one handhold up. I went to the zoo and peered into their cages, up on my tiptoes, trying not to smudge the glass or breath too hard. I tried make out their triangle heads and slow tongue-flicks, but they each shrank away deep into nooks and crannies of their cages. Most things do when I look at them.

Most humans carry the night with them, right there behind their eyelids is an entire world of darkness. I have something else inside me, not quite, not soft, not secret. They called me “headlights girl” in the newspapers.

There were even stranger kids born in the Age of Spirits. I checked. Every morning of fifth grade, I scanned the papers for mentions of “oddities” growing into anomalies.

A boy who could breath fire. A girl with leaves sprouting from her head. A kid with antennae that could taste the wind. There are stranger things than me in the age of beasts and magic. My father called it the “Epoch of Bastards,” sons and daughters of flickering fire elementals and wind ghosts who seduced half-asleep ladies from their beds.

He didn’t look at me much growing up. And I knew what he meant. I knew what he was getting at by calling it the Epoch of Bastards. Growing up, I played in my little puddle of carpet on the floor as he blustered in and out of rooms like gale force winds. He’d be looking for his keys or a left shoe or wallet since he was going out, out, out. I think I missed him at first, in the way you miss strangers you’ve never met.

Later, still on my puddle of carpet, still on my island, I would glare at him with that sour, acid taste in the back of my throat. Acrid, smoky, I would barely blink as he passed; he’d jump when he turned too quickly and accidentally fell into my path. Later still, I would begin to wish they were both like that—blustery and calling people names, gone more often than not.

It sometimes felt better than hearing my mom weep to herself on the couch. I wish she’d do it in her room or outside or anywhere else than that theatrical sobbing in the middle of the house, a naked heartbeat to the place. She spoke to her friends on the phone in that same watery voice, handkerchief in hand and sniffling, she spoke to them more than me.

What else am I supposed to do? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d wail, just a bit, and then find a new thing to wail over. They could barely afford to send me to That School. They could barely afford the special doctor’s appointments for my eyes. They barely knew what to do with me.

Sometimes, I wanted to shout right back: It’s not like I didn’t want to be here either!

But she wasn’t talking to me. 

School wasn’t much better. We weren’t the same, not really. None of us were the same age or had the same affliction. Plus, most everyone else stayed in dorms where they bonded with secrets and whispers and hiding from matrons. It wasn’t the same.

They called me The Lighthouse and Car Face and Nightlight. Sometimes they’d give me a few bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face. I did it. They’d laugh and reassure me I was as ugly as you’d think. Or beautiful. Or perfectly average-looking or I had a pig-nose or unibrow. I’d never seen anything but the blinding light of my own eyes in the mirror so I could never contradict them.

A boy with antlers handed me a twenty for a kiss in the 6th grade. I closed my eyes for that too. It was chapped and dry and he ran away with a screaming laugh afterward. There are stranger kids than me, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so much stranger than the rest of them?

I was 16 when I heel-toed my way down the stairs toward the front door. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder stuffed with loose clothes, change, a bath towel, three books with broken spines, all the tampons in the house, and a Swiss-army knife.

I hoped to stuff as many cheddar-cheese sandwiches in my sack as possible before the midnight bus came, but he was at the kitchen table. I don’t think either of us expected it, like running into your teacher at the mart and you’re both buying the same brand of toilet cleaner. There was a beer in front of his idle hands and he still wore his rumpled work shirt. He glanced at the bag on my shoulder for a long minute.

Finally, he sighed like I cut him off in traffic.

“Gimme a moment.”

My father leafed through a wad of cash he kept in a safe. He handed me almost three hundred bucks and we nodded at each other. At the time, I thought there was a kind of satisfaction to that nod, an endnote.

I was out the door before the midnight bus arrived.

Only three people were at the terminal. None of them looked at me with my pack and my knife stuffed in one hand and my eyes glowing. They did look at the glow, but not for long.

Remote and empty like maybe the world had ended and the last bits of if were nothing but strangers not making eye contact.

Finally, I watched the headlights of the midnight bus approach through dense summer night. I was struck by the thought that it was like looking at like, the glow of my eyes against its eyes. Can a bus be your father? Can your father be a man after all this time? Will your mother come looking for you?

I got on the bus and kicked my feet up against the seat in front of me. Scrunched into a ball, crossed my arms over my chest, and watched the trees turn into flickering bodies of shadow with each passing mile. ------------- My feet moved like tides. They tossed me against nameless city streets and toward empty forested slices of land. I stumbled into the painted deserts toward the west. I dipped my toes into the neon districts of the east with lights brighter than my own. I slept on benches and in kid’s treehouses and hunched my shoulders against brick walls of back alleys.

No one touched me. Maybe they’d approach now and then, but I’d open my eyes and they’d see nothing but heaven or devils or an absent lightning-God father that would smite them. I was the daughter of spirits after all.

I found my way to the ocean; beaches where other stragglers gathered and it was easy to stretch out on empty pieces of warm sand. I didn’t talk much by then, I didn’t like to; people stared whether I was speaking or screaming and clamping down on my jaw so hard it ached. Sometimes I get yelled at: Turn that off! No phone lights in here. You’re blinding me, bitch!

I’d never seen a movie in any theatres, but I could imagine what it’s like.

It was crowded, but I liked that ocean city, despite myself. It had pale buildings built into cliffs, narrow winding sidewalks where cars couldn’t fit, reckless bikers, and crushed seashell parking lots. I liked the tang of salt in the air and the way my hair crinkled from the ocean water as it sun-dried. I camp out on beaches and bummed cigarettes and hotdogs off strangers. I was good at taking care of myself once I got into a rhythm.

I had a tent by then and even an enormous sun umbrella to keep any prying eyes away. I still liked to sleep under the stars most nights though.

I often dreamed of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I dreamed of descending on pointed ballerina-feet to the silted black bottom. I’d be weighted down through the cold and the silence to where no human being had ever been. I’d open my eyes there, open them all the way, lightning-bright, and unflinching. In my dreams, the salt didn’t even sting. I lit up the world, the whole untouched world of whales and fish and terror and maybe I’d do something good then. Maybe I’d do something good and bring the sun to places that had forgotten it. 

I hated those dreams.

I met Mags on the beach after one of those dreams. Mags had one eye and twelve teeth and carried around nothing but string and scissors everywhere. She smelled like seawater and burning kelp, dank and crusted over. Her clothes were neat despite her leather-cracked skin and arms and neck covered in tattoos of shipwrecks. We ran into each other at some bum gathering and she cackled and pulled me aside.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was old creaking wood. I didn’t answer. “I could give you one.” She offered with a grin that was more empty space than anything.

“Nana.” I gritted out. “You want something?”

“Not sure. What do you want, kid?”

I glared openly, my beam of light slanting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come here.”

I didn’t know why I was chosen.

Mags liked me more than I deserved. I pocketed her last pair of socks when she wasn’t looking. She never mentioned it and dragged me down to the community showers to get clean with soap and shampoo. She took me to the soup and salad restaurant for something that wasn’t burnt or freeze-dried or from a convenience store. She cackled, she spat when she talked, people shot her looks as well.

I thought she was normal, not touched by the spirits, but she liked me more than most people and I didn’t know why.

“You like art, kid?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Why not? You broken?” Yeah. Probably.

“How am I supposed to know?” I snapped back.

“Lippy squirt. Come on, I’ll show you something worth your forked tongue.”

She heated the needle before she used it, red hot and untouchable. She dipped it into deep black inks, only black and sometimes red, she called them the only colors that matter. She shows me how to prick the skin and clean it. She showed me how to slowly, painstakingly etch images. I wasn’t sure I liked it, there was something so permanent and intentional about the act.

I watched her lessons though: stick and poke to her right foot, all over those fine little bones that must hurt, in and out, a little bloody.

It took her six hours to make a tiny shipwreck right above her big toe. It was a narrow schooner going under and I was the only witness. She made the waves come to life and crash against its sides and sometimes I forgot to blink. She didn’t seem to mind.

She washed another needle. She heated it red-hot. She dipped it in ink and handed it to me.

I still wasn’t sure I liked the permanence of it, but I told myself I was bored and it was something to do. I decided quickly I did like the bite of it, I liked the focus it took, and the ability to pull something from nothing.

I practiced all over my thighs first, there was enough meat there and it was easy enough to reach: a lizard design that looked like nothing but squiggles, a TV set playing static, a tiny smudged skink with its tongue out. I practiced designs in the sand and then on paper when Mags splurged on pen and paper.

Mags took me to the museum on Sundays. They were always free on Sundays.

Something stirred in my chest, even as the guards yelled at us about how flash photography wasn’t allowed in the museum. Even as I was shooed out of exhibits for ruining the paint. Still, an ache so old it rotted roared to life in my chest.

I stabbed in and out, gentle, a collection of stars right above my right knee. A winding sand snake on my wrist, and then finally, something good, something that gave people pause and reason to stare. I made it in the mirror: a ghost on my collarbone. Shadowed and intricate and yet simple, I put a ghost right above my collarbone and it bleeds more than any of the others.

That was a good year or so; one of the best I could remember.

I didn’t want to leave the ocean city though and Mags said she had to keep moving. She had places to be. She gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're a gem, kid. You’ll knock ‘em all to the pavement.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’ll be back?”

She cackled. “Wouldn’t miss it. You know me.” She winked as she turns to the bus, my second father. “You think I’ll miss your great becoming, kid? I’ll be back.”

I wanted to make her pinky-promise like I was a kid again begging one of the others to tell me if I’m beautiful when I close my eyes. I couldn’t do that; I waved as she tottered up the steps of the bus and was taken away with the tides of her own feet.

A had a moment of thinking it was the end then; I was ready to get back to my real normal. I was ready to disappear again. But even shipwrecks with no witnesses leave things left to be found.

------------ I got an apprenticeship. Technically, Mags talked them into it and I just followed up when I had nothing better to do.

I didn’t think I’d like it much, but couch surfing and camping out was the pastime of the especially young. And I’d lost my giant umbrella.

It was a small shop that smelled like bleach and dried flowers. A tattoo parlor in one of the steep arts districts neighbored by food trucks and beaded necklace shops.

Penguin Davies and Bitch-Annie ran it together. Davies walked like he’d never encountered land before, and Bitch-Annie had a throw-pillow embroidered with “If you don’t have anything nice to say then come sit next to me.”

Davies was covered in nothing but birds and dizzying M. C. Escher house-designs up and down his chest and arms. Bitch-Annie had topless mermaids and pinup girls across her shoulders and legs. She’d been asked to leave a number of stores before the children started staring or thinking thoughts.

Neither of them had ever met someone like me. It was not that type of town. I rankled at most their questions, a cat meeting a steel brush. Where are you from? What’s your family name? What kind of school did you go to? Is your sight better than other people you think?

I brushed off anything more personal than my favorite type of soda. Bitch-Annie called me “Shadow” probably as a joke, probably. Davies said I must be possessed by the ghost of some dead star: a blackhole that takes everything in and lets nothing out.

Neither of them let me touch a needle in those first six months. They had me practice on pig skin and trace designs and stand by their shoulders as they worked. I felt like a dental assistant except I was the hanging light shining into open mouths instead of anything with a pulse. I stood at their shoulder as they drew thick lines and thin dots and made hearts and wolves and names of dead lovers come to life.

They asked me to stand still and stop wiggling the light. I almost walked out several to find a new cliff to crash against, almost. 

No one had ever expected anything of me before. They never expected me to show up somewhere or do something well. No one really cared if I went to school or if I did my homework, if I dressed well or went to bed on time. And no one kept any tabs on me at all after I took that first bus. That’s how I liked it.

I should’ve left, tattooing didn’t mean anything to me, not really. But Bitch-Annie stomped up to my attic-apartment one morning and threw pants at me.

“Get up, Shadow,” she barked. She was sterner than Mags, no hint of humor in her eyes. “I told you 9am so I expect 9am.”

“The fuck!?” I was eloquent in the mornings.

“Pants, shirt, shoes, and bra if you don’t want that desk idiot staring at something other than your eyes all day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a root canal. Mags swore up and down about what you. Let’s see some of that, up, up!”

I grumbled. I put on everything but the bra. No one ever expected me to be anywhere before and 9am shouldn’t have even been a concept much less a real thing. I told myself I hated it. I’d leave the next week. Or maybe the week after that or in just one more month. I kept a bus ticket under my pillow but every time the date arrived I shrugged and made myself busy.

There’d be no harm in having a savings too and seeing what all the fuss was about with having a dishwasher and a kitchen.

I wasn’t an artist of course. I didn’t understand what everyone else was seeing when they looked at the “old masters” paintings of water or war or lovers pulled apart. I didn’t feel anything in front of stain-glass windows in churches or mosaics on walls. Maybe there really was something wrong with me, my eyes. I didn’t let up though. I put on pants for it after all.

Penguin Davies hovered by my shoulder when I made my first real design.

“Mm.” He rumbled deep in his chest. He’d gone grey at an early age, had tired eyes and quick hands. The desk kid said he’d been in medical school once, a surgeon. It was hard to tell. Davies muttered a lot, stared off into space too much, and laughed like it was always a painful surprise

“Perfectionist,” he muttered at me as I start over on a crappy unicorn design. “That line was barely off. You’re being a perfectionist, Nana.”

I scowled over my shoulder and let the full weight of my light hit him across the face. “Got a problem with it?” I challenged. He chuckled darkly. His grin was crooked like a broken door handle. I tried to hide my work from him with my shoulder. “It’s not done yet.”

“It’s late.” The rest of the street was dark. I knew that.

“I said I’m not done yet! You can go home.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his grey beard.

“What?”

“Look at you. You know who makes the best artists, Nana?” He was always a bit of a philosopher. Maybe he used to study that before medicine.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. I’m working on it.”

He gave my shoulder a light push. “The ones that don’t quit.”

They let me touch a needle gun after that. I told myself I’d only sign my new apartment lease as an experiment. I didn’t have to actually stay. I’d just run from the ink on paper and hope no one chased after girls with eyes that glow.

I didn’t break my lease. I drew suns and moons, trees and fireflies, hunks in speedos on tipsy college girls who swore they were sober and erotic vampires on the chests of men getting their first divorce. I had to give two refunds for a duck that turned out lopsided and a tattoo of someone’s dog which I swore really was that ugly to begin with.

There was one at the end of that next year though, another college girl with perfectly white piano-key teeth. She asked for a stick and poke, that was what I was best at anyway, she asked for a butterfly. Butterflies were easy, I could do the little ones in my sleep. She wanted one all across her back, she said I could make it look however I wanted. So I did. Wings like fringed shawls and straight heavy lines combined with wispy swirling ones. It was dark, black ink with red highlights and gray shadows under each wing to give it movement and flight.

I hid my smile when I finished and showed her the results in the mirror. She went to my bosses and jumped up and down. She pointed and babbled, ohmyspirits, the best thing I’ve ever seen! Fuck. I should pay you double! Where did you get this girl? 

I held myself perfectly still and studied the ceiling until my eyes dried out.

I took the long way home that night. I stopped once, at the corner where the midnight bus arrived, and watched the the passengers trudge off. I didn’t expect to see Mags again so soon, not really, but sometimes I wanted to show her: Hey, maybe your work wasn’t all wasted. Maybe I did start to become.

---------------- “I’m getting you chocolate.” Annie spat, her thick arms flexing as she cleaned off the spotless counter. “I’m getting you fucking chocolate, Shadow, ‘less you tell me what flavor you actually like.”

I hung at the back of the shop next to the narrow window that faced the road. I let the sun warm my face in thick strips and watched the bicycles pass. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Tell us what your actual birthday is then, you sugar-toasted tart.”

I shrugged. “Not today.”

“Well happy fucking birthday. You’re turning two. You came to work for us two years ago today, washed up from the beach like a deranged feral cat, so this is your birthday now.”

I rolled my eyes which served to look like a flashlight given a shake. Annie spent another minute splashing disinfectant on anything that might have had even a passing conversation with a germ.

“You talk to Birdie?” She asked, but mischievously this time. I responded by setting my mouth in a hard line. “You’re turning twenty-something and you’re not even talking to Birdie, are ya?”

“I’m not telling you what I’m turning. It’s still not my birthday.” I dodged inelegantly.

“Birdie will give you a proper go-around. Even shadows like you must need a little rub now and then.”

“Go dunk your head, Annie.” I huffed.

“Afraid you’ll blind her in bed?”

I turned with a snarl. “I’ll start with you.”

“I’ve seen you flipping through those poetry books, every word about hands or mouths or rosebuds.” She gave me flat a once-over. “You’ve got a sweet tooth in you.”

I dragged myself over to the desk to snarl at her some more, but Annie was already putting her hand up and going toward the backroom.

“I’m getting you a chocolate cake either way.”

There must have been a proper way to get her to never look at my little leather poetry books again, the ones with watermarked pages, the spines broken-in, and words that oozed. No one had to know that I could read, much less that I read that.

The door dinged instead.

“Excuse me.” She walked in. Her. “Is someone, um, named Nana here?” I turned before I could stop myself. That was still my name. And it was still my work.

Twenty-something, curtains of straight black hair falling in her face, pinched nose, thin energetic lips, shorts that gave way to milk-dipped legs that never seemed to end. A slight girl in a university t-shirt. College kids came in often during their breaks, but this one was a bit different. My eyes dragged up and fish-hooked there.

Feathered tendrils sprouted from her head and reached toward the ceiling. Long and searching, a pearly green color that reminded you of leaves or plumage.

I knew within a moment where I’d heard of this: Antennae Girl. The newspapers ran our stories close together along with the boy that breathed fire and the girl with roots growing from her head. We were all born in the same year during the epoch of monsters and bastards.

I think she recognized me too.

We stopped like heartbeats seizing up before the ambulance could make it. A confused, unnatural silence. I glanced at the door and considered making a run for it.

She cleared her throat first.

“Someone said that Misty’s butterfly tattoo came from here?” She blinked once and I noticed how her feathered antennae seemed to twitch. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t blind her. She took a step forward. “So are you . . . Nana?”

The door was right there.

“What do you want?” I had been spending too much time with Bitch-Annie.

“A tattoo?”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then why are you here?” I grunted. Footsteps came in from the back room. I was examining the smudged off-white tiles of the floor one by one.

“I wanted to . . . hey, you can look up if you want.” She said, curiously, softly. I didn’t look up. “I’m still figuring out the design.” She trudged on ahead.

“Fine.” I pivoted away. “But we’re busy. Come back later.”

A hand slapped across my shoulder. “This is Nana.” Annie stopped me from leaving. “Don’t let her eyes fool ya, it’s her personality that’s actually the problem. You saw her butterfly you said?”

“Yes!” She gushed. “It was gorgeous.”

“It was fine,” I corrected.

“It’s her birthday today.” Annie shared because she could and because she was a failed evil villain still trying to get her kicks in.

“Oh cool, happy Birthday.” A deep pause followed that could fill oceans. “You can look up. I don’t mind.” She repeated.

I opened my eyes wide and lifted my chin in one jerky motion. A beam of fluorescent headlights hit her across the face. “Is this what you want?” Venom dripped from my lips. This was why I tried not to talk too much.

The young woman squinted for a moment before covering her eyes and nodding. “I read about you,” she stated as if it was nothing. “I’m turning twenty-two this year . . . so I guess, you are too?”

“What?!” Delight filled Annie’s entire expression. “Hot damn! Twenty-two?” I groaned deeply. “Hey, you, girlie,” she addressed antennae-girl, “you want to come out for drinks tonight?”

I tried to protest as quickly as possible, but somehow didn’t summon the words quickly enough.

“Sure.” She agreed. ----------------------

The night was humid and clung to us like a second skin. I wandered through the hilly streets with Penguin Davies wobbling beside me. The desk kid—Daft Jeff, said Davies had some inner-ear problem that made it hard for him to keep his balance. Annie said he just didn’t belong on land— he couldn’t walk straight unless something was tilting and rolling under his feet.

Davies made his way up the hill, faltering and missing the musical beats of it. He refused to let me steady him and I refused to have him sing to me. It was apparently my birthday.

“Someone saw your design.” He noted on the downhill.

“Yeah. Some college girl.” I grumbled.

“What’d you think?” He asked in his usual mysterious way.

“She just wants a good look.” I returned in a neutral tone. “She read about me in the paper. All she wants to do is look.”

“She saw your design.” He paused. “And Jeff said she was like you.”

I blinked hard so the path ahead was eaten by shadow and Davies stumbled. “Not all of us have to be friends . . .” I said sourly and didn’t fill in the rest. “I’ve met kids with antlers and frog-hands before. I doesn’t mean anything.”

“Any of them come visit?”

“They’re smart enough not to.” I snark. “But the ones who manage to be pretty don’t have the brains to stay away.”

“Mm.” He made a soft sound. “What kind of tattoo do you think she’ll get?”

“How should I know? A heart or anchor or something dumb like that.” I walked on ahead. “Maybe I’ll give her a quote from some dead poet.”

“You like poetry.”

I huff dramatically, “Not what I mean. Girls like her don’t like my type of poetry, you know I’m saying.”

“What kind of girls?” Davies was patient. I hated that about him.

I stopped at the corner to let him catch up. “Don’t play dumb. Hot ones, college ones, getting a degree in money or music. They don’t watch over their shoulders enough or know when to stay away.” I scuffed my shoe on the ground. “Whatever.”

Davies was still thinking. I considered pushing him over. He finally spoke up again as we approach the bar, “That sea witch ever show up again?”

“Mags?” I snorted. “No. Why?”

“Cause I’m sure she’d like to see this.”

I didn’t say anything else as we reached the doorway. -------------------- The bar was loud. More people than I liked came to my “party.” I should have seen it coming. If the cliff city liked one thing it was an excuse to drink.

I crammed myself up against the bar and ordered a gin and tonic before the rest of the night crowd could arrive. Birdy was holding court at a corner table and waving at me. “There she is! Someone put a blanket over Nana, lights out, party up!”

Her puns usually left something to be desired. She sang “Blinded by the Light” every time she saw me for half a year.

I drank half my gin and tonic in the first gulp as a new stream of townies burst in. They arrived to buy me birthday beers and shout their opinions on the shitty new chain restaurant on 3rd street. I was almost tasting the bottom of my second glass when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I barely looked over.

The girl with sheets of black hair and a practiced-appearance stood before me—like she was at dress rehearsal and expected everyone else to know the lines as well. She carried a baby-blue bike helmet in one hand, and I noted there were two hand-drilled holes in the top.

“You.” I was tempted to shake her hand like I might make this a transactional hello and goodbye in short order.

“Hey.” She smiled, hesitant, like maybe the food on the fork might be too hot. “Nana, right?”

“Yep.” I sighed the word real long and heavy. “Listen, I really can’t give you a tattoo if you don’t know what you want.”

“No, no, I get it. But I want you to know . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

“Uh, okay. Though I’m pretty hard to miss over here.” I was looking at the dirty wine bottles stacked near the ceiling. Her antennae hang over both of us like fern fronds.

“No. I mean, when I saw the butterfly. That’s when I wanted to come here. Not after.”

“After what?” I was gonna make her say it.

“After I found that it was, well, you know, Headlights Girl.”

“Mm.” I was spending too much time with Davies. “You want something to drink?”

She sighed as well, real long and heavy. “Sure.” She took the seat next to me. “I’m Park by the way.”

“Park.” I rolled the name around in my mouth. “And you already know me.”

“I don’t think I do.” She laughed, sharp and bristly like something you can get cut on. “And I’ll have a beer. . . but only once you look up. Come on, I’m not like that.” I looked up. Her face was bright, round like the moon, her grin was sneaky and unearned. “There we go.”

She waved over the bartender Kipp and ordered her dark beer.

“It’s not really my birthday.” I informed her, dumbly. Every word felt dumb and clumsy all at once.

“Why not?” She was teasing. I knew that.

“That’s not how birthdays work.” I informed and wished I could backtrack into hostility again.

“Oh darn,” she winked. “And here I was about to make it my birthday too.”

“Uh, well,” I really should have left when I had the chance. “It’s not too late?”

“That’s the spirit!” She laughed, fuller this time and rounded. I looked her straight in the face and then quickly looked away again. Her grin was aimed at me, somehow, and seemed to reach high cupboards inside me you usually needed a stool for.

“Park,” I repeated the name and shifted in place. “So did you go to Haveryards or Simmons?” There were only two schools in the country for spirit bastards like us. Haveryards was close enough for me to get bussed to—an hour one way and then an hour home.

“Neither. I went to public and then Bakerville Uni.” She rapped on the counter. “Hey, you want another gin and tonic? Or I’ll mix you up something.” Her eyes flickered over everything. “I bartended my way through college so I can make a mean margarita.”

“Oh, Bakerville U., yeah. That ones close.” I stuttered a bit. She was leaning across the counter and trying to get Kipp’s attention a second time. My words were feeling dumber and dumber by the moment, perhaps losing all shape and meaning altogether. “That’s where you went?”

“How’d you guess?” She said playfully and pointed to her t-shirt. She finally got the bartender over. “Right, you want something hard? Vodka maybe? A mule?”

I scratched my chin. “ . . . I don’t care. I’m easy.”

She rolled her eyes and I knew she must feel me staring. “I can’t imagine shopping for you for today then.” She snickered and climbed over the counter. “Happy birthday, how about one chocolate mule for a free tattoo?”

“You wish.” I made a face. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“And you do?” She was still grinning, somehow. “I’ve decided I’m making you the equivalent of all the soda flavors mixed together at once. Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes and I tried to turn off my thoughts. It was bright as knives inside my skull; I carry the daytime with me. Panic threatened to rise up (for no reason of course), but a soft hand brushed against mine, soft like sheets in fancy hotels and flower petals. I peaked and Park slid a full murky glass toward me.

“Drink up.”

It was sweet. It wasn’t even my birthday. I didn’t care. She called it a chocolate-mule-Park Special and maybe chocolate really was my favorite flavor. -------------- Park started coming around. She rode a sky-blue bike with a white basket and rusting hinges. I couldn’t imagine doing all the hills in the city without any gears, but she managed. She said she was figuring things out after graduating. She said she liked it here.

I grumbled when she came by. I complained like Annie when Wicker the cat visited: Get that thing away from me. I hate that. Smells awful. I’ve got allergies. Put that away, it’ll kill me.

I never said anything when Annie left fish heads out and bowls of milk of course.

Park smelled like sunscreen and breath mints. She had strong opinions on everything from street paving techniques to which sun hats went with which dresses. She invited me on walks. She invited me to help her change a flat tire. She invited me to the corner shop to help her pick out bottle can openers.

I said no. Sometimes I said no. I started to say yes.

“Look at this,” she liked to show me things. She liked to show me pictures of squirrels on her phone and weird pieces of glass she found. She liked to point out new restaurants (that I’d already been to) and play videos of funny traffic jams.

This time she held up a seashell. It was rounded and flat with a swirl in the center.

“I’m looking.” I said carefully.

“Watch how it catches light.” I shun my eyes on it and she moved it back and forth. There were bits of silver veins caught in the cracks of it.

“There’s tons of those.” At this point, I had valiantly refused to be impressed by even her cutest squirrel pictures.

“Ugh.” She pouted. “Are you kidding? I spent all morning looking for this.”

“They're right by the surf. I could find you five bigger ones than this before sunset.”

“Alright, hot-shot.” She jut her chin out and jabbed my shoulder. “Prove it.”

I said yes to that one. I left right after my shift ended with the sun setting in the waters like a stabbed orange bleeding out. I met Park by the parking lot with drooping palms trees lining the sides and lost flipflops everywhere.

“This is where you went wrong.” I announced. I couldn’t help it. “This is the tourist beach. You have to go somewhere real.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve already established you’re the hot-shot here. Lead the way.”

She followed me. I ignored how she lingered by my side. I ignored how her hand wrapped around my arm as she stopped us to look at a tiny horseshoe crab. Her hand was soft, like velvet, soft enough to smother something in my chest.

I found two seashells with streaks of silver and rainbow through them, both bigger than my palm. The sun was a flat line on the horizon before I could find a third and Park hooted.

“You said before sunset! It’s sunset, baby, pay up.” She called. “And you were so sure you were a better seashell hunter than me.” She tsked.

I scanned the ground more quickly. “It’s barely nighttime.” I pointed to the sky. “And I can keep looking. I have the built-in equipment for it.”

“Oh I know.” She planted herself on the soggy crusted sand and sat down in a heap. “But can you find why kids love the taste of not doing that? Take it easy. Take a seat.”

“So pushy.”

“You know me.” It was fond. It had only been a few months, but there was something fond there.

I ran a hand through my short choppy curls. “Fine.” I sat next to her, not too close. “It’s your loss.” We both looked out at the gently lapping waves, foaming and anemic. She let a long breath of air and for a moment I considered brushing her hair back. It was always in her face.

It was a quiet moment, bottled, and pitching toward something. Like the the moment where you miss a step on the stairs and the certainty of the fall was right there.

I was the one that scooted a little closer.

“I’m considering getting a storm cloud,” she commented off-handedly. “Can you do storm clouds?”

I made a sound of consideration. “Sure.” I glanced toward the opposite corner of the night sky. “I think I’ve seen one of those before. Big puffy wet things?”

“Kinda fluffy? You’re getting there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I’m smiling, which is alright since there’s no way she could see it. She’s silent for another moment longer.

“Or would you make fun of me if I got something like a butterfly? Like your other one.”

“A storm cloud butterfly?”

“No. The cloud would it’s own thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, ragged and chapped. “I mean, I’ve been doodling some ideas. And tattoos should be personal, right? So I thought a storm cloud might be fitting. Kids used to pay me a couple dollars to predict the weather. It could be a memorial to childhood entrepreneurial spirit.”

I watched her speak and something beat inside my chest like a second animal. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel velvet again.

“Why?” I rasped after a moment.

“Uh, why did they pay me? It’s just something I can do. Whenever it's going to rain or storm or be sunny out. I dunno, I don’t know why the rest of you can’t sense it.”

“And you didn’t become a meteorologist?” I smiled a bit bitterly.

She made an indignant noise. “And you didn’t become a professional lighthouse?”

I choked on a laugh. “Not yet.” A quiet consumed us from both sides, I made sure my light didn’t crash into her. I made sure to look at anything but her. She’d have to squint if I did and cover her eyes and I’d be there, ready to run her over.

“Kids in my class paid me too.” I barely realized I started speaking. “They slipped me a couple bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face.”

“You got money for that?”

“There wasn’t always much to do. Teachers were quitting all the time and sometimes it was just the TV. I dunno, they paid me. Then they’d giggle and run away afterward.” My voice sounded automated like the announcer at an airport, informing travelers their flight was canceled. “They always said I had a pig nose or a unibrow or looked like the lead singer of that Minx girl band-- super hot, but you know, it didn’t matter.” The laugh that escaped was high, girlish in a grotesque way. “Since, you know, no one would ever see it.”

“Kids are fucked up.” Park contributed simply.

“Adults are too.” I sniffed. “Everyone wants a light show.”

“Oh.” She said slowly. “Is it . . . is it bad I wanted to meet you then? I mean, I wanted to see the art first, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor.”

“No.” I said quickly. I lit up my own lap and empty hands. “Does it matter?”

“I never went to those schools,” she said hesitantly. “My parents fought them, said the schools were unfit. They shouldn’t be able to force us there. And that I wasn’t even dangerous since,” she gestured helplessly upward, “I just have these. So then, well, I never really met anyone else like me.”

“I mean, everyone’s different. It’s not . . . a big deal.”

“You’d think so,” she commented sardonically.

I folded up into myself like a complex origami piece. “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish I was dangerous. Actually dangerous.”

She giggled. “Didn’t you just say everyone’s different? I’d say everyone’s dangerous too. Just gotta find the niche.”

“Oh yeah,” I dared to turn toward her. “What’s yours then?”

“My danger niche? Hmm.” She was leaning now, pitching forward like a wave come to drown me. “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve I’ll admit.”

“You have a pair of wings hidden away?” I stopped breathing as her hand lifted up, strange and all at once. I wasn’t ready.

“Here.” Her skin was against mine. She cupped my cheek with one velvet-hand. It was heated cashmere, tiny feather-light hairs on her palm. “Feelers.” She whispered with a hesitancy there.

“Ah,” I was indulgent. I closed my eyes. I leaned in. “And you want to put a needle over these?” I put my hand over hers, loosely, so she could pull away if she wanted to. Tiny hairs pulsed there with some kind of life all their own. 

“I wanted . . .” She paused and I peaked open my eyes. I could see every detail of her face, illuminated. “I dunno.” She finished. “I guess I just wanted whatever I saw there, before.”

“In the butterfly?”

“In the butterfly.” I turned toward the ocean, but my hand remained over hers. “I’m not sure how good it will be a second time. It’s not like I’m really an artist. . .”

“What did you want to be?” Soft.

“Who knows. I mean, I’m glad my parents didn’t try to fight the schools. Being there during the day was better than being home, listening to my mom crying all the time and my father exploding . . . They wouldn’t have wanted me home.”

Before the sunset, when I was walking over, I thought maybe we’d kiss that night. I thought I’d feel that first electric pulse and maybe we’d climb into the ocean and swim in circles, laugh until the moon rose. I thought maybe I’d get something out of my system and there wouldn’t be anything left to say or do.

I’d kiss Park, once, and she’d be satisfied. She’d understand. She’d go on her college path and I’d go on on mine.

But the words spilled out, unbidden. Park stayed in place, steady and unflinching. That made it worse, so much worse.

“My parents weren’t like yours.” There was an accusatory edge to it. Don’t you know? I wanted to shout. Don’t you know? Even without the eyes or the school bills or the bus.

“Hey,” she cradled my cheeks with both hands now and smeared the tears away from one eye. “Hey, listen, I know. Alright? I know.”

I scowled back at her feathered little feelers.

“It’s not about the damn antenna or head beams or anything else.” I tried to pull away. “Even the kid with the antler’s kissed me and I didn’t stop him. I ran away from home and my mom never came looking. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! You wouldn’t even get it. You wouldn’t get it!” I squeeze my eyes closed. “You were wanted.”

Slowly, like an awkward animal burrowing into soft earth, she pressed her forehead to the crook of my neck. I could feel us both breathing in, strong and steady. She was lean and silky, and I swore I can feel her heartbeat hammering through my throat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. I inhaled her sunscreen scent. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know. But I could.”

“Why are you here?” It was miserable and wet, I hated that my eyes were so different and yet still the same. Could still spill over like theirs. She took a long breath but didn’t move away.

“My last girlfriend broke up with me for being . . . sensitive and I thought maybe if I got a tattoo, I’d stop feeling so much. I’d prove something. I’d feel everything less, you know? It would hurt and then it wouldn’t.”

I took that in a parsec at time. “Are you,” I sniffed. “Are you alright?” Her legs and arms were plastered over mine. “You’re so soft, but, but I don’t want to,” I wipe at my face like it didn’t matter. “Hurt you.”

“I know.” Her face was still pressed to my neck and her lips fluttered across the hallow of my skin. “I didn’t want to hurt you either.”

A stillness settled into my bones. I glanced toward the moon, and it was like looking at like, a terrible moon to another moon. I gathered myself. I took a deep breath. I flattened.

“I shouldn’t have said all that.” My voice had dried up. “We led different lives.” It wasn’t her fault if she was wanted.

“No.”

“I wasn’t thinking . . .”

Her hand wrapped around my wrist. “I talk to Annie sometimes when you aren’t there.”

“Okay?”

“And Davies. And that front desk guy.”

“Daft Jeff. Yes.”

“They all say the same thing . . .” I blinked a couple times. “That I really should wait for you to give me the tattoo. You have a steady hand and an eye for detail.”

“Alright . . .”

“That someone taught you tattooing the right way. They wanted to show you the right way to do it.”

I snorted despite myself. “It’s not that hard. Mags was batty. Who knows why she showed me how to pick up a needle.”

“Don’t you see? They say they wouldn’t know what to do without you.” She was still there. She wasn’t moving, almost in my lap now. “You were wanted.”

“Park?” My voice cracked like a question.

“And you come with me to restaurants and help me buy bottle openers. You find shells for me and help me fix tires.” Her breath was hot and dragged across my cheek. “You are wanted.”

I blocked out her face, her voice, I turned on the sharp white sun inside and for a moment I imagine never opening my eyes back up again. Maybe I could make it night forever inside myself as well. Wouldn’t you rather have something quiet inside?

She wrapped herself around me, fully, one long arm at a time until it was cocoon. Soft. “Listen, sometimes the first people aren’t the right people. Sometimes your first relationship isn’t the right relationship. Sometimes you’re sure the world is one way, and like, always one way . . . and then it rains and the whole world is different again. You know? People pass.”

“My parents aren’t the weather.”

“But they’ll pass.” I should have pushed her off. But even against that, even those words— I liked being held, indulgent as chocolate and twice as guilty. “People sometimes feel forever, especially those kinds of people.” I was off again. “But it rains. And hey, I always know when it’s going to rain.”

I hiccupped; a smile found its way uninvited onto my face, unsure and just wobbly on its feet as Davies. I glanced down after a deep breath. Park grinned back at me and it reached the highest shelves of me all over again.

“So what happens when it rains again? Do you people like you pass?”

“Nah, not me. I don’t know how.” She winked. I didn’t notice that we’re lying flat now, stars and carpet of black above. “You can’t get rid of me. You haven’t given me that tattoo yet.”

The sound of shushing waves filled the midnight air and the moon looked down like that very first bus arriving to get me all those years ago. I wrapped my arms right back around her. She didn’t seem to mind that I was sticky or strange or sometimes kept tearing up all over again even after we’d stop saying anything worth tearing up over. ------------------

It happened. I felt like I should have been more prepared, brought flowers or poetry or earned it through honored warfare. But it happened. I was wearing ripped jeans, a spotty t-shirt and my breath smelled like coffee. We were looking for Park’s lost earring along an overgrown hill she usually biked along.

I found it, one shiny red dewdrop in all that green. Park pointed at some clouds that looked like my last “abstract” tattoo. We lay back in the grass and let the sky pass overhead. She giggled and touched my wrist, side by side. I let her.

“Summer’s almost over.” I mumbled it first.

“Yeah?”

“You find your next step then, college girl?” I tried to keep my tone light. She turned to be on her side.

“Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“That does not sound like a college-girl plan.”

“Maybe I’ve got other plans. Maybe I’ve got other priorities, huh?”

“Ridiculous.” A playfully push her shoulder. “A lousy seaside town really isn’t priority material. There’s only one bookshop you know.”

“Two thank you very much. And that’s not my priority either.” Her voice wavered.

“Are you going to share with the class?”

“Is the class ready?” She whispered and I turned toward her as well now, taking in her perfect round face and question-mark mouth.

“I have been.” I matched her whisper. I tremor from my center outward and hopes she can’t tell.

“Do you know what they say about moths?”

“What?” I gave a breathy laugh. It wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’ve heard of them.”

“They tell your fortune.” She was grinning in that way that put out a stool and reached up. “I used to cry a lot growing up, because some kids said that moths are just evil butterflies. I was sensitive and ran all the way home. I threw myself at my mom’s feet and threw a fit about how moths were just evil butterflies. They were just ugly, wicked versions of a good thing.”

“Evil? Well, I suppose you are rather sinister when you haven’t eaten.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you something.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I inhaled deeply and turned over in place to face her. Only the shallow breeze kept us apart.

“I’m all ears . . . though maybe not as many as you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What can I say? The sun is adorable. I take after him.”

A finger ghosted over my cheek, tracing the arc of my cheekbone. “Well, you’re not so bad behind those headlights too. Some of us have good day vision you know. And good taste.”

I wished those words didn’t make my chest do funny things. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to hear what my mom said or not?”

“That you shouldn’t worry about evil butterflies?” I wiggled closer. “Because you’ll be really hot and funny and smart one day. So who cares if you’re evil?”

“Yeah, those were her exact words.”

“So?”

“So,” a firm hand took my chin. “Look at me.” I looked at her. I was glad she couldn’t see the flush in my cheeks in any way. “Moths show good fortunes she said.”

“Right. Lots and lots of good fortune.” I breathed, dumbly, of course. She was close and sweet and there was hair in her face. The fronds of her antennae tickle right past my ear.

“They can help you find good fortune. They’re good omens. You know why?” Park’s lips were barely moving as she spoke, hypnotic and unhurried.

“Why?”

“Because they follow the light.”

It happened all at once. Like every cheesy love poem or bad lyrics I wrote in my journals at night. It was every cracked-spine of a book using words like “rosebud lips” and every overdone song about people who find their way to each other.

I kissed her, leaning in with no life vest on or readied crash-landing position. She kissed me and my chest filled with her, breathless, drowning, soft as dreams and stranger than hope. I cradled her and she dragged me closer and closer until it was nothing but floods and brimming.

I’d been nothing before I think, I’d been an island that waits, a bus that leaves, a shadow that hides. And then I had been hers. ----------------- I was strolling home from work along the main road. The thin strip of sidewalk was streaked with bleached sunlight and the salt air was thick enough to burn throats. It was the long way home, but I was in the habit of going back to this corner.

The bus pulled up with little ceremony. It was an interstate one that crisscrossed over empty bellies of land. I stopped in place to watch, just in case, as I had many times before.

A silver head bobbed down the steps and planted herself on the concrete, unbelieving. She took an enormous noisy sniff of the air. “Not so bad!” She bellowed.

“Are you?” That wasn’t meant to be my first word. She was more stooped now and wearing shiny things on her wrist that clanked. She’d lost another tooth. “Mags.”

“Eh!” She yelled and waved frantically as if I hadn’t shot up another inch since I last saw her and started wearing clothes without holes in them. Her eyes sparkled as she tottered over. “So how’d you do, kid?”

“See for yourself.” I smiled. It was nice when the tides came back in. Mags gave me a thorough appraising. “Like this I guess.” I held up my hand. I wiggled my ring finger at her, heavy with a silver band and glittering opal.

“That’s my girl! Always knew you’d find your feet.” She cackled. “Am I too late to give you away, kid?”

I shook my head. She waddled over to me so I could take her hand. I took her home to show her my art and new tattoos, I showed her our terrible one-eyed kitten, Basket (Wicker’s son), and the little house we styled ourselves. I showed her our shoe closet and our queen bed, our messy kitchen and busted screen door. I showed her the moth tattoo over my heart, and Park showed her the matching lighthouse one over hers.

I tried to thank her, of course, I tried to say I owed her more than she knew for picking up an angry, dirty kid and seeing something in her. I owed her everything. But she just patted my hand and said that it’s not about our debts in life, kid. It’s about the becoming.

-----------

If you enjoyed the story please consider donating to my ko-fi or supporting me on patreon (even a dollar helps!), check out my Sapphic fantasy book as well!

[chris-evanslover]

SNL

OFC Aria Samsen is a writer for Saturday Night Live in New York City. She works with all the hosts on their sketches, including this weeks guest, Timothée Chalamet. What will happen when she accidentally mixes business with pleasure?

Shit! I’m gonna be late if I stop for coffee, but, if I don’t stop for coffee I won’t be productive. Talk about a slippery slope. I quickly duck into the coffee shop by the subway station I need to take to get to work and order a large iced coffee, Monday’s are usually rough. I thank the barista and rush to catch the A train to work. 

Speaking of work, my job is definitely an interesting one. I am a writer for SNL and it’s been such a dream these past couple of years. I’m 25 and starting to really take off in terms of my writing, I’ve been offered the position to become a part-time cast member multiple times on the show but I don’t think my anxiety would agree with that. I arrive to work a little late with my iced coffee (even though it’s the middle of December) and I make a beeline for my office, which I share with Pete Davidson, who happens to be one of my closest friends. Pete and I are complete opposites if that gives you any context on me.

 “You’re late” Pete laughed as I walked in. 

“Yeah yeah I’m aware, what are you working on?”

 “I’ve had this jets fan club idea for a while and I’ve been waiting for the right host”

 “I didn’t get a chance to check the schedule before leaving Saturday night, who’s the host this week?” 

“Seriously Aria? It’s Timothée Chalamet, he’s actually a friend of mine” 

“Oh sweet, I like his movies”

 “Thank you!” I heard an unfamiliar voice from behind me coming from the doorway. I glare at Pete who’s trying not to laugh, and turn around to face the owner of this voice. Timothée stands there with a smile on his face and reaches his hand out to me, “Timothée, nice to meet you-?”

“Aria” I fumble around placing my coffee, phone and keys down and shake his hand.“Nice to meet you too” Timothée let’s go of my hand and I feel Pete slip past me to dab up (or whatever guys do idfk) Tim. 

“It’s been a minute man how are you?” Pete asked him. “I’ve been great dude, I’m excited to host although I am pretty nervous” “Don’t be, you’ll do great” I smiled at him. Why did I say that, he clearly isn’t having a conversation with me. Great he’s going to think I’m weird now and not want to talk to me or work with me and this whole week is going to be horri-“Thank you Aria” he smiled and locked eyes with me, I felt my cheeks getting hot and averted my gaze to my stuff on Pete’s desk, picking up my drink before taking a sip, stepping back towards my desk.

“I gotta go talk to Colin Jost and Michael Che..can you guys point me in the right direction?” Tim asked. Pete looked at me and smirked saying “Yeah Aria can show you I’m in the middle of a pitch” Tim looked at me and said “Sounds great, lead the way”. I put all my stuff down before sneaking a glare Pete’s way, he knew how nervous I got around guys I didn’t know and he was using me as a pawn in his own enjoyment game. I’m gonna kill him for this.

“Follow me” I said, Timothée started walking next to me. “So, you’re a writer a presume?” I laughed a little bit. “Yeah I write some of the stuff for weekend update and some other sketches as well” “That’s so cool, I’ve been watching the show since I can remember, you should be really proud” “I am, thank you, that’s sweet” he nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“So you and Pete? Are you guys close friends or dating or-?” If I was drinking something at the moment, I’m positive I would’ve choked on it. Did he just ask if I’m dating Pete? Why would he want to know that?

“No, no! Just close friends is all, Pete’s like an older brother to me” Tim smiled at this and let out a laugh. “That’s nice, Pete’s a great guy” I stopped in front of Colin and Michael’s office and turned to him. “Yeah he’s alright I guess, anyway here’s there office, I’m sure you’re gonna be busy all day but you’re probably slotted to sit with Pete and I at some point during the week so I’ll see you around”. How I managed to get all of that out without stuttering terribly over my words is well beyond me.

I went to walk away when I felt Timothée grab my upper left arm, I turned towards him with what I presume looked like a look of confusion on my face, “Thank you for walking me, I hope I see you around sooner rather than later” he smiled and walked into the office, leaving me to contemplate what he just said. 

As I walked back to my office, I couldn’t help but think about him. Sure, I’ve met celebrities but there was something completely disarming about his charisma. He was down to earth, I could just tell. I opened the door to find Pete sitting at his desk, smiling bright at me when he saw I walked in. 

“You spent 5 minutes with Timmy and you already have a crush on him”

I rolled my eyes “I do not have a crush on him, shut up Pete”

“If you don’t yet, I bet you will by the end of the week” What the hell does that mean? I’ll have a crush on him by the end of the week? Well it looks like that trains boarding as we speak, not long till it leaves the station. I couldn’t help myself but go sit at my desk and Google him. 

Timothée Chalamet

Born: December 27, 1995 (25 Years Old) New York City, NY

Height: 5’11

Parents: Nicole Flender, Marc Chalamet

Siblings: Pauline Chalamet

Education: LaGuardia Arts High School, Columbia University, MORE…

Upcoming Films: DUNE (2021), The French Dispatch (2021), MORE…

“I dO nOt HaVe A cRuSh On HiM” Pete imitated me (horrible imitation, by the way). I jumped out my seat, not even noticing he was behind me, looking over my shoulder at my computer. My head fell into my hands as I let out a loud groan of frustration as Pete made his way back to his desk laughing.

“You’ll thank me when I make this happen.”

“Shut up Pete.”

A/N: I decided to go ahead with this multi-part series, not sure how many parts I'm gonna make it but I definitely want to try for 3 or 4, maybe 5, depending on how many ideas I can come up with. Sorry this was a little short but I’m happy to be back to writing, I took a break for a while and It feels great to be back! Ill be adding a Timmy section to my taglist on the google docs at the top of my master list if anyones interested. Im gonna stop rambling, I appreciate feedback or ideas for the rest of the series :) 

Tagging these who responded to my original post about doing this series but I won’t tag you next time if you don’t want me to! @elarasstardust​

[flufffysocks]

let's talk about andi mack's worldbuilding

sorry this took forever to make! i've been pretty busy with school stuff and i kind of lost my inspiration for a bit, but i ultimately really enjoyed writing it! i wish i could've included more pics (tumblr has a max of 10 per post), and it kinda turned from less of a mini analysis to more of an extremely long rant... but i hope it's still a fun read!

i've been rewatching the show over the past few weeks (thanks again to @disneymack for the link!), and i’ve been noticing a lot that i never did the first time around. this is really the first time i’ve watched the show from start to finish since it aired, and it honestly feels so different this time - probably a combination of the fact that i’m not as focused on plot and can appreciate the show as a whole, and also that the fandom is much, much smaller now, so there’s a lot less noise. so the way i’m consuming this show feels super different than it did the first time, but the show itself doesn’t - it’s just as warm and comforting to me as it was the first time around, if not more so.

i think a lot of that can be attributed to andi mack’s “worldbuilding”. i’m not quite sure that this is the right word in this context, to be honest, because i mostly see it used in reference to fantasy and sci-fi universes, but it just sort of feels right to me for andi mack, because you can really tell how much love and care went into constructing this universe. for clarity, worldbuilding is “the process of creating an imaginary world” in its simplest sense. there’s two main types: hard worldbuilding, which involves inventing entire universes, languages, people, cultures, places, foods, etc. from scratch (think “lord of the rings” or “dune”), and soft worldbuilding, in which the creators don’t explicitly state or explain much about the fictional universe, but rather let it’s nature reveal itself as the story progresses (think studio ghibli films). andi mack to me falls in the soft worldbuilding category. even though it takes place in a realistic fiction universe, there’s a lot of aspects to it that are inexplicably novel in really subtle ways.

so watching the show now, i’ve noticed that the worldbuilding comes primarily from two things - setting and props, and oftentimes the both of them in tandem (because a big part of setting in filmmaking does depend on the props placed in it!).

one of the most obvious examples is the spoon. it really is a sort of quintessential, tropic setting in that it's the main gang's "spot", which automatically gives it a warm and homey feel to it. and its set design only amplifies this:

the choice to make it a very traditional 50s-style diner creates a very nostalgic, retro feel to it, which is something that's really consistent throughout the show, as you'll see. from the round stools at the bar, to the booths, to the staff uniforms, this is very obvious. the thing that i found especially interesting about it though is the choice of color. the typical 50s diner is outfitted with metallic surfaces and red accented furnishings, but the spoon is very distinctly not this.

instead, it's dressed in vibrant teal and orange, giving it a very fresh and modern take on a classic look. so it still maintains that feeling of being funky and retro, but that doesn't retract from the fact that the show is set distinctly in modern times.

of course, this could just be a one-off quirky set piece, but this idea of modernizing and novelizing "retro" things is a really common motif throughout the show. take red rooster records. i mean, it's a record shop - need i say more? it's obviously a very prominent store in shadyside, at least for the main characters, but there's no apparent reason why it is (until season 2 when bowie starts working there, and jonah starts performing there). a lot of the time, though, it functions solely as a record shop. vinyl obviously isn't the most practical or convenient way of listening to music, but it's had its resurgence in pop culture even in the real world, mostly due to its aesthetic value, so it's safe to say that it serves the same purpose in the andi mack universe.

the fringe seems to be nostalgic of a different era, specifically the Y2K/early 2000s period (because it's meant to be bex's territory and symbolic of who she used to be, and its later transformation into cloud 10 is representative of her character arc, but that's beside the point). to be honest, exactly what this store was supposed to be always confused me. it was kind of a combination party store/clothing store/makeup store/beauty parlor? i think that's sort of the point of it though, it's supposed to feel very grunge-y and chaotic (within the confines of a relatively mellow-toned show, of course), and it's supposed to act as a sort of treasure chest of little curios that both make the place interesting and allow the characters to interact with it.

and, of course, there's andi shack. this is really the cherry on top of all of andi mack's sets, just because it's so distinctly andi. it serves such amazing narrative purpose for her (ex. the storyline where cece and ham were going to move - i really loved this because it highlights its place in the andi mack universe so well, and i'm a sucker for the paper cranes shot + i'm still salty that sadie's cranes didn't make it into the finale) and it's the perfect reflection of andi's character development because of how dynamic it is (the crafts and art supplies can get moved around or switched out, and there's always new creations visible).

going back to the nostalgia motif though, the "shack" aspect of it always struck me as very treehouse-like. personally, whenever i think of treehouses, there's this very golden sheen of childhood about it, if that makes sense. i've always seen treehouses in media as a sort of shelter for characters' youthful innocence and idealistic memories. for example, the episode "up a tree" from good luck charlie, the episode "treehouse" from modern family, and "to all the boys 2" all use a treehouse setting as a device to explore the character's desire to hold onto their perfect image of their childhood (side note: this exact theme is actually explored in andi mack in the episode "perfect day 2.0"!). andi shack is no exception to this, but it harnesses this childhood idealism in the same way that it captures the nostalgia of the 50s in the spoon, or the early 2000s in the fringe. it's not some image of a distant past being reflected through that setting; it's very present, and very alive, because it reflects andi as she is in the given moment.

some honorable mentions of more one-off settings include the ferris wheel (from "the snorpion"), the alley art gallery (from "a walker to remember"), SAVA, the color factory (from "it's a dilemna"), and my personal favorite, the cake shop (from "that syncing feeling").

[every time i watch this episode i want to eat those cakes so bad]

these settings have less of a distinctly nostalgic feel (especially the color factory, which is a very late 2010s, instagram era setting), but they all definitely have an aura of perfection about them. andi mack is all about bright, colorful visuals, and these settings really play to that, making the andi mack universe seem really fun and inviting, and frankly very instagrammable (literally so, when it comes to the color factory!).

props, on the other hand, are probably a much less obvious tool of worldbuilding. they definitely take up less space in the frame and are generally not as noticeable (i'm sure i'll have missed a bunch that will be great examples, but i'm kind of coming up with all of this off the top of my head), but they really tie everything together.

for example, bex's box, bex's polaroid, and the old tv at the mack apartment (the tv is usually only visible in the periphery of some shots, so you might not catch it at first glance) all complement that very retro aesthetic established through the settings (especially the polaroid and the tv, because there's really no good reason that the characters would otherwise be using these).

besides this, andi's artistic nature provides the perfect excuse for plenty of colorful, crafty props to amplify the visuals and the tone. obviously, as i discussed before, andi shack is the best example of this because it's filled with interesting props. but you also see bits of andi's (and other people's) crafts popping up throughout the show (ex. the tape on the fridge in the mack apartment, andi's and libby's headbands in "the new girls", walker's shoes, andi's phone case, and of course, the bracelet). not only does doing this really solidify this talent as an essential tenet of andi's character, but it also just makes the entirety of shadyside feel like an extension of andi shack. the whole town is a canvas for her crafts (or art, depending on how you want to look at it. i say it's both), and it immensely adds to shadyside's idealism. because who wouldn't want to live in a world made of andi mack's creations?

and, while it's not exactly a prop, the characters' wardrobe is undoubtedly a major influence on the show's worldbuilding. true to it's nature as a disney channel show, all of the characters are always dressed in exceptionally curated outfits of whatever the current trends are, making the show that much more visually appealing. i won't elaborate too much on this, because i could honestly write a whole other analysis on andi mack's fashion (my favorites are andi's and bex's outfits! and kudos to the costume designer(s) for creating such wonderful and in-character wardrobes!). but, i think it's a really really important aspect of how the show's universe is perceived, so it had to be touched upon.

[^ some of my favorite outfits from the show! i am so obsessed with andi's jacket in the finale, and i aspire to be at bex's level of being a leather jacket bisexual]

and lastly, phones. this is a bit of an interesting case (pun intended), because the way they're used fluctuates a bit throughout the show, but i definitely noticed that at least in the first season terri minsky tried to avoid using them altogether. these efforts at distancing from modern tech really grounds the show in it's idealist, nostalgia-heavy roots, so even when the characters start using their phones more later in the show, they don't alter the viewer's impression of the andi mack universe very much.

so, what does all of this have to do with worldbuilding? in andi mack's case, because it's set in a realistic universe and not a fantasy one, a lot of what sets it apart from the real world comes down to tone. because, as much as this world is based on our own, it really does feel separate from it, like an alternate reality that's just slightly more perfect than ours, which makes all the difference. it's the idealism in color and composition in andi mack's settings that makes it so unmistakably andi mack. even the weather is always sunny and perfect (which is incredibly ironic because the town is called shadyside - yes, i am very proud of that observation).

the andi mack universe resides somewhere in this perfect medium that makes it feel like a small town in the middle of nowhere (almost like hill valley in 1955 from "back to the future"), but at the same time like an enclave within a big city (because of its proximity to so many modern, unique, and honestly very classy looking establishments). it is, essentially, an unattainable dream land that tricks you into believing it is attainable because it's just real enough.

all this to say, andi mack does an amazing job of creating of polished, perfect world for its characters. this is pretty common among disney channel and nickelodeon shows, but because most other shows tend to be filmed in a studio with three-wall sets, andi mack is really set apart from them in that it automatically feels more real and tangible. it has its quintessential recurring locations, but it has far more of them (most disney/nick shows usually only have 3-4 recurring settings), and it has a lot more one-off locations. it's also a lot more considerate when it comes to its props, so rather than the show just looking garish and aggressively trendy, it has a distinctive style that's actually appropriate to the characters and the story. overall this creates the effect of expanding the universe, making shadyside feel like it really is a part of a wider world, rather than an artificial bubble. it's idealism is, first and foremost, grounded in reality, and that provides a basis for its brilliant, creative, and relatable storytelling.

tl;dr: andi mack's sets and props give it a very retro and nostalgic tone which makes its whole universe seem super perfect and i want to live there so bad!!