#fade to black macro

[uroboros-if]

Fade to Black Macro V2

My previous code was completely incomprehensible; here is a MUCH simpler and elegant solution with jQuery. Thanks to TheMadExile for their post on splash screens! This is simply a modification of their original code. In this case, please do not credit me.

Features

Compatible with backgrounds.

Adjustable fade in, fade out, and delay.

Default is a black screen, but can use a web image instead.

Overall much more flexible, smooth, and clean.

Just get the JavaScript here and the CSS here. Instructions and demo on Itch.io, but instructions also below readme.

Usage

To use it, you must use the link macro WITHOUT an additional argument for the passage name you want to go to. Instead, include that in the passagefade macro that comes with the Javascript code.

The new macro above uses the following arguments: how long it takes to fade in the black screen, how long it stays, and how long it fades out in miliseconds.

You can additionally have a fifth argument with the web image URL in quotes to use an image instead. If you don't have a fifth argument, it will default to a black background.

[idrellegames]

Hi, I love your game and I've been following along with it since chapter 1. I've been wonder this for a while, but how did you do the chapter intros? The black screen and then words appearing? Thanks for you time and I hope you keep up the good work!

I use ChapelR's Fading Macro.

Episode title screens have a separate design from the rest of the game. My tutorial on making a main menu/title page is a place to start for that.

Good luck!

[topazs-stuff]

Living planets < II >

"Planets as living creatures... Did he drink too much?" Alex muttered under his breath, still trying to make sense of what Ishu had said. His mind raced, grasping at the implications. "But then again... if I were a creature the size of a planet, and smaller creatures were living on me... I’d probably smash them if they got annoying, right?"

He paused, turning the thought over in his mind. According to Ishu, this kind of destruction—the volcanoes, earthquakes, and other disasters—wasn't random. It was the planet acting out, responding to something, perhaps even sending a warning. The idea seemed crazy, but somehow, it fit. The disasters were sudden, unpredictable, and without warning—just like a living being's erratic temper.

"But a living planet? Something that big... it’s infeasible." Alex rubbed his temples, the concept too strange, too alien to wrap his mind around. "I mean... it could explain things. But it’s just so weird. This is gonna give me a fucking headache."

He sighed heavily and looked at the clock on his desk. "Guess I should sleep for a while. Clear my head. Maybe in the morning... it’ll all make sense."

While Alex slept, his phone buzzed on the desk, the bright screen illuminating the dark room. He groggily reached for it, eyes squinting as he read the new message from Ishu:

"See this latest report from NASA. It might help you get to some conclusion. I wouldn’t share this with anyone else due to its classified nature, but you're an exception. You’re the first person to genuinely show interest in Earth as a planet. Most are obsessed with stars, convinced that they're the key to understanding our universe. They forget that Earth is a part of it too."

The words lingered in Alex's mind, even after the screen faded to black. He couldn’t help but feel a chill run down his spine. Ishu was giving him access to something no one else had seen—and the implications were unsettling. The idea that Earth, this familiar, seemingly lifeless planet, might be alive... maybe he wasn’t as crazy as he thought.

Alex groggily rubbed his eyes and slid out of bed, the glowing screen of his laptop casting long shadows across the room. He opened the file Ishu had sent, glanced at the first few lines, then muttered under his breath, "This better be worth it." He hit send to forward the report to his home system.

Stretching his neck and sighing, he said aloud, "Alexa, start reading the report I just sent."

The AI responded with a soft chime, and seconds later, a mechanical yet calming voice began narrating the document. Alex shuffled toward the kitchen, his body heavy but his mind racing. As the coffeemaker sputtered and hissed, releasing the rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee, his attention remained glued to the disembodied voice echoing through the room.

The AI paused for a moment before continuing in its clinical tone.

"If you have access to this classified document, then you are one of the 500 most important scientists in the world. Sharing access with anyone outside this circle will result in immediate execution."

Alex froze, coffee mug in hand. The stark warning set his nerves on edge. He leaned against the counter, his heart thudding in his chest. The AI resumed:

"Proceeding with the report.

In 2028, two rovers were sent by NASA to Kepler-22b under the guise of routine exploration. Official records label them as ‘nonfunctional’ shortly after landing, with no attempt to retrieve data. This was a cover-up.

The latest findings from Kepler-22b have led to bone-chilling discoveries and groundbreaking hypotheses regarding our universe. Most notably, Kepler-22b itself is not merely a planet. Kepler-22b is a living organism."

Alex's breath caught, and he nearly spilled his coffee. He set the mug down carefully and moved closer to the laptop, as if proximity might make the words less surreal.

"This planet exhibits a unique form of biological organization: a macro-organism with systems analogous to veins, organs, and other structures required for sustenance. Kepler-22b is alive.

Further research indicates this phenomenon is not unique to Kepler-22b. Evidence suggests this may be the case for every planet in our solar system, including Mars. During the rover missions to Mars, anomalous structures were discovered beneath its surface, resembling vascular networks. Though these findings were buried, the implications are staggering.

Given the biological and geological similarities between Kepler-22b and Earth, the possibility that Earth itself is a living organism must now be considered."

The AI's voice droned on, but Alex had stopped hearing it. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he had just learned.

"Living planets... Earth might be alive..."

The implications were too vast to process. If Earth was alive, then humanity wasn’t just living on a planet—it was living inside a creature. He felt a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He knew he should have dismissed it as nonsense, a leap of logic too absurd to take seriously.

And yet, the evidence he had seen—the unexplained disasters, the eerie patterns in the geological data—it all started to fit. He thought of Ishu’s cryptic remarks, his own sleepless nights running simulation after simulation, and the growing sense that something vast and unknowable loomed just beyond his comprehension.

He sank into his chair, staring blankly at the screen. For a long time, he didn’t move.

[thelearningcurvephotography]

Trinity College Chapel Reflection 1 Posters by The Learning Curve Photography on Cafepress. Interior of The Trinity College Chapel at No 6 Hoskin Ave in Toronto Canada. View from the entrance way to the chapel on the north end towards the pulpit at the south. Original photography using a Canon EOS 60D body with a Sigma 17-70mm f2.8 DC Macro OS lens and Silver EFEX Pro as a Lightroom plugin for the Black and White conversion. Reflection effect added in Photoshop. • Printed on Heavyweight 7 mil Semi Gloss Paper • Paper Measures 16" x 20" • Image Measures 18.2" x 13.0" • Superior Dye Inks That Resist Fading #posters #cafepress #prints #wallart #toronto #blackandwhitephotography #photography #architecture

[brianpattersonagilenttechnologie]

Mastering Light: Key Underwater Photography Lighting Techniques

Capturing stunning images beneath the waves is a mesmerizing yet challenging art form. One of the most crucial aspects of underwater photography is lighting, which plays a vital role in showcasing the vivid marine life, rich colors, and ethereal beauty of the underwater world. Proper lighting can make or break an underwater shot, and understanding the techniques to manipulate light effectively is essential for creating breathtaking photos. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced underwater photographer, these lighting techniques will help you enhance your skills and produce exceptional images.

Understanding the Behavior of Light Underwater

Before delving into specific lighting techniques, it's essential to understand how light behaves underwater. Water absorbs and scatters light, which causes colors to fade and contrast to diminish the deeper you go. Red, orange, and yellow wavelengths of light are absorbed first, often leaving underwater images with a blue or green tint. To combat this, underwater photographers must employ artificial lighting to restore the full spectrum of colors and illuminate their subjects effectively.

The Importance of External Strobes and Flash

One of the essential tools for any underwater photographer is an external strobe or flash. Unlike surface photography, the ambient light underwater is insufficient to illuminate subjects properly. Strobes provide bursts of light that freeze motion, bring out colors, and add depth to your images. Using strobes strategically can help balance light on your subject and reduce backscatter — the reflection of light from particles in the water that can ruin an image.

For most underwater photography, dual strobes are recommended. By positioning one strobe on each side of the camera, you create a balanced light that minimizes harsh shadows and highlights details. Adjust the power of each strobe depending on the size and proximity of your subject, and experiment with different angles to achieve the best results.

Wide-Angle Lighting for Large Subjects

Wide-angle underwater photography is ideal for capturing large marine creatures like sharks, manta rays, or schools of fish. However, lighting significant subjects underwater requires skill to ensure even illumination across the scene.

When photographing wide-angle shots, it's crucial to avoid pointing the strobes directly at the subject. This will overexpose the foreground and leave the background dark. Instead, angle your strobes outward so that the edges of the light beams hit the subject, creating a more natural, even distribution of light. This technique, known as "feathering the light," helps highlight the subject while retaining details in the background. Additionally, move closer to your subject to reduce the distance the light needs to travel, as light loses intensity quickly in water.

Macro Photography Lighting for Small Subjects

Macro underwater photography focuses on small subjects like nudibranchs, seahorses, and shrimp. Proper lighting in macro photography can highlight intricate details and vibrant colors that are often lost without controlled lighting.

For macro shots, use a single strobe placed close to the camera lens to concentrate light on the subject. Unlike wide-angle photography, macro lighting requires a more focused and intense light source. Using a diffuser can soften the light and reduce harsh shadows, resulting in smoother and more natural-looking images. Another tip is to use a beak, a device that narrows the light beam, to direct light precisely onto the subject, creating dramatic, high-contrast images.

Balancing Ambient Light with Strobe Light

Achieving a balance between ambient light and artificial strobe light is critical to creating well-exposed underwater images. If the strobe light is too strong, the background can appear unnaturally dark or black, while if ambient light dominates, the image may lack contrast and color vibrancy.

To achieve this balance, adjust your camera's settings, such as ISO, shutter speed, and aperture, to match the ambient light while using the strobes to illuminate your subject. A slower shutter speed will allow more ambient light to fill the frame, while a higher ISO can help capture the ambient light at greater depths. Experimenting with these settings will help you create images that look natural and maintain the colors of the underwater environment.

Overcoming Backscatter

One of the biggest challenges in underwater photography is dealing with backscatter — the unwanted reflection of light from particles suspended in the water. These particles are often illuminated by your strobes, resulting in distracting white specks in your photos.

To minimize backscatter, position your strobes away from the camera and angle them so that the light does not reflect directly back into the lens. Feathering the strobes, as mentioned earlier, can also help reduce the likelihood of illuminating particles in the water. Additionally, getting closer to your subject will reduce the amount of water between the camera and the subject, minimizing the opportunity for backscatter to occur.

Color Correction and Filters

Even with the best lighting techniques, underwater images may still need color correction to bring out the true colors of the scene. One method is to use color-correcting filters, which help compensate for the loss of red, orange, and yellow wavelengths in deeper water. Red filters, in particular, can help restore these colors and reduce the need for excessive post-processing.

However, filters are not always a substitute for good lighting, especially when shooting at greater depths. In such cases, adjusting the white balance in your camera or post-production is essential to ensure the colors are as accurate as possible.

Creative Lighting Techniques

Once you've mastered the basics, experimenting with creative lighting techniques can elevate your underwater photography to the next level. Side lighting, for example, can create a dramatic effect by highlighting a subject's texture and shape. Backlighting, where the strobe is positioned behind the subject, can produce stunning silhouettes or illuminate translucent marine creatures like jellyfish.

Another creative approach is using a light source separate from your camera, such as a dive buddy holding a strobe at a distance. This off-camera lighting technique adds depth to your image and allows for more dynamic compositions.

Light as the Key to Captivating Underwater Images

Underwater photography lighting techniques are essential to capturing the vivid beauty of the ocean. From wide-angle shots of majestic marine life to intricate macro photography, mastering the use of light can make your images stand out. By understanding how light behaves underwater and experimenting with different tools and techniques, you can create captivating images that bring the magic of the underwater world to the surface.

[mylesbyond]

Okay! I know you're asking for a song and I will get to that in a second! Those who have met me in-game and those who have been forced to party with me know that I have a macro that I use to start every duty. Because every he-roe needs a motto! The motto is, "Together we can go further than we can alone. Together, we can go Myles Beyond!"

Originally I created an Arrowverse style monologue for my character because I was going to try and make videos but never got around to it. Basically the intro before the video got into the meat and popotos it would go something like, "Division has come and conquered our nation. Properganda has split families and friends apart. And so we fall. It only takes one voice to unite. To rally the hearts of men and women alike. To show the world that together we can go further than we can alone. Together, we can go Myles Beyond!" Or something similar.

Back to the main question at hand though! The song I would choose would be Push it to the Limit - Missing Tide.

The opening sequence would be Myles running in front of someone helpless, arms crossed in a defensive stance, taking a massive blow that would have killed the average man. Blown into the sky the background would fade to white as he fell aimlessly. Clothes tattered and his consciousness vacant. His body begins to glow a soft yellow until it engulfs his entirety. When the light dispurses his fairy companion taps his forehead to awaken him. Beyond's eyes drift open. Groggly he looks around and notices he now has wings. Instead of falling to his doom, he gently glides to the ground landing on one knee. One hand reaching out behind him while the other balled into a fish pressed into the ground. A perfect execution of a he-roe pose! As his head rises the camera zooms in to see a smirk on his face. Fade to black and the show begins!

Silly OC Question...

If your OC were to have a James Bond style opening credits sequence for their story, then what would be the song you would choose to go with it? And what might be the theme of the sequence?

[headingalaxys-sweet]

Neko’s Brought me to my Lover:

Germany 🇩🇪

Germany had just arisen from his still-warm bed. He stretches his limbs so that his muscles have a smooth transition from rest into high heart rate mode. He touched his toes and then lifted his arms to the sky. He then proceeded to change into the black sweatpants he used for jogging and a white T-shirt. He slipped on his usual black tennis shoes and began to finish his preparations for his daily morning jog. He gave his legs a few more stretches and he felt like he was fully ready for his morning run.

“Hans are you ready Katze?” He says in a soft but stern voice.

His grey/ blue eyes nodded in agreement. The cat was also ready to start the day off right.

Ludwig grabbed the green cameo-colored harness and secured it around his precious grey cat, Hans. Ince his cat was ready to go he snapped on his Apple watch to track his morning jogs progress and to count his macros.

‘Alright, let's make today productive.’

Ludwig began his journey into the cool morning air the sun was only grazing the darkened night sky lightly. The navy dome held within it a now collision between the two solar opposites. There was a brilliant reddish-orange that faded into yellow and progressed into cooler hues. Ludwig loved this time in the morning. The world was still quiet and cradled by darkness. When he left his home and began his jog he didn’t immediately start with a run. He took some steps and decided to take in the early morning glory and all it had to offer. The birds chirping and the wind beginning to nip at his ears with the chilled breeze. Peace. The only time where he wasn’t bombarded by the tremendous list of things he had to get done on his to-do list.

He strolled passed the surrounding houses on the pathway that led into the forest he liked to frequent on his morning jogs. The houses were all pastel or solid white. There were floral vines that cascaded down them like a lightning bolt of early Spring blooms of yellow, pink, and blue. While passing the cottages he could see that all but one had their lights on. They were dim and he could smell a green tea of sorts being brewed. While he could only smell the tea Hans could smell another cat nearby in the same house that the scent of tea was wafting from.

Someone else in the neighborhood enjoyed early mornings just as much as I did. How nice.

As Ludwig mused to himself as he continued to the forest Hans decided to wander away from their usual route.

‘Boring I want to do something cool today. Maybe make a new friend that I can make battle plans with.’ Hans begins to maneuver away from Ludwig and re-route himself towards the only cottage that was alive at 5:30 am.

Ludwig only realized his cat had plans when the harness’ lead was suddenly yanked from his left hand.

“HANS! WAS MACHTS DU?!?! WARTEN SIE!” (What are you doing!?! Wait!)

Hans made a mad dash towards the small home and broke in through the cat door in the back that led straight to the kitchen.

‘Mein Gott. Why? And this early in the morning?!’ He lets out a long sigh and begins his way toward the house. ‘I hope whoever lives there isn’t too angry that a rouge cat decided to show up this early in the morning.’

“MEWOOOOOOW.” Hans, announces himself to the inhabitants that live inside. He was greeted by y/n a 20-something that had a cat beside them while they were making breakfast of sorts. Bread, with some sliced meat, and some basic cheese and of course the tea.

“Hello, there little guy.” You were amused that a random cat with a harness decided to bust in your home this early in the morning. You chuckle at the sight. Your cat hides behind your legs and peeks out at Hans.

“Mew” your cat looks up at you.

“Hahah. It’s okay (cat name). It’s just another cat.” You giggle at your cat's reaction to the grey one that seemed interested in trying to meet your cute marble cat.

Hans allows you to pet him. He purrs and even lays down to let you rub his belly. Your cat however was staring at the events like: ‘Bruh. You kidding me right?’ She was not happy with Hans.

Just as you arose from the floor to pour out your steeping tea you hear your doorbell ring.

‘Must be the cat's owner. That was fast.’ You wander to the door to open it to reveal a sturdy-looking German man that was your age. His beautiful blue caught you in a bind.

oh …

“Morgen. Morning. Uh, I’m sorry to bother you this early in the morning but….” Ludwig lets his eyes swing low to the ground. He was caught off guard by how beautiful you were so in an attempt to save face he decided not to stare you down in the eyes. Plus it was hardly 6 am. So the excuse that he’s tired and just trying to get his cat might just be an excuse that could work and not scare you away.

“Seen your cat? Yes, he’s-”

“Mewwww mewwwww~” You hear Hans cry out to your marble cat.

“Want to just come in and maybe have some tea? It looks like your cat has taken a liking to mine” You let out another chuckle that Ludwig finds cute and he is in disbelief that you’re allowing him in. He trails behind you inside to your quaint kitchen where you quickly grab the tea before it got to the point to where it would be bitter and poured it into two mugs.

“Do you take milk and sugar with your tea? It’s Jasmine tea by the way.” You hand the mug to him.

“Just the tea alone will do for me thank you. Again. I’m so sorry about my cat he can be wild sometimes.”

“It’s fine things happen and cats are crazy. No harm no foul.” You retort you really didn’t care.

“Want to have some bread with this sausage? I found this nice bakery yesterday and it was epic and the supermarkets here are fantastic.”

A foreigner.

Ludwig was lost in thought as he watched Hans meowed relentlessly at the marbled cat that stared at him with disgust from the wooden high chair.

‘Verrückt Katze.’

You placed the food on the table and prepared your tea with milk and some honey and watched your two cats go at each other for the next couple of hours.

“By the way what's your name.” Trying to break the silence and ignoring the no answer to the previous statement.

Ludwig snaps out of his trance of watching the cats.

“Huh? Oh Yes, it’s Ludwig Belischmidt. And you are?”

“(First name, Last name) nice to meet you Ludwig.”

“Y/N what a pretty name. So I take it that you’re new ja?”

“Yeah from (Country name). I’m starting a new job here.”

And from there a new relationship between the two of you bloomed. Ludwig takes his time in courting you but it was sweet all the same. Even for your two cats who eventually learned to love each other.

[superbnature]

autumn - fading beauty - 2 by gerkenmartin http://ift.tt/2hkU1IL

[uroboros-if]

Fade to Black Macro

Demo

I have finally turned my fade to black transitions into a somewhat easy to use macro!! :) I am not sure if this has been done before!

Customizable fade times

Built to be compatible with backward and forward buttons (mostly!)

Works across all screen sizes

Note: This is only for SugarCube.

Setup

Copy and paste this Pastebin to your Story JavaScript.

Copy and paste this Pastebin to your Story Stylesheet.

Make a new passage titled exactly as "black_fade". Add the passage tag, "black-fade". Inside, write <div id="black"></div>. Super important! Copy below identically.

After this, your installment of the macro should be complete!

Usage

In the passages where you will be fading from and where you will be fading to, tag it as "passage-fade". For example, I want to transition from "p1" to "p2" with a black fade. Thus, both p1 and p2 should have the tag.

In the passage where you will be fading from, write <<fadestart>>.

Use the <<link>> macro to link to your destination. Inside the link macro, use <<passagefade "[passage name]" [fade time]>> where [passage name] is the passage you want to go to, and fade time is how long the black fade will be in miliseconds. (1000ms = 1s). However, do NOT put the passage you will be going to in the <> macro itself. See below:

Here, I want to go to the passage "p2". Do NOT write <<link "Next passage" "p2">><</link>>. Do not provide the destination passage in the link macro itself. The macro <<passagefade>> will handle it for you if you specify the passage name in the first argument.

Once you do all this, you should be able to sit back and happily use it as you please!

Problems?

Make sure you have the passage "black_fade" titled exactly like that.

Also make sure it has <div id="black"></div> and nothing more!

Make sure "black_fade" is tagged with "black-fade".

Make sure you used <<fadestart>> in the passage you are transitioning from.

Make sure you are correctly using the macro <<passagefade>>. You specify time in miliseconds; it should not have "ms" or "s" included in the argument. It should just be the number (e.g. 4000 for 4 seconds).

Make sure the passages you are fading from and to are tagged with "passage-fade".

There may be CSS/HTML that is interfering with the look of the fade!

There may be other JavaScript code interering with the current code.

If you are having problems, please let me take a look at your Stylesheet or let me know what template you are using! However, I highly recommend looking at the playable and downloadable demo.

(This macro is free to use, free to copy for all commercial and non-commercial projects with no additional fees. Credit is appreciated!)

[foxelfprincess]

[tv review] ds9 2x20 & 2x21 "the maquis" (1994)

the lead-in to this two-parter was the tng episode “journey’s end,” y’know the racist one about indigenous people. no, not that one. or that one. or that one. the one with wesley. yeah, there ya go. the chaser was “preemptive strike,” the drastically better episode where ro goes undercover to figure out what’s going on with the maquis and ends up joining them. so, yeah, neat little arc that cuts between two shows to give the titular antagonists of this episode an auspicious introduction.

this wasn’t a phenomenal two-parter or anything, but it gets the job done. sisko feeling personally betrayed by hudson leaving starfleet for the maquis is a familiar look that ds9 will return to again & again whenever they’re the antagonists. i think the first episode did a great job of introducing him and emphasizing his relationship with sisko, and both actors did a really great job of making their relationship feel lived-in so even though this was an entirely new character you really do feel for sisko when he finds out his friend has turned his back on sisko.

dukat’s role in this episode is also an interesting one. i love his dramatic entrance and the tense cooperation between him & sisko. speaking of well-known cardassians, though, in the petty complaints department, this two-parter’s lack of garak was nigh unforgivable. how do you do an episode that’s largely about political intrigue with the cardassians and not include him? c’mon, man!

the politics of the entire cardassian border thing are a bit interesting. like, the thing that ds9 brings up pretty often is that they’re dealing with life on the margins of a spacefaring utopian socialist society whose citizens are largely provided for in every material way, and consequently can generally be relied upon to treat each other with respect & kindness. there’s a line that’s said in a few different places, that it’s “easy to be a saint in paradise,” and what ds9 is often interested in is where the cracks in paradise are, and how people behave there.

i’m anxious to see how i’m going to feel during this rewatch about the way that’s handled on a micro & macro scale, and i’m sure there are going to be things that i violently disagree with. but my overall memory is that where the show usually lands is that all of these people really are dedicated to what the federation stands for. that they don’t want to fight, but that it’s worth fighting for.

i appreciate that sisko refuses to destroy commander hudson’s ship at the end of the engagement when both sides are basically knocked out of fighting commission but not destroyed, because he refuses to kill someone for defending his home. but one thing i would have liked to see tweaked a little bit is the conversation at the end of the episode. when kira tells sisko he should be glad he prevented a war, and sisko is all broody and asks if he actually prevented it or just delayed the inevitable. because when you’re in a position of marginal power in a situation like this, preventing a war for as long as you can is absolutely the most heroic thing you can do? it’s literally at the very limit of what you have control over.

i get why sisko is broody & uncertain here, but i don’t like fading to black on his brooding. i would have liked kira to have a forceful rejoinder about this being literally the most he can do. like, i don’t think anyone could have possibly have expected him to have done as well as he did. there’s maybe like three people in the galaxy who could have pulled it off.

anyway, yeah. pretty good two-parter with banner moments for sisko aplenty.

b-rank

[88mooncat88]

find the bug🐞 …………………………………………………………………………………………… #nature #travel #explore #instagood #beautiful #instadaily #spring #photooftheday #picoftheday #grass #ukraine #kiev #comment #green #color #colors #black #fade #macro #stick #liffy #bug #beetle (at Національний Ботанічний сад ім. Гришка НАН України) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bl2HRE9htWv/?igshid=1g9nokjc87uw4

[unknownwriting]

Ruin Our Friendship

[Part 2]

Summary: Poor Ace has fallen head over heels for his best friend but he's scared that he'll ruin their friendship if he tells her. (pt. 1)  

Characters: Portgas D. Ace

Song Inspiration: Jenny by Studio Killers

Work count: 1.6k

Notes: Omg I love Ace so much and I miss him so much too. I wish I could find more fanfics with him ☹️

━━☆⌒*.

Loud music and laughed filled the college bar, as everyone celebrated the beginning of the weekend. It's not rare to have parties like these every Friday, the weekend is the only free time said students can relax and party. While shouts of laughter ring from the happy drunk, cries of stress and sadness can be heard from the sad drunks too. One sound of drunken cries can be heard from a college regular who always companied with his friends. Portgas D. Ace, a junior in college who seems to be having a bit a girl problems at the moment.

"I just don't understand why this has to be so hard. Why can't I just tell her!?" The jet-black haired male cried out slamming his beer onto the bar, along with his head. His friends looked down at him, all thinking the same question.

"You've never had trouble before. Just tell her, she probably won't even shoot you down. And if she does, a bunch of other girls would be happy with you." His close friend Thatch tried to soothe the younger man with his girl problems. It was true though, Ace never seemed to have any problems with any girl so what made this girl so special. Why can't he just come out and say it?

"I wanna but (Y/n)'s my best friend and if she doesn't like me, it's just gonna make things soooo awkward." Ace exclaimed picking his head back up and looking over at Thatch. With his ears ringing from the noise and his head hurting from the alcohol, he found it hard to think straight. Ace didn't mean for the night to go this away either but after a few cups, he just couldn't help himself from talking about it. It's been a while since he first fell in love with his best friend and the feelings don't seem to be fading anytime soon, they only continued to grow. Although he's dated others before these feels seem to be so new to him, he couldn't help but overthink them. At one point, he honestly thought he had heart failure. His eyes fell back down to his beer as he mumbled, "I don't wanna ruin our friendship..."

"Then don't." Another voice, Macro, chimed in as he's finished his drink. The others looked at him clearly confused and raised an eyebrow.

"Huh?" Seeing how the 2 of them didn't understand at all, Marco sighed as he began to explain what he means.

"Decide whether or not you wanna date her. Because being friends and being lovers are 2 different things. So make sure you wanna actually date her before you make your move." Marco explained, clearing up the confusion for Thatch but not for Ace. He still looked at Marco with confusion. Ace knows (Y/n) like the back of his hand, so why would she be any different from his lover. Now that Marco tried to explain his thoughts, Thatch took over hopefully to clear up at least some of the confusion.

"Take her on a practice date."

"A practice date?"

"Yeah. Invite her to an amusement park or a movie and see how it goes. Just make sure you don't bring up it being a practice date and all." Thatch explained. Ace looked at him, slowly coming around to the idea, and once he was able to understand the idea his eyes lit up. It wasn't a bad idea, going on a date with (Y/n). He thought about how it would be a go on a date with her and how cute she would end up being. However, the more he thought about the idea didn't make much sense to him after all. Wouldn't it just be like going to an amusement park with his best friend?

"Uh...but isn't that the same as hanging out with her?" Ace questioned already feeling sober. The idea completely sobered him up, as if he hadn't had any beer tonight.

"Tell her that you are inviting her to a date and I promise you it won't feel the same." Thatch laughed, slapping Ace's back, "If you tell a girl it's a date I guarantee she's gonna be a completely different person."

"But you said not to tell her it a-"

"Just ask her!"

ミ☆

After a long night of Macro and Thatch trying to help out their dense friend, they finally got Ace to ask (Y/n) out. It took a bit longer for him to build up the guts to ask her but it didn't come as a surprise when she ended up saying yes. Marco and Thatch heard of (Y/n), they've seen her around school and heard so many stories about her from Ace. They haven't met yet with her being a year below Ace, but they already knew what she was like. Of course, she was gonna say yes because she's just that nice of a person, even though the date was very last minute. With Ace going on a date, the 3 of them had called it an early night and helped Ace with a few things, like buy the tickets and planning out his outfit. Once all of that was done, all Ace has to do is go on this date with his best friend, which sounds more stressful than it was. He ended up arriving a bit early but it wasn't long till (Y/n) had shown up.

"Ya'know, I was a bit surprised when you asked me on a date. I almost thought you didn't have it in you." (Y/n) teases as she walked up to Ace, who leaned against the railing of the entrance, scrolling through his phone. Once her cheery voice filled his ears though, he quickly perked up and dropped his phone to his side.

"Didn't have it in me?" Ace questioned, raising an eyebrow and checking (Y/n) out. Thatch was right, mention 'date' to any girl and they will certainly prepare for it. She wore a simple outfit: shorts, a cute top, and a long cardigan to cover up. She's never been on for accessories but a small backpack covered her back. It really wasn't any different from an outfit she would wear to class but there was something about her now that just seemed different. Maybe it was the glow of her skin, or the bright smile on her pink stained lips, or the sparkle in her (e/c) eyes. It was as if Ace was seeing her for the first time again. That's when the nerves kicked in. His heart began to race, butterflies began to set in his stomach and his palms began to turn all sweaty. It was obvious that Ace had it bad. Real bad.

"Well seeing how dense you are, I just-"

"You look so pretty." Ace had blurted out, cutting (Y/n) off. Not only did he cut her off but it completely caught her off guard too. A small blush crept up to her cheeks and she let the compliment sink in. (Y/n) took a moment too long because Ace began to worry and definitely began to panic. The date had barely even started and he already messed up. But before he could even think about it long, (Y/n) giggled softly and smiled back up at Ace.

"You think so? I wasn't sure what to wear so I chose to keep it simple. I didn't want to show up too fancy when all we're doing is going to an amusement park." (Y/n) happily explained, loving the comment so much. It was that reaction that gave Ace the boost of confidence he needed. With the butterflies still in his stomach, he smiled brightly down at her thinking that maybe the feelings just might be mutual. Maybe (Y/n) could feel the same way about Ace.

"W-we should probably get going then. I don't want the lines to get long." Ace cleared his throat, as he turned on his heel and faced the entrance. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow at his suddenly shy behavior, but seeing how she somewhat already knew what the reason was, she didn't press the matter. A teasing smirk fell over her lips as her eyes trailed down to Ace's hand that hug at his side. This was a date, after all, might as well treat it like one. Jumped right to his side, (Y/n) grabbed his large, warm hand and intertwined her fingers with his, sending chills down her back. Before Ace could even react, (Y/n) laughed out loud and began to skip off with Ace's warm hand still in hers.

"Let's go ride all the rides!!" (Y/n) cheered loudly, dragging a confused Ace behind her. Once he finally realized what the situation was, his face burst into a million shades of red. The last thing he had expect was to feel her hands within his. His heart began to race as he took a moment to just try and process. Ace didn’t think (Y/n) would act like this one a date, whenever the 2 of then hung out (Y/n) would always end up commenting on how she doesn’t need a boyfriend. So it’s safe to say that was one of Ace’s concerns, she always says that so what makes Ace thinks that she would say yes. Yet here they are holding hands and going on a date, something (Y/n) said she wouldn’t have time for. Although all those thoughts seem to disappear when he felt her hands within his. They were so soft and warm and felt so small in his. Filling her hands oddly made him relax and calm down. With a sigh of relief, Ace caught up with (Y/n) so he wasn’t stumbling and smiled down at her. 

Maybe today will but just as he imagined

[thisweekingundamwing]

This Week in Gundam Wing (Aug 29 - Sept 11, 2021)

That’s right folks!  Because of the long weekend last weekend, you all get a two-for-one this round-up!  Lots of excellent stuff from the fandom the last two weeks, so take a look and show your fellow fans some love!

--Mod LAM

Fanfiction

Dirty Computer (CH 11/?) by @doctormegalomania​ 

Pairings: Heero x Duo, Wufei x OFC

Characters: 5 pilots

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: minor violence, espionage, unreliable narrator, post-war, reference to past injury, implied/referenced self-harm

Summary:  Years after the war, nothing is what anyone hoped for. Peace reigns supreme.

Man Lion Thing Dude (CH 14-16/?) by @anaranesindanarie​

Pairings: Trowa x Duo, Triton Bloom x Duo

Characters: full cast, original Trowa Barton, OCs

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, whump, blood, alternate universe, supernatural, were-creatures, family problems, arranged marriage, mentions of torture, smut, magic

Summary:  Duo Maxwell is estranged from the last of his remaining family who are demanding that he return home for an important announcement. Meanwhile, Duo has been having strange encounters with 'wild' animals, all of whom seem to be hunting him.

The Life of the Immortal Jellyfish (CH 15-16/35) by @lemontrash​

Pairings: Duo x Wufei

Characters: 5 pilots + Relena, Hilde, Noin, Une

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: post-canon, post-Endless Waltz, UST, roommates, Preventers, slow burn, insomnia, friendship

Summary: Is it chance that lands Duo and Wufei in the same university dorm room? They’re not stupid enough to believe that but too tired to fight it. Duo’s dragged himself back from the brink of going too far and remains teetering on the edge while Wufei’s doggedly trying to prove himself to the ‘good guys’ in the aftermath of the Eve Wars. Sleep and normalcy eludes them both. As they become increasingly aware how damaged they are, they start to edge towards friendship, or something more, but all too soon the peace seems jeopardised by a new and manipulative threat.

Prompt Fic by @gemstonecircles​ for @bryony-rebb​ 

Pairings: Wufei x Sally

Characters: Wufei and Sally

Rating: PG

Tags / Warnings: flashbacks, future fic, tropical diseases, best partners evar

Summary:  “I’d come for you”, he said. “No matter what, when you need me, I will be there.”

Prompt Fic by @gemstonecircles​ for @boxofhatebrains​

Pairings: Duo x Quatre

Characters: Duo and Quatre

Rating: PG

Tags / Warnings:  music, friendships, concerts, foul language, complicated relationships with faith, cherry-picking manga

Summary: “You free Saturday night?”

Prompt Fic by @gemstonecircles​ for @heartensoul​

Pairings: Duo x Relena, Heero x Trowa

Characters: Heero, Duo, Trowa, Relena

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: REO Speedwagon, future fic, receptions, reunions, getting together, smoking, shotgun kisses, first kisses, cherry-picking manga, FT what FT, look at my life look at my choices

Summary:  The reception, at least, was a welcome reprieve from most of the events that she’d been forced to attend in the last half-dozen years.

Prompt Fic by @gemstonecircles​ for @noirangetrois​

Pairings: Duo x Relena

Characters: Duo and Relena

Rating: Teen and Up

Tags / Warnings: stargazing, criminal trespass, future fic, FT what FT, discussion of panic attacks and mentioned ptsd

Summary:  “Well, guess we’re here until the solar storm clears,” Relena sighed...

Prompt Fic by @gemstonecircles for @seitou

Pairings: Heero x Trowa

Characters: Heero, Trowa, Relena

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings:  1+R friendship, dates, home cooking, future fic, beers, fade-to-black sex, sweet dumb men in love, everyone ships it

Summary:  “I have good MREs that I was saving for a special occasion.”

Katahimikan by @ktsskb / katopiyoon AO3

Pairings: Duo x Quatre

Characters: Duo and Quatre

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: post-Blind Target, Pre-Endless Waltz, non-confessions, pre-relationship

Summary:  “I’m just taking a little rest,” Quatre smiles. He lets himself get slightly more comfortable, loosening his posture.

Orgel by @ktsskb / katopiyoon AO3

Pairings: Duo x Quatre

Characters: Duo and Quatre

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings:  alternate universe, fantasy elements, established relationship, injured character

Summary:  Duo comes home late with a gift.

Fanart

Doodle Prompts (1x3x5) by @seitou

Heero x Relena (elf AU) by @lokineko 

OZ Military Ball (13x11) by @keiko1183

Zechs and Duo Hairbraiding by @keiko1183

Several by @gundayum

Wedding Bells (3x4)

Snuggles (1x2) 

Trowa’s a Pathetic Clown

Duo as the Little Mermaid 

King of the Hill (Heero, Relena and Bobby/Mariemaia, and Trowa)

Kinbaku WIP (3x5) by @2pcbart

Relena as John Cena by @farshootingstar

Quatre learning to knit by @farshootingstar

On the Wing by @theboringbluecrayon

Snuggles (3x4) by @circusoftrash

GW Crack by @circusoftrash

Heero EW Redraw by @mei-jimenez-art

Relena FT Redraw by @mei-jimenez-art

GW Kiddo Doodles by @lemontrash

Jellyfish Fic Art (2x5) by @sparkchemy for @lemontrash

Summer (1xR) by @alphaikaros

Zechs and Relena by @alphaikaros

Belated MerMay Relena by @serenestorm

Sexy Trowas (Part I, Part II, Part III) by @serenestorm 

Summer Duo by @owlinpajamas

Relena and Heero by @darksharinganz

Other Fanwork

Gunpla and Cosplay

Duo Maxwell Cosplay (Part I and Part II) by @itsjesskage​

HGAC Wing Zero by @macks-mechas​

Headcanons and Discussion

The Accidental (?) Seduction of Trowa Barton (3x4) by @a-river-of-stars

GoL Thoughts with @kittykatz​

Dorothy and Treize, Cathy and Trowa

Treize and Zechs

Treize, Dorothy, Heero, and Epyon

Lieutenant Trant Clark

Other Fun Stuff

GW Sims 4 Portraits by @eslanes​

Power Stances, with Zechs and Treize by @the-reanimated-bhg​

Quick: look pensive with gloves by @the-reanimated-bhg​​

@incorrectgundamwingquotes​ still making us laugh (example)

Memes and Macros

This is my boyfriend’s boyfriend (Rx1x2 and Hx1x2) by @portrayalmuse​

Dad Jokes Zechs (Part I and Part II) by @bonmotfic

Heero’s Romance Novel by @the-reanimated-bhg​

Coffee Puns with Cathy by @the-reanimated-bhg​

Requesting Leave with HR by @the-reanimated-bhg​

Zechs, the master of pick-up lines by @the-reanimated-bhg​

Spaghetti Westerns by @the-reanimated-bhg

Calendar Events

@gwcocktailfriday​ is back with this week’s prompt!  Be sure to post your responses on Friday (September 17) between 3-5PM EST!

@gundamzine has opened up the mailing list, so be sure to register to get your FREE PDF on October 1!  In the mean time, be sure to follow the account so that you can learn about the stellar 2021 Zine Crew members. Also consider donating to the team’s chosen charity, World Literacy Foundation (donations are optional, but encouraged).  In the meantime, check out some of the previews, with more to follow.

September is National Prostate Awareness Month and @expewrites​ and @boxofhatebrains​ are hosting a GW Prostate Health Event at @prostatehealth-gundamwing​ beginning September 1.  More info is available on the Event AO3 Page but in brief, options are to (1) create something or (2) donate to your prostate health organization of choice.

Sign-ups are officially open for the 2021 Holiday Gift Exchange with @thisweekingundamevents​!  Sign-ups close September 30, and participants will get their assignments in October, followed by the creation period November-December and finally posting in early January 2022.

@/ficwip (Twitter) is hosting a “Rise of the Dead Fandoms” event. Contributor sign-ups end on September 30, so be sure to register soon! Creation period runs September-October; posting will be in November. More info at their FAQ.

The @weedgrandpacookbook is an homage to the fanon of Mike Howard as the Gundam Wing’s chillest Weed Grandpa. Check out the Zine Calendar and  FAQ for more info and be sure to complete the interest check before September 30.

Spooky prompt idea generation for the GW Hallows Event will kick off mid-September, and posting period will happen in October.  Stay tuned to @thisweekingundamevents!

Keep an eye on @gwoc-october​​ while you’re at it for news on the GW Original Character (OC) October Event.  You can expect a prompt calendar to go live in September with posting in October…but you can also just use the month to showcase works with your original GW characters!

[rhetoricandlogic]

By: Catherynne M. Valente

Art by: Thais Leiros

Issue: 7 September 2020

9199 words                                                                                   

Listen to the podcast

Variations in Luminance

Big Edie was a useless piece of shit.

Johanna Telle found the most significant relationship of her life on a Saturday afternoon in late May, sitting on one of those excruciatingly handmade quilts crafty stay-at-homes used to make out of their precious baby’s old clothes and putting a deep, damp dent in the buttercup-infested lawn of 11 Buckthorn Drive, Ossining, New York. A four-pointed Arkansas Traveler star radiated out around her, each of the four diamond patches so exquisitely nailing the era of the quilter’s pax materna that Johanna pulled out her Leica and snapped a shot before the homeowners could stop her: The Pretenders, Captain Planet Says No Nukes, Got Milk? and a Hypercolor tee subjected, as so many had been, to the indignity of a commercial dryer until it finally gave up the thermochromic ghost, its worn cotton-poly blend permanently stuck on a sad blown-out pink.

And Big Edie in the middle, ugly as all the sins of man, with a box of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Second Edition modules on the eastern point of the compass, a mint condition Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Lair Playset to the west, a working laserdisc player up north, and down south, one beefy hardcase Samsonite in Executive Silver with a handwritten sign on it promising a complete set of signed first edition Danielle Steel hardbacks inside. A steal at $300, suitcase included.

Still life with late 80's/early 90's. Johanna loved it.

But she only had eyes for Big Edie. The absolute and utter trashbeast technological abortion winking up cheekily at her from within a nest of vanished childhoods.

She’d driven all the way out into the golden calcified time-bubble of the Hudson Valley after the ephemeral promises of an estate sale. The people here had so much money they never had to grow or change or evolve past the approximate epoch of their children’s most precocious years. That’s how Johanna had gotten a Hasselblad for $90 and a fake phone number a couple of years ago at a fuck-Gam-Gam-just-get-rid-of-this-junk free-for-all in Stonybrook. You just crossed your eyes and hoped the kids were the type to tell everyone who never asked that social media was a disease and didn’t sully themselves with Google or eBay.

This was clearly the case on that late-May Ossining afternoon. The card balanced against Big Edie’s case read:

Does Not Work. $50 OBO.

Johanna Telle smiled in the perfect post-processed sun. The EDC-55 ED-Beta Camcorder retailed for a cool $7700 in 1987. Just over sixteen grand in 2015 funbucks. It could produce over 550 lines of resolution in an age where high definition was barely even a phrase. Automatic iris control, dual 2-3 inch precision CCD imaging, Fujinon f1.7 range macro zoom, on-the-fly audio/video editing, capable of recording in hi-fi stereo and most impressively for its time, native video playback. Angular black and matte silver bug-ugly design. The last glorious 13.5-kilogram gasp of the Betamax world, still in its hardcase shell, that particular shade of tan that meant Serious Business for the Terminally 80's Man.

In digital terms, Big Edie was prehistoric. Big Edie was fucking Cretaceous. If there was a camera set up on a tripod to record what happened when the primordial soup stopped being polite and started getting real, Big Edie would have been a top-tier choice for the discerning prosumer.

Big Edie was archaeology.

Johanna whipped her faded seafoam-green hair to one side and hefted that machine corpse onto her dark brown shoulder. She was comically heavy. The weight of a dead world, its concerns long quieted.

Johanna Telle, when she was paying attention, when she was happy, in those moments when she was most definitively Johanna, saw down to the deeps of things. It was all she was really good at, in her estimation. She saw that world, le regime ancien, projected onto the back of her skull like a drive-in theater screen.

When she was little, she’d sat criss-cross applesauce in her mother’s lap in a kind of mute blue nirvana, watching a crew send an unmanned submersible in a metal cage down the icy miles to find the HMS Titanic. Before her father left them, before they lost the house, before the hundred little fatal cuts of getting from one end of childhood to the other. Long beams of light broke the black water of forgetting and scattered across that ghostly bow and found what had been lost. Impossibly lost. Forever. Johanna had barely been able to breathe. She knew herself then, in that terrifying way you know things when you are small. The warmth of her mother’s chest rose and fell behind her, an entire universe of protection and presence. A gentle little prick of the aquamarine pendant she always wore against Johanna’s scalp. The familiar smell of Pink Window, her mother’s signature Red Door knockoff, pulsing off her clavicle. The tinny voice of a rich man floating out of the blue ocean. Later, when the neighborhood kids played games on their unforgivably Spielbergian suburban streets, hollering I’m the Incredible Hulk or I’m the Pink Ranger or I’m Tenderheart Bear, Johanna would call out something nominally culturally appropriate but whisper the truth to herself, which never changed, no matter the game or the streets: I am the exterior lighting array on Robert Ballard’s Argo ROV unit.

Johanna put her eye to Big Edie’s viewfinder. The black cup pocked gently against her cheekbone. Such a nice feeling. Like holding a girl’s hand for the first time. She stared into inert darkness.

“It only takes these weird old tapes,” someone said from outside Edie’s warm lightless innards. A friendly, well-hydrated, nicely-brought-up male voice, full of solicitude, exhausted, heartbroken, hanging in there, like the orange kitten in the old poster.

Johanna didn’t look up. She amused herself picturing the kitten putting its paws on its hips and whistling regretfully through its sharp teeth at the $50 OBO paperweight before them. She suppressed her not-very-inner snob. Yes, dear, ED Super Beta II and III series cassettes. You can still get them, anywhere between $35 and $50 a pop. You can still get anything if you don’t care what it costs.

“There’s one stuck in there. Made a nasty sound when I tried to lever it out. I don’t have any others, though. Dad didn’t stick with this one for very long. I put his digital cameras around by the hydrangeas, way better. You want me to show you?”

“Does it turn on?”

“Nope. Well, not unless it’s a Tuesday and the moon is in Pisces and you’re standing on one foot or some shit. I keep the battery charged up, though. I heard you have to do that or it degrades. I’m Jeff, by the way.”

Of course you are. That’s what they always name soft orange kittens like you.

Johanna’s fingers slid down Big Edie’s flank and found the raised plastic goose-pimple that marked the power button as easily as a practiced accordionist settling onto C Major. She pointed the lens at the bereaved child of its former owner and hit the big red square.

A firehose of light white-watered through the generous 1.5” black and white viewfinder into her cerebral cortex. In the middle of it stood, not the hang in there kitten, but a tall handsome guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Big emotive eyes, tennis shorts, dark polo shirt, with a shimmer of beard-stubble six or seven hours deep, hair the cut and style of debate team and law school and firm handshakes and warm decades ahead in a secure center-right Senate seat.

A shard of glass punched through his chest. Black monochrome blood sheeted down over his shorts and his long, grey, summer-muscled legs. His neck whipped hard to the side, like he’d suddenly seen an old girlfriend and was about to call her name, but when he opened his mouth, a jet of dark liquid spurted onto the quilt of his so-loved childhood clothes. It cut across the white block-print Pretenders in a clean spattered line.

“What’s the verdict?” Jeff asked. That voice like a clean fingernail cut through Johanna’s attention. She yanked her face up off the viewfinder. Jeff’s fine blond eyebrows arched curiously before her in full color, waiting to find out if that old Betamax monster still had juice. If the moon was, in fact, in Pisces. He shoved his hands in the pockets of a paint-splattered pair of jeans.

Johanna glanced back down into Big Edie’s gullet. It was waiting down there, that death-image of silver and ichor.

“I like your shirt,” she said. The walls of her throat stuck together. Inside the camera, that charcoal polo dripped silent-film blood onto his new white tennis shoes. Outside, he wore a slim-cut celery-green tee with Newport Folk Festival 2010 stamped across his chest in a faux-rustic font. She could look back and forth between them. Back and forth. Black and white. Color. Black and white. Grey and green. Green and grey. And wet, dripping jet-onyx blood. All that faded thermochromicity blazing back onto the scene to react with the not live but definitely Memorex heat-death of Jeff from Ossining.

Big Edie went down for the count.

The image guttered out like a pilot light, a sound both grinding and whining shook through her, and she rather ungracefully peaced out.

“$30?”

“All yours,” Jeff grinned.

He took Johanna Telle’s money and strode off across the mown lawn, through the labyrinth of his late father’s obsessions, the sun on his shoulders as though it would never leave him.

Aliasing

It’s much easier to pry a stuck tape out of a machine when you’re not that bothered if you break it. Get a screwdriver and a Sharpie and believe in yourself. It came free with significant but impotent protest, trailing a tangled mess of ropy ED Supra Beta II behind it. Johanna wound the mistreated tape back through the cartridge with the pen the way kids would never do again, and she would have been perfectly content for the rest of her days on this maudlin, over-saturated planet if she could have said the stupid suburban sun got in her eyes and that’s all she really saw.

But Betamax tells no lies.

Johanna sat on the floor of her apartment like the kid from Poltergeist all grown up, heavily medicated, and a cog in the gig economy. A massive daisy chain of converter cables hooked Big Edie up to the living room flatscreen, each one coaxing the signal five or six years forward from 1987 to the slick shiny present day.

The reflected video image washed her face in color. A forgotten pleasure, like the taste of ancient Egyptian beer. You used to always see your shot in black and white when you looked through the viewfinder. You only got to see the colors when you reviewed the footage. Inside the camera was another planet. Color was a side effect of traveling from that world to this one. Step from Kansas into Oz, cross your fingers for fidelity, saturation, hue, hope those shoes still look as red as they did before you crammed them through a lens.

So. No more black and white artsy viewfinder image. Now it was straight outta Kodachrome. But this tape sat in Big Edie’s time-out box for thirty years. Chromatic degradation slipped and popped all over the image, sickly green blooms, hot orange halos, compression artefacts, uncanny edging that rimmed this and that object in weird chemical colors.

Johanna watched a factory-direct 70's mustache-dad with tennis socks up to God’s chin helping his small, yet unmistakably Jeff, son unwrap a record player on Christmas morning. Big Edie came standard automatic fade-in and fade-out, so everything transitioned elegantly, creating a subtle sense of deliberate editing where none truly existed. Fade to black, then a slow melt into a hopeless lacrosse game, small children running nowhere, hitting each other with sticks too big for them to hold properly.

Another bloom of darkness.

A school play, reedy, vulnerable pre-adolescent Jeff dressed as a cloud fringed with silver tinsel rain, twirling and twirling, technique-free, his arms stretched out. Then another and Johanna presumed this was Jeff’s mother, the maker of the T-shirt quilt, 80% Diane Keaton, 20% Shelley Duvall, a white-wine flush on her cheeks, smiling up at the man with the camera in frank, unguarded affection and not a little desire, her shoulders bare above a strapless summer dress the color of the hydrangeas she probably hadn’t even planted yet.

Such wildly un-special moments, clichés of heart-beggaring authenticity, carefully cut out of the flow of time and pasted into the future, selected for immortality for no particular reason, random access memories transfigured into light that cannot die—but can get stuck in a metal cage for want of a Sharpie and a flathead.

Time travel. The only real time travel, unnoticed and uncredited because it was so unbearably slow. In the present, you use this astonishing machine to freeze the past. And you send it to the future. One second per second.

The image cut to black and then it was 2015 and Jeff selling off a lifetime of his father’s lovingly dragon-hoarded objets d’American masculinity. Standing on a lawn with catalogue-ready light and dark green stripes in the grass. Talking not to the man who produced and directed his childhood but to Johanna. She can hear her own voice on the recording.

Does it turn on?

He makes a joke about the moon and tells her his name. Sitting alone in the dark, Johanna realizes he was flirting with her, and she has a second to wonder what his mustached father’s name was before the glass smashes through his sternum again and blood streams down to soak a just out-of-frame blanket stitched together from mass-marketed polyester and lost time.

Johanna ran the tape back. Then she watched it again.

Back. And again.

She was still doing it when the morning broke into her apartment without announcing itself.

Five weeks later, she’ll be down to two or three run-throughs a day. An article will swim across her feed.

Late Night Four-Car Pile Up on I-84 Leaves Two Dead, Seven Injured.

Jeffrey Havemeyer of Westchester County, NY, 34, remains in critical care.

Johanna will feel nothing. She’s seen it a thousand times already.

Overclocking

“Sit there,” Johanna tells her cousin’s daughter, pointing at a cracked leather barstool.

Anika is nineteen, in her second year at Columbia. She is everything Johanna is not: mentally stable, tall, good hair, vegan, grounded by parental encouragement and affection, prone to healthy relationships, able to commit to an exercise regimen. The twenty-first-century girl. Johanna has always found her fascinating. Scientifically. It’s like hanging out with an alien. Your whole ecosystem is based in carbon and abandonment and trash, and you just always assumed those were the essential building blocks of life, but it turns out they’re totally unnecessary and sentient beings can just as well be made out of palladium and love and sensible choices instead, look at this actual good person right here, you have the same nose.

Johanna’s arthritic Great Dane watches them coolly from his massive fluffy bed.

“Your hair looks like a badger,” Anika says.

It’s been some time since Ossining and quilt and the hydrangeas and what Johanna has come to think of as the glitch. Technical difficulties. Runtime error. It’s late summer. Sweat darkens Anika’s hairline under the expected carefully messy topknot. The boroughs are one long incessant screech of twelve million window-mounted air conditioners and the smell of warm garbage bags, round and shiny on every doorstep.

Seafoam green softheart mermaid look out; icicle-white collarbone-length brutalist bob with black tips in.

“I like to think of it as ermine. You know, royal cloaks and all that.”

“Did you know ermines are just regular stoats with their winter coats on?” Anika helpfully informs her. “Not special at all. Fancy weasels. Glam weasels.”

“That’s perfect. I myself am a decidedly unspecial glam weasel.”

Johanna adjusts the tripod under Big Edie. It took Johanna weeks to gut the old girl, order parts, and convince her that modern life truly was worth living. Nothing really wrong with her at all, other than the audio-visual equivalent of osteoporosis and a bad back. Johanna loved the work. Data was invisible now. Stored on sand, transferred on air, transcending physical form. Light talking to light. But not Big Edie. She was very visible. Gross and awkward and tangible. The girl would never be good as new again. But she was good enough.

“No you’re not, you’re amazing,” Anika says softly, and Johanna can hear the little girl she’s known in that grown-up, gonna-save-the-world-with-believing-it-can-be-saved voice.

Johanna ignores this obvious lie.

They’ve already done a few shots with the Hasselblad, the Leica, a couple with her phone. She doesn’t really know why she’s putting on a show. Anika wouldn’t question just sitting in front of an old Betamax camcorder for a few minutes and then heading off for Hungarian pastries and a good full-body-cleanse political rant. But it feels important that today has the appearance of a plausibly professional kind of thing. Not that Johanna is using her.

Which she is.

Johanna doesn’t have access to a lot of people at the moment. They find her offputting. Not user-friendly. An unintuitive interface. Carbon-based.

“Can you let the blinds down halfway?” she asks.

Anika does. Slats of August light and dark slash down her face and torso (like glass slicing through skin) like an old pre-lapsarian end-of-programming test screen. It would be a gorgeous shot even if the shot was the point.

“I mean it. This apartment, your work. Margot. Mapplethorpe.” The Great Dane’s floppy black ears perk up at the sound of his name. “I love it here. You’re living the dream.”

Johanna hesitates with her forefinger over the record button. God, she remembers how much she hated it when people told her college wasn’t the real world and she had no idea what it was like out there, as if studying and working full-time wasn’t more work and less fun than the barren salt flats of adulthood between your twenties and death. But she wanted badly to shovel the same shit for Anika now. The only way you could look at this place and see a dream was through a lens that had never touched reality.

This is fine, she tells herself. The Havemeyer Glitch is not a thing. Just a shill for Big Coincidence. It’s not like he died. And besides, nothing bad can ever happen to Anika. She is a palladium-based life form. So this is fine. It’s for science. You will take beautiful footage of your beautiful niece-once-removed, and buy her a walnut kolachi, and she will tell her mother what a nice time she had.

“Margot moved out last week,” Johanna says without emotion. Margot moved out three months ago. She left a purple brush in the bathroom. Long black hair still tangled up in it. Johanna can’t bring herself to move the last cells of Margot that exist in proximity to Johanna’s cells.

“Oh,” Anika replies gently. “So that’s why you changed your hair.”

Johanna hits record.

For eighty-seven seconds, the only thing Big Edie has to say is that Anika Telle was born for the camera, a portrait of her generation, artlessly artful, a corkscrew of loose dark hair hanging forward to catch the light, one grey bare leg tucked up beneath a billowy sack dress with small elephants printed on it, the other not quite long enough to touch the peeling floor. Her expression genuinely, infinitely, but entirely temporarily sad for the misfortunes of someone else. See? This is fine. Tell her to say something. Recite Shakespeare. Or Seinfeld.

Deep in Big Edie’s viewfinder, Anika’s left eye crumples in a wet gush of pearl and black. Her head rockets back, shrouded in mist. She coughs, gags, tears streaming from her remaining eye. She’s still sitting on the barstool in Johanna’s apartment with silvery botanical wallpaper behind her, the tall window, the August sun, the half-drawn blinds. But the Anika in the camera wears black leggings, a puffy black winter coat, a black surgical mask. White duct tape criss-crosses the back of her jacket to form the words: #NOJUSTICE. She’s older, the lingering baby softness in her jaw gone, her hair a buzzed undercut. The cords on her neck stand out as she runs, her face ruined, blind with pain, stumbling, looking over her shoulder as she bolts on the video feed from one end of the living room to the other. Out of nothing, a cop in riot gear steps out of Johanna’s kitchenette, grabs the back of Anika’s skull in one hand and shoves her down. Anika-in-black falls to her knees, sobbing, puking into her mask, holding one hand to the hole where her eye used to be, screaming silently into Johanna’s (Margot’s) red paisley rug.

Johanna yanks her head up out of the sucking desaturated pit of the camera.

Mapplethorpe snores loudly. Trucks beep in reverse outside the apartment building. Anika sighs softly, bored but not rude. She scratches a mosquito bite on her knee. “I really am sorry. I liked Margot. She was good for you, I think. Got you out of the house.”

All the blood has either rushed to or drained from Johanna’s head. She can’t tell which. All she can hear or feel is her own pulse slamming itself against her eardrums.

“Do you … want me to do something?” Anika asks uncertainly.

Johanna shuts the camera down quickly. The image at the bottom of the viewfinder clicks out of existence. She tries to talk, but there’s no talk to be found. Just the burning hot green-on-red afterimage of a crystal brown eye collapsing in its socket, over and over.

“Come on, Auntie J,” Anika says finally, hopping lightly off the stool and bending down, scratching Mapplethorpe between his spotted shoulder blades. “Dinner’s on me. Malaysian okay? Maps can have a curry puff, can’t you, baby?”

Test Pattern

An experiment that cannot be repeated is evidence of nothing.

Johanna establishes a beachhead in Owl’s Head Park. Back supported by a black walnut tree. Bare toes clenched in a sea of tiny white flowers and clover-infiltrated grass. Big Edie propped against her breastbone, lens stabilized by knees on either side. Mapplethorpe’s yellow lead loops around her ankle, but the big fellow has long passed his days of running off after unsuspecting children. He munches philosophically on a pricey organic broth-basted rawhide shaped like a braided ring.

She finds a target, hits the button, rolls footage for a few minutes, tracking them as they throw frisbees for far-inferior dogs or kick soccer balls or kiss on picnic blankets or drag giant wooden chess pieces across a giant board or just walk aimlessly, whatever Saturday afternoon moves them to do. She doesn’t look through the viewfinder into that hellworld of black and white. Just presses buttons.

Turn it on.

Shut it off.

Find someone new.

Repeat.

She chooses at random. No more Anikas. No one is special, or unspecial. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like. They’re just data. That man, that woman, that child, that set of twin babies, those skaters, that guy sleeping with a James Patterson book over his eyes. Compressed data to be converted later.

Johanna’s brain checks out and begins a speed run through the five stages of grief over the death of a reliable reality. Denial: you’re losing it, change up your medication, girl, it’s not real, it’s not anything, just a stupid old camera that you bought because you are stupid, at best it’s old footage coming through on an old tape.

Stop recording. New person. Girl in green skinny jeans with a sketchbook.

Anger: fuck this, fuck you, fuck estate sales, fuck Robert Ballard, fuck the Columbia School of Law, fuck sad elephant print fabric, fuck hydrangeas, fuck curry puffs that make my dog poop out his soul, fuck Betamax you dumb drooling obsolete idiot tech, fuck me, fuck my dad, fuck Jeff Havemeyer’s dad, fuck I-84, fuck Margot, fuck the linear flow of time, fuck everything, life is garbage and this is proof. Why is this happening to me?

Stop. Scan. Record. Lanky white-dude dreds fuckboy in a vest but no shirt.

Depression: Of course it’s happening to me, because I am garbage and this is proof, and whatever cosmic hazmat disposal dump site got its back end trapped in my camera would only open the gates to a warped maladjust like me.

Stop. Scan. Record. Old man on the bench with god-tier eyebrows and a yellow plastic sunflower in his lapel.

Bargaining: I’ll just watch this back tonight and whatever happens, afterward I’ll tip Big Edie in the bin and never tell anyone. And then I will straighten up and clean my apartment and go on Tinder and eat leafy greens five times a day and see Anika more often and make amends and buy an exercise bike. Okay, Elder AV Club Gods? Deal?

Stop. Scan. Record. Kid on a dirt bike with (elephants) puffins on her dress.

Acceptance.

Acceptance.

Acceptance is Johanna sitting cross-legged (criss-cross applesauce) on Mapplethorpe’s bed while he snoozes jowlfully on the couch. She braces herself for red slicks of gore and bone. For Jeff and Anika redux. Once is luck, two is coincidence, three is a pattern … or at least time to wake up and smell what your inevitable descent into psychosis is cooking.

But that’s not what Big Edie has for her.

Not entirely, anyway.

Entropic Coding

Gloppy August sunlight washes out the image. Everything is overexposed, too bright, unforgiving. His thin chest rises and falls with his breath. He watches a small blue and white bird hop nervously down the iron rail of his park bench. A cerulean warbler, Johanna notes with supreme irrelevance. Closer to him, then further away, then close again. He crumbles a crust of brown bread on his tweedy knee and waits knowingly. This goes on long enough that Johanna starts to relax. It isn’t going to happen again. The bird will give in, and eat, and Johanna’s life will resume the program already in progress.

Then the sunlight cools, then it darkens, then it is a dim nothing-watt lamp with a tacky early 60's cherry pattern on the shade. The branches of black oak and Dutch elm in Owl’s Head Park still reach into the frame like kids who’ve spotted a news crew, showing off in the background, dying to get on TV. But the bench and the octogenarian perched on it have become a mustard-colored corduroy sofa and a young man with his head in his hands. Vaguely Scandinavian mid-century wooden end tables bookend the couch. A clock with thin brass spikes radiating out around it ticks over a clearly decorative fireplace. Above the man hangs a proto-Bob Ross painting of standard-issue lake/pines/mountain/lonely boat in a dizzying array of shades from brown to brown. Children’s toys cover the floor. At least one boy and one girl. Maybe more. Wooden blocks, a rocking horse with yellow yarn hair, green plastic army men. Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny and Snoopy staring lifelessly at the ceiling in a triple rictus of frozen grimaces. A book of Connie Francis paper dolls with most of the smiling valium-glazed Connies already carefully cut out hiding under the formica coffee table. A Funflowers Vac-U-Form Maker-Pak Johanna recognizes from a box of crap her grandmother let her play with the year they had to live with her because, no matter how she tried to pretend it was an adventure, her mother had no options left. You squeezed out perfumed lucite goo into molds and made “Daffy Dills” and “Tuffy Tulips” that looked like crystals in the sun until you got bored and broke a vase just to get some attention. A Spirograph and stacks of spiralled paper, scattered across the avocado shag carpet like ticker tape after the parade has gone. Like mystic offerings before the massive, inert cabinet television that probably weighs more than everyone who lives here put together. The kinds of toys you lift off a flea market shelf with joy and reverence, despite the peeling paint and chipped edges and missing vital organs.

But these are all new.

A wind moves through Owl’s Head Park and dappled shadows in the jaundiced light of the living room move across the man, the sofa, the table, the TV, the toys, the cherry lampshade.

The man on the yellow sofa looks up.

He is so young. Perhaps thirty-five, perhaps not even that. His incredible, architectural eyebrows are dark brown now; he has all his hair. He’s still wearing a suit, but this one has wide lapels, no tie, a plaid pattern that will crown endcaps in Goodwill until the sun burns out. He looks exhausted. Someone’s been smoking all night and it was probably him. maybe not just him. Butts overflow a pink pearlescent ashtray under the cherry lamp. About a third have frosted coral lipstick prints glowing on their filters, each one fainter than the last.

Johanna braces herself for the shard of glass or the ruination of his eye or gunshot or gas leak, whatever is about to break this poor soul in half. Her heart rate spins up into the rhythm of a jet propeller carrying her into nothing and nowhere. Her stomach muscles clench for impact.

But: the man gets up. Wipes his palms on his wrinkled pants. Walks across the room. Stops. Bends down to pull one perfect yellow Vac-U-Form Funflower out of the pile of misshapen attempts. Slides it into his lapel. The man leaves the house. He closes the door behind him so gently it doesn’t even click. No sound at all until his car engine starts outside, and then that’s gone too.

In the margins of the image, the cerulean warbler flies off with a cry. The shadow of his little body flickers over the empty room.

Fade out.

Fade in on the girl in the green skinny jeans and peasant blouse lying with her sketchbook under the willow tree.

Johanna makes it five people and ten minutes sixteen seconds deep by the overlarge alarm-clock-style timestamp before she scrambles off the dog bed and shuts the whole rig off.

An hour later, she gets out of bed and pads back to the living room on tiptoe, as if afraid to wake Margot’s brush. Blue light washes her cheeks and her hands and her walls and Johanna doesn’t move until it’s over.

Then she hits rewind and starts over from the beginning.

Image Burn

Mapplethorpe makes it another year before turning his creaky back on that big dog life. Since Johanna got to keep him through the quiet post-apocalypse of their union, they agreed Margot could have his ashes.

She looks the same. Just the same. As if Margot stepped out of the day she left and into today with no interruption in continuity. Johanna knows that dress, the navy blue vintagey thing with white piping and a little too much room in the torso, but that she refused to take in or give up on, because at thirty-seven, she might still have some growing left in her.

“Your hair,” Margot says softly. She steps gingerly over the map of cables and playback devices that have replaced living breathing life for Johanna and sits uncomfortably in the old bisque-colored armchair (falls asleep re-reading Harry Potter in it during a snowstorm five years ago; Johanna drapes a crocheted blanket over her and squeezes the bare foot hanging over the overstuffed arm gently, fondly). She sits as though she is trying to hover, as thought it might burn her to stay.

“What about my hair?”

“It’s … shocking.”

“It’s my hair.”

“I assumed you would have gone puce or checkerboard by now. Your actual hair hasn’t seen the light of day since high school as far as I know.”

Johanna only dimly recalls that she used to care about things like wilding her hair. It seems like a fact about a stranger. Like something she would see on Big Edie and use to pinpoint a date.

They make small talk. Margot is leaving the city soon. She’s bought a house in Providence with her wife, two blows Johanna absorbs expressionlessly as a cascade of words concerning Victorian architectural flourishes and small, private ceremonies patter down around her ears like raindrops. Mrs. Margot was apparently called Juniper, because of course she was, bet you call her June-bug too, gross. She was joining the obstetrics team at Rhode Island Hospital. Margot would teach very well-scrubbed scions of the even-better scrubbed at a private prep academy in the fall. Plant heirloom squash. Adopt three-legged rescue Labradors.

What are Johanna’s plans? If she has a gallery show before September, Margot would love to come. Anyone new in her life? How is Anika?

Well, Marge, I plan to shoot weddings and graduations and bar mitzvahs in which the cakes have significantly more artistic value than my entire self until I die alone pitched face-first into my takeout massaman with no dog and no stomach lining and no friends except a magic camera, can I get you a 40%-off Pinnacle buttered-popcorn-flavor vodka straight up, because that’s where I am right now.

But she doesn’t say that. She would never say that.

Instead, she decides to ruin Margot’s life. And in that moment, she genuinely believes it’ll work.

“Can I show you something?” Johanna says.

“Of course. Always.” Margot brushes her hair out of her eyes, now and a hundred thousand times in that chair, in this light. “New work?” Miss M was always her first audience, first viewer, the only other eye she trusted.

“Sort of. Mostly I just want you to tell me I’m not crazy.” And she doesn’t realize how entirely true that is until it’s out of her mouth and loosed on the dusty air.

Margot frowns. “You don’t look well. I didn’t want to say. Are you still drinking?”

Johanna laughs bitterly as she flips through the input options on the flatscreen. “Why would I not be drinking? Drink is friend.” She shoves delivery detritus off the couch to make a space: receipts, plastic bags, black takeout containers, breath mints and fortune cookies and after-dinner toffees.

And they watch together. Side by side. Just the same. Like it is before. Like she will pick up her purple brush again tonight and run it through her hair and come to bed and tomorrow will be years ago and the film of them will run forward from the splice.

Rather, Margot watches. And Johanna watches Margot.

The colors waver on her face like she’s underwater, staring up at the parade of strangers fading in and out before her.

The old man/young man on the park bench and the mustard-corduroy sofa.

The girl in the green skinny jeans under the willow and sitting at a bistro table with fake electronic candles as a man walks in, says her name uncertainly, kisses her cheek, orders an old-fashioned.

The guy with white-boy dreds and a vest with no shirt steps off a bike path and into a gorgeous apartment in no way decorated by a man who would wear a vest with no shirt even once, all minimalist monochrome, and a woman in pajama pants and jade chip earrings sobbing get out get out not one more minute I’m done get out.

A kid in a Spider-Man hoodie swinging upside down from a jungle gym and lying on his couch, a teenager, playing Madden on XBox, yelling to an invisible mother that he’ll mow the lawn, yeah yeah, just one more game.

And worse. A boy’s face fades into his forties on the subway. He asks why he’s being pulled over. A gash blooms on his beautiful brown neck. A student drinking alone in a bar ages fifteen years and loses twenty pounds between sips of house red. She waits for someone with frantic energy and when somebody shows up, gives her a little wax paper packet, leaves her to it, her fingers start to turn the color of corpses on the wine glass. A volunteer museum docent grows red rings and bags around his eyes but loses his wrinkles. Somewhere between the Ancient Greeks and Mesopotamian pottery, gets out of a Camry, locks it, and runs toward an appointment, wholly unseeing the baby in the backseat, asleep in a puffy lavender knitted hat.

“What is this?” Margot says. “Glitch art? Datamoshing? Like Planes and Jacquemin? What program did you use? It’s really seamless.”

“No program.”

“What do you mean ‘no program’? This is a practical effect?” Johanna chuckles mirthlessly. The screen shimmers. “Where did you find all these actors?”

“No, look, you’re not seeing. You have to look. The calendar in the apartment. The clothes the girl in the bistro is wearing. Do you recognize any of the players in that Madden game?”

“You know I don’t care about sports. I wouldn’t recognize any player’s name five minutes after I heard it.”

“Okay, fine. The song on the radio when the guy gets stuck in traffic.” She pauses it, waits for Margot to catch up, to see the faint cursive 2026-At-A-Glance calendar on the inside of the pantry door in that perfect sleek flat, the unfamiliar controls on the car dash. “I’ve never heard that song. You’ve never heard that song. Because that song doesn’t exist, on any service, in any catalogue, anywhere.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Come on, you couldn’t possibly know that for certain, Jo.”

But Margot doesn’t see. Margot isn’t Robert Ballard’s submersible lighting array. She doesn’t know how to crawl into an image and live there. What she does glimpse in Johanna’s pleading eyes is the weight of time. Time she has spent searching for these things, for connections, hoping, honestly hoping, to find that song buried on some indie compilation CD with some revoltingly photoshopped jacket art and a discount sticker. And a thousand other objects like it. Books on televisions, limited edition toys, tie-widths, license plates, worse, more scattered, atomized, randomized information that never coalesced into anything but Johanna’s increasing silence and solitude. She vibrates so intensely it looks like she is sitting still.

And so, slowly, knowing how it sounds, hating how it sounds, Johanna explains about Big Edie as more strange moments unfold before the not-really-that-long-lost love of her life; naked bodies, and there are a lot of them, in embraces violent and lovely or both or neither, strangers meeting, over and over, in different clothes, different hairstyles, different seasons, a child abandoned in an airport in Reno, calling for her mother, surrounded by slot machines ringing in cherries and oranges, tears rolling down her face. And at the end of the reel, Jeff and his glass heart, Anika and her shattered eye, the long staircase into images that has become Johanna’s life.

Margot says nothing for some time. It is a terrible, sour nothing that lingers far too long in the air between them.

“So you think your camera shows … what? Death?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But not always, not even often, really.”

“Then what if not that? The future? Like the calendar.”

“That’s closer, I think. Better. But at least a third of them are the past.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the man in the living room is 1970. You can tell by the Updike book on top of the TV. That was the first edition cover, and it’s pristine. You can figure it out, sometimes. If you care about these things. If you know too much about garbage. And you know I know too much about garbage, M.”

Margot smiles faintly, but it is very faint.

“But also I went back to the park and talked to the guy. His name is Antony.” Johanna scratches at the back of her hand. “Antony left his family. In 1970. Just up and walked out on Grace, Walt, Irene, and Amelia, who he’d married when she was fucking seventeen. The proverbial running out for a pack of cigarettes. Left them like they were just … a skin he was molting.”

Margot looks for a way to shut it off, but Johanna doesn’t help her find it. Why should Margot get to turn away from it? Why should she escape?

“Fine,” she says coldly. “What is it then?”

Johanna takes a deep breath. “So whenever you transfer or transmit or store data, especially a lot of data, like audio or video or both, it gets compressed, and in the process, you lose a little bit of it. Maybe a lot, like MP3s were always straight garbage compactors for sound. Maybe only a little bit. Maybe so little you wouldn’t even notice. But in order to fit the storage device or the bandwidth, in order to save information or share it, you have to … you have to harm it. And that creates distortion. Halos. Noise. Warping. Busy regions in the image. Blocky deformations called quilting, and visual echoes called ghosts. They’re called compression artefacts, and that’s … that’s what I think these are. Distortions created by the present and everything else getting compressed, crushed into one stream. Halos and noise and warps and quilts and ghosts. A lot of words for damage. Just damage.

“But the answer is: I don’t really know what it does. Technically speaking, it’s a problem of parallax. Catastrophic parallax. A vast difference between the apparent object and the actual object. And for awhile, I thought it showed the worst day of your life. Which, odds are, for some percentage of people, is going to be the day you die. But not for everyone. Not for Antony. See, nothing ever went right for him after he left. Two more divorces and a dried-up retirement fund. Grandkids he isn’t allowed to meet. Lung cancer he picked up working a big gorgeous free man’s HVAC repair shop. But it took him almost his whole life to understand any of it. To process where he fucked up. What he lost when he thought he was barreling down the highway to a big gorgeous free man’s life. Big Edie knew it in an instant. She had his number faster than a speeding therapist, and that number was 1970. So it seemed to make enough sense. When I shot old people, Big Edie usually spat out the past. Young people mostly turned up older on playback. The future. That kid playing Madden. Madden 23, to be exact.” She points to him on the projection. The hole in his sock. The length of his hair. The name on the Patriots’ QB jersey.

“Do you actually expect me to believe your camera recorded something in 2023? Jo, come on. I’m really busy, and frankly, I’m not in the mood.”

“Just listen. Because then there was this. A wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel and Lucy Vaclavik.” She fast-forwards through scene after scene. Johanna can tell just the sheer number of them is starting to look bad on her, and the manic sizzle in her voice isn’t helping, but she can’t stop herself.

The creams and golds and pops of understated rose-shades of a high-end matrimonial spread flood the screen. The bride waves her lily-dripping bouquet in the air. The Hudson River throbs with sunset behind her. Her hair sparkles with carefully applied glitter. Eyeliner and brows that date her nuptials as surely as a library stamp. Her new husband, in a grey tux, bends down to kiss her expertly neutral-frosted lips and their unified families clap like a gentle river of approval. The picture flows smoothly to the edge of the frame. No ghostly picture-in-picture. No shadows cast from other places, other times.

Margot smiles politely. Johanna knows she is losing her (has lost her). “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t either,” she confesses softly. “I shot this no differently than the others. But what you see is what I saw. What Big Edie saw. No parallax. No difference in images. I rolled tape and the wedding marched right through the lens and back out again and it was just a wedding, no more or less. Nothing else has been like that. And the next day we got right back to business-as-horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was it special? What was different? The thing is … he killed her. It made the news for about thirty seconds in April. They found her in the woods in Connecticut. But, you know, hedge fund guys aren’t that good at forensics, even if they’re 100% current on all CSI franchises, so they caught him pretty fast. So maybe … maybe Big Edie doesn’t record the worst thing that ever happened to you. Maybe it’s something so much smaller than that. The moment when the worst thing that ever happens to you sees you coming. Turns toward you in the dark. I think, once she married him, he was always going to hurt her. Because that was in him, an egg or a seed or a tumor, whatever you want to call it, a future that no longer has the option of not happening. The flowchart flows until you meet that person at that conference and then there’s no more choose your own adventure, you’re going to fall in love and they’re going to bankrupt you or betray you or just … disappoint you until there’s nothing left but cynicism swirling around at the bottom of your heart like tea leaves. Or leave you in the woods in Connecticut. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a huge ugly regret machine. And mostly I will never understand these. What happened to the Madden kid or the girl in the bar or why getting stuck in traffic on that particular day was so important to that man’s whole trajectory, or any of them, because that stuff doesn’t come across the AP like Mrs. Vaclavik. They’re just moments, unconnected, pulled free of every other moment.”

The wedding fades out and the two women wince together as a man they do not know pushes a woman they have never met against a wall. Blood trickles down her temple where she hit a picture frame and she looks up at him with unbelieving eyes.

“Enough,” Margot says. She grabs the remote. Shuts it all down. Turns to Johanna and touches her face. Touches her. No one has touched Johanna in a year. It is an alien burn. It is Margot. It is the past and the future and death, stroking her hair and making enormous eyes at her while the constituent atoms of their dog look on from the coffee table.

“I miss you so much,” Johanna whispers, and wishes she could have thought of something better, more elegant, more memorable, but her need banishes pretty words.

“Don’t,” Margot answers with finality. The finality of Providence, Rhode Island and heirloom squash varietals and Harrington Preparatory School and June-Bug and poor Mapplethorpe in a box.

“What do you think?” She cannot help that either, the need for her approval, her regard, the perfect full absent moon of her gaze on Johanna’s work, Johanna’s self.

“Honey … I think you need help. This is … this is nothing, J. It’s a bunch of slice of life shots of nothing in particular and three or four gory jump-scares. You taped over some movie of the week with a lot of nonsense. And I’m supposed to believe it’s what, magic? It’s you stalking strangers. Listen to yourself. Catastrophic parallax? You’re manic, you need care.”

But Johanna can’t hear that. “Okay, but that’s just exactly what I mean. Do you know what catastrophe means? It’s Greek. It just means a turn. A turn down or a turn under or a turn inside. A turn away.”

“Jo, this is basically a conspiracy theorist wall and you’re unspooling more red yarn. This is not an X-File. This is you not coping. As usual.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll show you. Just stand over there, I’ll shoot you for a few minutes, a few seconds, and you’ll see.” And what will Big Edie see? Margot leaving that hot, humid, unretrievable night, Margot packing up boxes for Providence, Margot right now, right here, telling Johanna she will never believe her? One of them, maybe, surely. What else was even possible?

“No,” Margot whispers firmly. “You don’t need me. And you definitely don’t need to ride that camera any harder. I’m not going to enable this. You just need help, baby. Professional help. That’s all. I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go.”

There is a disentangling, a hurry to go back, edit, remove even the idea that physical contact was made. Margot excuses herself to splash water on her face and Johanna sees herself in the mute black monitor, sees as the ex-moon of her night sees: a woman so thin her clothes don’t fit, who smells sour, whose hair hangs limp and unwashed, whose face has grown lines it didn’t have even a few weeks ago, degradation lines, juddering through the frame of her face.

Margot emerges awkwardly, chagrined, her familiar elfin face not one cell altered from the day she left, her voice echoing against every surface: I’m so fucking lonely, Jo, I’m lonely even when you’re here. Especially when you’re here. I’m lonely right the fuck now and I’m looking at you.

She holds up something in her hand. Something purple. Something precious.

“Forgot my brush,” she says softly.

And then she is gone.

Ghosts

Johanna puts it off for a long time.

Why bother? What use could it possibly be to her? What use is any of this? You couldn’t do one single thing with it. The shot was too tight to predict the future. Fight crime? Protect the innocent? No. The camera crowded the subject, an unbearable idiot intimacy that took away everything but the seeing itself.

But eventually, she was always going to do it.

Johanna watches herself on the flatscreen. Watches herself get up in Big Edie’s face. Fix the focus, back up to sit on the same barstool that held Anika all those ages ago, shifting awkwardly as she looks into the lens like an actor breaking the fourth wall.

She knows what she will see. She is calmly certain of it. She shouldn’t have bothered running the tape back for this little screening. She saw it the first time, when she was seven. When she was thirsty in the middle of the night and padded quietly out of her room to get a glass of water. Out of her room and past her father sitting alone in his armchair, the moonlight crawling in after him through the window, grasping at him just before he shot himself and her life … turned. There never was any hope for her. She was turned before she got one foot in the world. It wouldn’t be a prettier shot now.

The compression artefact burns out from the center of her nuclear-powered selfie. Her stomach muscles seize up the way they do when she just barely reaches the tipping point of a roller coaster and enters freefall, down the rails into her old house, the rugs, the stain on the ceiling, the off-kilter hang of her bedroom door. Her father’s face. Her mother’s soft snoring from the bedroom.

But that’s not what she sees.

No moonlight. No armchair. No 3 a.m. drink of water in a seven-year-old girl’s hand. It is just Johanna, seafoam green hair and all, walking on the lovely light and dark stripes of green on a lawn in Ossining, in sunlight direct from a photography lab, approaching a quilt made of old T-shirts and the objects it carries. She bends down and presses her warm thumb into the patch of Hypercolor shirt, waiting for the fabric to change color, to unsuffer the damage of too-constant exposure to the very thing that it was designed to react with, which of course it will not, can not, ever again.

Johanna touches her own face on the television, that seafoam green girl who still had Margot and Mapplethorpe and opinons about everything, that familiar face, yet better-fed and better-loved and almost obscenely untroubled. An ancient version of herself, suddenly unearthed at the bottom of the sea.

Finite State Machine

Johanna puts Big Edie up on Craigslist, all her specs laid out like a personal ad: enjoys long walks on the beach, getting lost in the rain, composite video output, and turning everything you point me at into an avant-garde film-school short. If you can’t handle me being haunted, you don’t deserve me being way more work than the camera app on your phone.

She lowballs the price. She means it. She can change her artefact. She can let it all go, like Margot said. Get care. Be normal. Cope. She can take that moment in Ossining and make it nothing. Make it just another random memory on a compilation tape of the decades fading in and out, like the little tinseled cloud boy turning and turning on his forgotten school stage, meaningless, untethered, beautiful and sad and without connection to anything before or after.

And then anyone could. The boy who doesn’t want to mow the lawn. The girl meeting that man at the bistro. Lucy Vaclavik. Antony. Jeff. Anika. Anyone. The long white beam of the Argo’s exterior lighting array sweeping through that dark and missing the great hulking skeleton in the blackness, brushing gently by, just barely, just by inches, finding nothing but open water.

She doesn’t answer a single query.

Six months later, Johanna doesn’t even remember what it’s like to leave the house without Big Edie. The pockets of her original-issue carrying case bulge with new tapes.

[snapsbysio]

Pre-Production - Inspiration

Analysis of 3 magnified images

Macro photography is extreme close-up photography, usually of very small subjects and living organisms like insects, in which the size of the subject in the photograph is greater than life size.

Microphotographs are photographs shrunk to microscopic scale. Microphotography is the art of making such images. Applications of microphotography include espionage such as in the Hollow Nickel Case, where they are known as microfilm.

Female Maevia inclemens Jumping Spider – Thomas Shahan

VISUAL - This photograph presents an extreme use of different textures, evident from the very fine tufts or fur and the fuzzy surface of the arachnid. The strongest focal point of this image is, without a doubt, the two large central eyes. These eyes are deep and within them the viewer can see a swirl of specular and diffused reflections and a blend of colours. The greens and reds of the eyes compliment their sheer blackness and create a more interesting focal point, in my opinion. 

TECHNICAL - This photograph was taken using a Macro Lens which greatly increases the quality and clarity of miniature objects/subjects. The photo was taken using a wide aperture as the face of the creature is in focus but it's body is not. An ISO of roughly 100, evident from the clarity of the photograph. Controlled studio lighting was used to take this image. Correctly exposed. 

CONTEXTUAL - A magnified photograph of a baby spider which demonstrates the power of macro photography. 

CONCEPTUAL - Thomas Shahan is a Macro photographer who specialises in photographing insects under an extremely magnified lens.  

stellar dendrite - Michael Peres 

VISUAL - This image displays a striking variation in shape, all of which seen within this small object. The pale/pastel like colours all fade in and merge with one another very nicely. This creates a pleasant feel to the photograph. The photographer has placed the snowflake dead centre of the photograph, which in this case is actually an effective decision. This is effective as our eyes are drawn to the centre of the snowflake, then led throughout the intricate details of the snowflake, almost like leading lines. 

TECHNICAL - “This ice crystal was approximately 1 mm in size. The picture was made at 2:00pm and the temperature was 14 F”. This photograph was taken using a Micro lens, evident from the nature of the subject, and the extreme way we can see all the detail. ISO I would say 100 and a small aperture to have the entire snowflake in focus. Controlled studio lighting was used here, coming from a 45 degree angle at the bottom left of the subject, evident as the light is brightest there, then slowly fades throughout the photograph. 

CONTEXTUAL - An image of a snowflake, taken under a microscopic lens. 

CONCEPTUAL - Michael Peres takes photographs of microscopic objects. He aims to allow the viewer to see an object in a whole new light. He shows us aspects of subjects that we cannot see with the naked human eye.

Flowers - Kathleen Clemons

VISUAL - This photograph displays a stunning use of colour. The reds and yellows are soft and faded yet equally powerful and visually striking. There are various layers and shades of each colour filtered throughout the photograph. To my eye, this no longer is a flower, but a magical sea of scarlet and gold. The gold bulb is not in the centre of the photograph, but instead positioned slightly to the right, offering a unique and more balanced image, allowing the petals to flow outwards and around the surrounding space of the photograph.

TECHNICAL - This photograph was taken using a macro lens, really focusing on the fine details of the flower. I would say that a slightly higher ISO was used, perhaps 400 to 600, as the image is faded and ever to subtly out of focus. Additionally, i believe a faster shutter speed was used as the photograph is slightly underexposed. Although i would say that these technical decisions all work

CONTEXTUAL - A close up shot of the inside of a flower

CONCEPTUAL - Kathleen Clemons has a series in which she uses macro and micro photography to photograph the fine beauty of mother nature 

[superbnature]

autumn - fading beauty - 3 by gerkenmartin http://ift.tt/2hd5Ug7