#i tried to force myself back into my old art process and it felt Awkward and Weird

[remxedmoon]

see?

everything’s fine.

(greyscale + extras below!!)

so! this was SUPPOSED to be a bonnie drawing. but for some reason i just Can’t draw bonnie to save my life today. and i needed to draw something simple to make myself less frustrated!! and by simple i mean this took me almost 3 hours and i had to redraw it because i didn’t like how the lineart turned out the first time!! oops!! at least it turned out cute🩶. and i got to play around with my textured brush!

also as a bonus, my terrible first attempt + the sketch!! that i apparently accidentally deleted at some point? so this is a screenshot from the timelapse. i dont know what happened to it…

[inherpower]

Let It Go

So much healing work requires the act of letting go. Letting go of habits, thoughts, ideas, beliefs. Whatever is no longer serving us needs to be released. But here’s the thing. I had a hard time letting go of things. On the surface it was easy for me to tell myself that I was ready to let go of something when deep down I was holding on for a multitude of reasons. Much of why I was holding on to stuff was because it had become part of my identity. In a previous post I brought up a statement that I made to myself "Who am I without my trauma and my stories?” I remember when the words of that question escaped my mouth I damn near did everything in my power to shove them back in. I was exposed in those words. I had said them to a real person, in fact two real people. One person was my therapist who came back with the question. Who do you want to be?

Along this life I have learned a lot about what I do not like. I could craft a whole world around those things. But ask me what I wanted, desired or aspired for and I got choked up. It was a similar vibe to the whole superstition of not telling folks when you applied for a job and feel really good about it, you keep your mouth shut to not jinx it. I held myself back from saying what I truly desired out of fear that the luck would get sucked out and those desires would never come to fruition. In the past couple of days I’ve been taking a deeper look at the art of letting go. And in this reflection I realized that me keeping my mouth shut was less about not wanting to jinx the good stuff from coming into my life but rather because I was still holding on to the old stuff.

In the beginning of 2023 I moved into my own apartment by myself. I had never lived on my own before. I was a mother for the first time at 19 so I had no time to be a young person out in the world figuring things out. At 42 I was truly living on my own. This independence gave me time to learn my own rhythm. Minus my work schedule I started to learn when I like to get up what I like to do first thing in the morning for myself. When do I like to take showers? At night? Or in the morning? What do I like to cook? What do I even like to eat? How would I decorate my own space? I never asked myself these questions directly but I moved through them by simply living. The more I got to know my own rhythm the more that I began to learn more about what I like, what lights me up and brings joy into my life.

Once my rhythm had been established I dove head first into healing. In a short period of time I had gotten comfortable in my agency, autonomy, independence and sovereignty. I was waking up to myself and as a result I wanted to move at light speed towards the things that felt good and repaired my nervous system. I had been living in a space of unhappiness for some time and once I had gotten out of that dark place I yearned for light. But as I tell everyone, you cannot rush healing. In fact not only is it dangerous but it’s kinda hard to do. REAL healing is a slow process, it takes time. I was done being in limbo and wanted to get to the other side of awkward. You know that phase of your life when you’re in limbo. You’re not back there but you’re also not over there, you’re in the in-between.

The in-between is where I must slow down, as hard as that is. This slower pace has revealed something to me that I think is revolutionary. I must let go of the old to make space for the new. And the new is bigger and better than what I’m holding on to. I’ve learned that letting go cannot be forced, and believe me I tried to force it. Letting go is slow and deliberate. It’s intentional, it’s compassionate. Letting go is grieving. I can’t take all the old idea and habits with me into the new. And honestly that is a concept that I hadn’t even considered until recently. I thought I had let go. I thought I had released old stuff, but as it turns out I was only covering it up. So how do you know when it’s time to let go? You’ll know when you feel stuck. When you feel that everything is to tender to hold in conversation and you’ll either cry or get angry at the slightest breath.

You’ll know when you’re ready to let go when your heart begins to yearn for something more. And the letting go doesn’t mean that everything is gone forever. It simply means that you’re not carrying the heavy load anymore. You’re not wearing the mask anymore. Those parts of yourself, those beliefs and stories no longer become your identity. You realize that you are more than the stories you’ve told yourself. You are more than the pain that shaped you and left an imprint. Letting go is the most loving thing that you can do for yourself.

[qyllenhaal]

Muse

Pairing: Artist!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve’s an artist, and you’re secretly his muse. 3rd POV. WC: 3.5k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, MDNI), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex. Fluff. Friends to lover.

Steve knew it was a risk to quit his job and focus full-time on being an artist. His boss laughed in his face when he turned in his letter of resignation and asked Steve how much he thought his "little paintings" were going to make him. Steve didn't just face this scrutiny from his boss, but his friends too albeit not as harsh. Many of the people in his life didn't understand his passion for something that might leave him struggling, but Y/n was always there encouraging him.

"You may struggle for a little bit, but I think it's great Steve! Only one day into your new life as an artist and you already seem happier!"

Steve has known Y/n for almost a decade. They met under odd circumstances that some would consider a meet cute. She's still so sweet and bubbly just like she was the day he met her. It wasn't hard for him to fall head-over-heels for her. She always has a kind word and an open ear even during times of distress.

Sometimes he blushes when she gives him a compliment. She claims to not know anything about art, but every time he shows her something new she always has something stark to say that sticks with him. Maybe it's because it's coming from her.

His time spent alone in his studio is sacred. He converted a room in his apartment into a makeshift studio and he finds so much solace in those four walls. He has wanted to dabble in painting live subjects, maybe even a nude model or too, but he found himself getting real shy about it. He'd love to have someone to pose and to capture the way the light perfectly hits their face. That someone he imagined was often Y/n.

He was shocked when she allowed him to make her his subject. It started with him asking to paint a few photos of her she had lying around for "practice." Y/n was more than happy to help her friend Steve, only under the condition that he show her the final product. Steve found no problem in showing off the pastoral setting paintings he created, but it was much more harder to show off paintings of the person he thinks is the most beautiful person in the world.

Just like he couldn't muster up the confidence to ask anyone else to be his model, Steve could never ask Y/n to model for him in person. He found himself becoming too shy whenever the question was on the tip of his tongue. It would be much better if he were here in person with him, but he opted for photos of her clipped to his easel for reference. He'd finish a painting in one day and send her a photo via text of the finished product.

“I really look like that? It's amazing Steve!”

But eventually he ran out of photos. He tried to reuse some old ways and paint in a different style, or play with the colors, but it was beginning to become stale. Steve needed something new, but he didn't want to let go of Y/n as his subject.

"So you need new pictures?"

"Yeah — it's fine if you don't have any more," he tries to play it off as if he doesn't have 10 canvases in his studio of paintings of her that he hasn't shown her.

"We could take some more. Do you still have that digital camera you got a few Christmas' ago?"

"No. I think it got lost when I moved."

"Oh. Well I think Sam has a camera we can borrow. It's one of those fancy ones, right?"

Steve agreed to ask Sam to borrow his camera, but he honestly wishes that he had just bought his own. The amount of teasing he had to endure when he explained to Sam exactly why he needed the camera made his skin heat up. He couldn't stop his cheeks from becoming rosy when Sam asked when is he finally going to tell Y/n how he feels about her. Steve doesn't want to ruin what they have just in case Y/n rejects him. He'd much rather wallow in his school boy crush than put a strain on their friendship.

"How do you want me to pose?"

Y/n sat on the lone couch in Steve's studio room. It wasn't the best quality but it was still useful.

The curtains were drawn to shield the sun that was nearly set. The lighting in the room was dim save for the soft light coming from a small lamp pointed at her. It casted a warm, yellowish light onto her skin. She wore a white dress and kicked her shoes off at the front door.

"Whatever comes natural to you," his voice is weak as he responds. The atmosphere of the room is slightly romantic and he can't shake his nerves. Everything feels extremely intimate.

Y/n is almost as nervous as Steve. She's never modeled for someone and it feels a little bit awkward. She's always comfortable around Steve, but she can't help but get a little nervous when she sees Steve with the camera in his hands.

"You look perfect like that," he compliments the half-asses pose she's doing before snapping the first photo. He looks at the preview before the camera's screen could go dark.

"Let me see." He shows her and she just nods her head, "let me adjust myself," she whispers.

Y/n unbuttons the first two buttons of her dress, exposing more of her chest that only gives a glimpse of her breast. Steve pretended to not notice it as he took another picture of her. Once again Y/n asked to see the photo and looked a little more satisfied with it this time.

"Do you think that I could — nevermind."

"What is it Y/n?" He asks with a soft laugh that makes her want to melt.

"Do you think I could unbutton my dress all the way?" Her voice faltered as she asked. She watched Steve's reaction intently. She hopes the question doesn't make him uncomfortable. "It's just that I was looking up some ideas online so I could prepare and I saw this really pretty picture of this model and she was semi-nude but it was really pretty so I wanted to ask if we could try it," she explained; or perhaps over-explained.

Steve was completely dumbfounded. If Y/n couldn't see it in his dropped jaw, then she can see it in the way he just freezes.

"It's okay if that's too much."

"No! No, it's okay."

Y/n gave him a half smile before she began to unbutton the front of her dress. Steve tried to look away, but how could he not? The more she revealed herself, the easier it was for him to see the swell of her breast. Her skin looks so soft and he feels compelled to reach out and caress her bare skin. But he keeps his hands to himself.

"Is this too much?" The puffy sleeves of her dress were off of her shoulder and her dress was all the way open until the middle of her stomach. It's a lot for him to handle, but he feels blessed to see such a sight.

"No. It's perfect. You're perfect."

Y/n's skin heats up despite the room being cold. She was starting to get a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't a bad one or an uncomfortable feeling, but it was something she wasn't used to.

Now she's half-naked and posing on his couch. The first few photos he took of her like this were awkward as they both had to adjust to Y/n being half-naked.

Steve couldn't ignore the way the cold air made her nipples hard and breast tender. Steve was supposed to be on his best behavior, but he is seconds away from making a stupid mistake with his best friend.

Y/n arches her back which makes her breast jut out at him. Steve pauses to pray that he doesn't get a hard on. He feels a bit like a scumbag for even having this dilemma. It's just his best friend's half-naked body — that looks so soft and tender.

He forced himself to steel his resolve and hurry up and finish the task at hand. He began to treat her more like a model instead of the best friend he has a crush on.

"Try this," he suggests to her to move her body in a different way, which she does, but it's not quite what he wants. He was hesitant to get his hands on her, but he went for it anyway, "a little more like this."

In the process of moving her body, his hand brushed against her nipple. Y/n involuntarily let out a moan which made both of them pause. They looked at each other before Y/n let out a nervous laugh to try to play it off.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes.

"It's okay."

He glosses over what just happened and goes back to moving her body to her liking. He can't get over how good she feels underneath him. The truth is that he was taking his time to be able to have this experience for much longer. He may never have this kind of closeness with her again and he just can't quite let go.

Y/n watches his face as his hands touch her body. He looks so handsome under this lighting and Y/n wonders if she's always felt this way about Steve. For some reason she feels lust swirling inside of her. She hopes she isn't making a mistake when she leans forward and kisses him. Steve freezes under her kiss, stunned by reality, but he lets it happen. Her lips feel so soft against his, just like he always imagined.

She pulls away and places her forehead against his. Steve still has his eyes closed, lost in the dream that is Y/n's closeness.

"You can open your eyes now," she teases him. He obeys her and laughs along with her.

"I've wanted this for so long," he admits.

The revelation is shocking to her. She had no idea he felt this way about her, but now she wonders how much she's been oblivious to.

"Do you want this, Y/n? The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable."

"No, no — I want this Steve. I wanna feel you touching me," her voice became somewhat whiny as desire fueled her.

With her blessing, Steve did not hold back. He kissed her hard, the way he imagined he would always kiss her. Imagine the way his heart nearly stopped when Y/n kissed him back with the same amount of fervor and want. Her hand came up and rested against the stubble on his cheek. They wish they could say their kiss was delicate, but it was not; it was sloppy and their tongues danced with each other.

When Steve pulls away, he's out of breath, but he's happy. The light touches he gave to her body earlier were not a bit rougher. He wants to explore every inch of her body in seconds, but he wants to be patient; he has all night to discover every inch of her.

"Touch me right here, Steve."

Y/n places his hands on her breast with his thumbs in reach of her nipples. Steve's thumb runs across her taut nipples which makes her sigh. "You like that?" He asks with a bit more confidence. She nods her head and her approval emboldens him. “Good.”

His lips ghost across the skin on her neck before he places a wet kiss against the skin on her throat. He can feel her breath hitch every time he places a tender kiss on her flesh. She smells like lavender and it makes him feel dizzy. He keeps playing with her nipples as he begins to suck on her neck. Y/n wants to just lay there and take in the feeling of him spoiling her, but she also wants to hear him moan. She strokes the bulge in his pants with her knee and she feels him groan against her skin. He lightly grinds himself against her knee to relieve all of the tension that built up inside of him. Neither of them are sure who wants who more, but it doesn’t matter to either of them. Knowing that this is an equal exchange of love and lust is enough for the two of them.

“Oh god Steve,” Y/n coos when he sucks on the most sensitive part of her neck. They’ve only just begun, but he makes her feel so good. A part of her is wishing that she had discovered Steve’s crush on her a long time ago, but she has him now and that’s all that matters.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he says against her skin, “I wanna make you cum.”

Y/n can’t help but moan at his confession. She can already imagine how it would feel to have him between her legs.

“Please Steve!”

Steve sits up just to push her dress up. The cotton panties she wears has a pink bow sewn onto it and he finds it adorable. He glances back up at her and he notices that she’s looking away from him. She’s now feeling bashful knowing that he’s going to see her completely naked even though she wants all of this and more. “It’s okay, pretty girl,” Steve pacifies her by slowly stroking her outer thigh. She finally looks at him, her pupils wide with lust. She almost sighs in content when he starts to slide her panties down. The cool air of the rooms only heats her up once it hits her hot sex.

“My god,” Steve whispers to himself. She looks so pretty, but she’s absolutely messy between her legs. She places her foot on the back of his couch to spread herself wider for him. “Good girl.”

Steve lowers himself between her legs and just stares at her for a moment. He wants to remember this for the rest of his life just in case this is the last time something like this happens between the two of them. He would be crushed if Y/n asked to just continue on as friend’s after this, but he would be eternally grateful that she granted him this opportunity. All he wants to do is make her feel good; his pleasure will follow suit, but it’s all about her.

One of his fingers runs along the edge of her folds. Y/n whimpers at the delicate way he treats her body. She feels so lucky to have someone so kind and sweet like Steve. He touches her with care, and love is in every stroke. “You’re so perfect,” he says before kissing her inner thigh. Every part of her body is sensitive but somehow she is able to withstand it all.

The first lick to her pussy overblows both of their senses. She’s sweet like honey and juicy like a peach. Steve’s first instinct is to groan against her pussy which sends vibration throughout her entire body. She feels like she’s on fire as all of the blood in her body goes straight to her sensitive nub. His tongue focuses on her clit and she’s in heaven. Steve’s tongue moves with so much skill and precision, but most importantly, passion. Steve treats her like he truly wants her, and Y/n can’t help but fall for him at this moment.

“You taste so good,” he coos against her slick.

The way he paws at her body while licking her pussy makes her feel like she’s being worshiped. Tears well in her eyes the harder he sucks at her clit. She hopes his neighbors’ aren’t home because they’d probably be annoyed at the loud sounds of her cries of pleasure. He has her on the edge and it just takes him rolling her nipples with his fingers that finally push her over.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Her cries are so angelic to him. And as much as he wants to keep licking her out, Steve needs to be inside of her so bad. He tames himself and pulls his mouth away from her to pull himself out of his pants. His incredibly hard, the head of his cock an angry red as it leaks pre-cum. “This is what you do to me,” his words are haunting. Y/n whines and wiggles her hips from being so impatient.

Steve lowers himself and presses the head of her cock at her opening. She’s so slippery that he pushes into her with ease. His cock is so big that she inhales sharply as she takes all of him inside of her. Her walls are like silk around him.

“So tight baby — oh god.”

Steve feels like he’s going to explode already. Her pussy is squeezing him and she looks up at him with wide eyes as she takes his cock like a good girl. It is the hardest task he’s ever faced in his life to not cum already. She just feels so good.

“Are you okay?” He asks sweetly before dipping his head to kiss her forehead.

She nods her head, “yes, Steve…feels so good,” she manages to speak coherently.

Her legs were thrown over his legs which allows him to fuck deeper into her. She looks so beautiful underneath him. Steve wants to feel her cum on his cock so bad. She flutters around him when he pulls out of her only to push back in seconds later.

Steve can only control himself for so long before he’s pounding into her. The cry of his name on her lips is so saccharine that it gives him a sweet tooth. He sucks on the skin of her neck to satisfy that need while Y/n places her hand on the back of his head as she moans for him.

“I’m gonna cum Steve! You’re going to make me cum!”

The ridges of his cock feels so good inside of her, but what really does it for her is how the head of his cock is kissing her cervix. The stretch of his cock is such a delicious burn that she wants him inside forever. With his face planted in her neck, lips kissing at her skin, Y/n is completely enamored with the way Steve consumes all of her. She is his just as much as he is her.

He feels her sex squeeze him one more time before she’s cumming all around him. She clings to him as her orgasm ravages through her. Steve fucks her through it before reluctantly pulling out of her. Her jerks himself off until he’s cumming all over her pretty tits, painting her body like she’s one of the world’s most precious masterpieces.

The two are completely spent as their limbs dangle off of his couch. Y/n’s heart is full feeling his cum cooling on her chest. She dips a finger in his spent and sucks it off, savoring his taste since she didn’t get a chance to go down on him. Steve almost passes out at the sight.

“You’re crushing my legs Steve,” she laughs warmly. He rolls off of her and off of the couch entirely.

Steve grabs a towel and starts t0 clean up her chest. He remembers what they were supposed to be accomplishing, but after what just happened between the two of them, Steve is certain he won’t be anxious about asking her to be his model again.

“So, where do we go from here?”

The question catches him off guard. He slowly wipes away his cum with the damp towel from her chest. As much as finding the answer to this question is hard, he is happy that she asked it because it means that she’s giving him a chance.

“I don’t want this to be the last time we do this,” Steve admits. He’s quickly become addicted to the way their foreheads pressed together; it just feels so intimate. “I love you too much for this to be the last time we ever spend like this together.”

As much as tonight has been shocking to her after the revelation of Steve proving to her that he loves her, she’s only overwhelmed with positive emotions.

“Then let’s not let this be the last time,” she whispers against his lips.

A wave of relief washes over Steve as he just lays there against, their bare bodies pressed against each other as if this is always how it should’ve been. His only hope is that they can stay like this forever.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Fairy Tale

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous) (I know you wanted headcanons but I couldn’t word everything properly to fit that sort of format. Hope this is okay and sorry it’s so long!)

Phillipe Gaston x reader

Request: Travelling with Navarre and falling for Phillipe. 

Growing up, you were mesmerized by tales of knights slaying beasts and princesses finding true love. Fairy tales: ones that had happy endings; where good triumphed over evil. You longed to embark on your own adventure; to live your own fairy tale; that’s why you’d joined Navarre and Isabeau on their quest. 

Navarre and you met when you were just a scrappy young girl. You’d pleaded with him to take you on as his pupil; the thought of which amused him greatly. Even so, Navarre was never one for judgment nor traditions aside from his sword so he agreed; at least after a bit of artful pestering. 

As promised, he taught you everything he knew; gifting you armor, an old sword, and eventually his friendship. That was when tragedy befell him and Isabeau, forcing him to begin his mission to kill the Bishop; a mission you would insist on joining. 

So the two, or rather the three of you began to travel together, looking for answers and those who could help you break the curse. It wasn’t long before you stumbled across the mouse in distress. 

The moment you saw the boy and heard what was being said, you knew that Navarre would sooner chop off his own hand then leave without him. Your suspicions were confirmed as he dismounted Goliath and made his way over to the scene, crossbow in hand. 

You stayed behind, hand on the hilt of your sword just in case Navarre needed help, though you doubted he would. You could see him usher the shaken boy in your direction, handing him his empty crossbow before he moved closer towards the group of men. 

You reached down to grab your friends weapon from the boy as he neared you, your eyes meeting briefly. You could feel your heart skip a beat as your mouth went dry at the sight of him. The feeling filled you with a healthy dose of unease but you willed it away, he was attractive that was all. You’d grown up around pigs and men that closely resembled them, of course you’d be taken aback by someone who looked as though he’d fallen down from heaven itself.

You looked away from the boy just in time to see the fight commence. Quickly, you held your hand out to him, helping him onto your horse before beginning to ride away from the tavern. You knew Navarre wouldn’t be far behind as you broke through the trees and headed down the leafy trail. 

Your assumptions were; of course, correct as just a few moments later, the man came bounding up the trail behind you, slowing as he neared your side. You spared a glance in his direction and were met with his usual brooding features.

“Quite the interesting carry-on we’ve accumulated.” You pointedly teased, glancing back at your handsome passenger.

The mouse gave you a shy, somewhat embarrassed smile in response. It was then that he seemed to realize his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, his chest pressed close against your back. He quickly apologized, attempting to somewhat remove himself from you and nearly falling off your horse in the process. You told him to relax, feeling the awkwardness radiating off of him beginning to seep into you. 

“You think you’re the first man to touch my waist?” You’d joked, attempting to lighten the mood; though the comment only made him connect two nonexistent dots. 

“You’re the Captains lady!” He all but squeaked. “Oh Captain, my apologies! I would never purposefully lay a hand on that which belonged to you, especially not a lady! I-”

“That’s enough.” Navarre interrupted. Sending a look your way as you attempted to stifle your laughter, though it was a weak attempt at a reprimand. “She is not my lady. She’s my squire, and of course, an unconventional one at that. Keep quiet from now on and try to ease your nerves. This is going to be a long ride and I don’t need you fainting in the middle of it.”

You felt a twinge of pity for the boy but said nothing, keeping quiet yourself as you continued to ride down the path. Soon enough, you’d reached the farmers barn and began to settle in for the night. Unbeknownst to you, while you were preoccupied with taking care of your horse and making yourself more comfortable, Phillipe was struggling to keep his eyes off of you. 

The thing about Phillipe is that he falls in love with women practically the moment he sees them. It’s quick and it’s strong; an often painful combination. It; perhaps, wouldn’t be so bad if he had any real experience with women... which he doesn’t. So when he sees you, a beautiful, fascinating creature, traveling alongside an ex-Guard, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

While you may not know that deep down, his heart is already in your hands; you do know that he’s quite entertaining to mess with. You were well aware that if he turned the tables and began to tease you, you’d react in the exact same way. But since he didn’t, or rather couldn’t, you enjoyed your “temporary” ability to fluster him.

You’d noticed him walking into the woods just as you were finishing setting up camp. Curious, you followed stealthily behind, observing him for a while as he wandered about. It was hard not to laugh as you did so, especially after you’d accidentally stepped on a twig and spooked him. His response to a potential danger was to try and trick them with voice impressions; smart... in a poorly thought out sort of way.

“Are you going to talk to yourself all day?” You teasingly asked, leaning against the tree you were previously hiding behind.

He clumsily turned to look at you, eyes wide in surprise and a twinge of red staining his cheeks. Quickly, he attempted to compose himself, trying to come up with a proper response as you stood there smiling.

“I’m not talking to myself” He exhaled, sounding delightfully embarrassed. You mercifully accepted his answer though you were sure your face looked unconvinced. 

“So... Phillipe Gaston, the first man to ever escape Aquila’s dungeon.... Quite the feat.” You complimented, coyly weaving your way through the bushes and trees. You could see his chest puff up in pride, a smile finally gracing his features. 

“Oh, that? That was nothing.” He replied, the nervous waver in his voice betraying the nonchalant demeanor he wished to convey. 

Before you could say another word, the bushes around you began to rustle, causing him to stiffen as though he’d heard an otherworldly and terrifying noise. A wicked idea popped into your head as you watched him.

“Oh Phillipe, what was that?” You softened your voice, moving behind him and clutching at his shoulders as though you were frightened. 

“I’m... not... sure?” The words were near impossible to push out, his heart in his throat and his brain going haywire because of your close proximity. You stayed still for a long moment, allowing the tension to stir, the anticipation to rise. 

“I can’t be sure,” You moved your lips closer to his ear, lowering your voice to just a whisper. You could practically feel him shiver. “But I think.. that it’s a... bunny rabbit.”

You broke out into laughter, peeling yourself away from him and laying a platonic hand on his shoulder. Your artful innocent yet seductive act gone as you gave him a somewhat apologetic look. “You worry too much Phillipe. You really must try to relax.” 

He chuckled breathily in response, willing his heart to stop beating so frantically. That was when you realized the sun was going down. 

Your face fell, laughter dying as you looked towards the sky. He opened his mouth about to fit in a witty “don’t tell me your scared of the dark” but before he could manage, you had already excused yourself and hurried away, leaving him all alone in the middle of the forest. 

Another rustle came and he jumped, whipping his head around frantically before deciding it was time to leave the darkening woods himself. Of course, when he got back to the barn, the farmer would attack him and he’d be subsequently saved by a black wolf. By the time you’d returned, the boy was in a panicked frenzy, attempting to string Navarre’s crossbow while hiding in the relative safety of the poorly built wooden structure. 

You quickly made your way over to Phillipe, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and delicately pulling the bow from his mouth. The obvious relief on his face when he saw you sent an indescribable feeling coursing through you, even though the relief was quickly replaced by another wave of fear as he hurriedly explained all which had happened between gulps of air. 

“Sit down Phillipe.” You tried your hand at a soothing tone, pulling him down to rest on a bale of hay as you turned to stare between the slates of wood, watching as Isabeau and Navarre began to walk away together. 

“Who’s that?” Phillipe asked as he followed your line of sight. You contemplated telling him yet decided it wasn’t your place. Instead, you turned towards him, pulling him away once more and settling down on the leafy floor close-by.

“I think you should sleep.” Was all you said before you pulled your bag underneath your head and closed your eyes. You could hear him quietly muttering to himself as you drifted off to sleep. 

Morning soon came and you were awakened by the Captain. The three of you packed up your things and began to travel once more, though the heavy fog which surrounded you made things quite difficult. Finally, you were forced to stop and set up camp, your efforts to navigate blindly failing you. It was then that the problems began. 

Navarre told the boy of your quest, a move you greatly disproved of, especially once you saw the Mouse’s shocked face. You could tell that he thought the two of you were crazy as he attempted to make his exit, trying to persuade you two to let him leave. You left the scene once Navarre took out the rope. 

You spent the next few hours wandering about, enjoying the quiet atmosphere but mainly putting off going back to your makeshift camp. You knew that you wouldn’t be able to just sit there and ignore the brown haired boy; who was undoubtedly tied to something at that point. Though you couldn’t hide out in the woods forever; especially as the sun began to set, so you began to make your way back. 

Once you arrived, you were shocked to see the clearing empty, save for a slightly distraught Isabeau. She stood upon seeing you, glancing at the tree which you could assume once held Phillipe before looking back at you. You sighed, running a hand through your hair before gathering your things and readying your horse. 

You spent all night riding through the darkened forest, your only source of light being the moon above you. You couldn’t blame the boy for running but the action had definitely sullied your view of him. 

You couldn’t find him anywhere, no matter how hard you tried. Come morning and you were more than exhausted, your body aching and your eyes fighting to stay open. Navarre joined you about an hour or so after the sun had risen, asking you dozens of questions, all of which had no optimistic answer. You’d nearly given up hope by the time you entered the clearing. But then the ambush occurred.

Perhaps under any other circumstance, you would have rejoiced upon finally finding the boy. But at the potential expense of your friends health; or life, it didn’t seem worth the celebration. You could have wrung Phillipe’s neck as Navarre forced the wounded bird into his hands, commanding you to bring him to Imperius. You don’t think you said more than two words to the boy the entire trip. 

“Please be sober.” You muttered to yourself as you reached the dilapidated castle, hands tightening nervously on the reigns of your horse. Phillipe glanced over to you, wondering what you meant before you called out to the old priest. 

Imperius may have been drunk prior to your arrival but he surely sobered up at the sight of you, quickly ushering you inside his home as you explained to him what had happened. You kept the brown haired boy company as the older man worked on your friend, trying to decide how you felt about him. 

You could feel a certain longing towards him. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something deeper, something you felt you weren’t ready to experience. You wanted to suppress it; to will it away as though it were nothing, but the task was impossible. No matter how hard you tried; you still felt the same way, even if you wanted to be angry with him. You loved him; you realized, and the very thought terrified you. 

You needed to get away from him; you felt as though you couldn’t breathe, a certain dizziness coming over you just as the door to the castle opened. Quickly, you joined the side of the old man and began to bombard him with questions, attempting to distract yourself from your own thoughts. 

When the two of you returned, Phillipe was nowhere to be seen. A sick feeling came over you, one far different than the one present before it. You waited outside as Imperius entered his home, your eyes widening as the older man ushered Phillipe outside and closed the doors. You watched as the boy stood there, an indiscernible look on his face; though you had more than a few ideas as to what it was.

It didn’t take Imperius long to patch Isabeau up. You kept her company as the two men sat outside together, drinking and speaking with one another. You wanted to see how your friend was doing but you also didn’t want to be around as Imperius undoubtedly explained everything. 

Isabeau was the one to convince you to forgive the boy, or to at least be civil with him, a compromise which you agreed to. You told her to rest, keeping watch as she drifted off to sleep. You said nothing as Phillipe entered the room but you allowed him to sit across from you as you watched over your friend. 

You didn’t look at him for a while but when you did, his eyes were trained on the blonde haired woman laying beside you. Your chest tightened, heat spreading through every inch of you as you tried your best to ignore it. 

Jealousy. That was what you were feeling. And how else were you supposed to feel? No matter how much you loved Isabeau and how much you knew she loved Navarre; she was still “the perfect woman”. You knew the effect she had on people and judging from his face; her beauty was not lost on Phillipe. You could tell that he fancied her, even though he couldn’t have spent more than a few minutes with her. He fancied her; perhaps even loved her, and it killed you. 

You had no right to feel that way. That was what you told yourself, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the wall behind you. You didn’t see Phillipe’s eyes leaving the blonde and falling on you, taking in every detail of your face. 

A whirlwind of events occur. The Guards show up, Phillipe witnesses Isabeau changing, and Navarre arrives not long after. You’re happy to hear that Phillipe wants to stay but a part of you is worried, wondering whether your heart can take it. Days with him are wonderful, but nights? 

You don’t want to, but you can’t help it. You grow quiet when you’re around him, distant; always brushing him off as he nears you or tries to speak with you. He’s unsure of what to do, wondering how he could have upset you or if you were still mad at him for getting Isabeau injured. He never thought of himself as someone who would experience heartbreak or the pain of unrequited love but here he is, watching you slip through his fingers like sand, a burning pain in his chest and a lump in his throat. 

Even Navarre can see that something is wrong. The way your eyes divert from the boy while his can never seem to leave you, the way you avoid him, and your lack of conversation at meals. He wonders if something has happened; so close to questioning, or rather threatening, the boy but knowing it would do no good. You’re a big girl; he reminds himself, you can handle things on your own and you’d come to him if something truly serious happened. 

It was torture for Phillipe, painful beyond compare. It only took him a day and a half to decide that he couldn’t stand having you be indifferent towards him. So he cornered you the minute you were away from Navarre or Isabeau, intending to get to the root of the issue and fix it; if such a thing were possible. 

“Have I offended you?” The sudden noise startled you, nearly causing you to draw your sword from it’s sheath. Thankfully, you had enough sense and too little reflexes to just turn around and see who it was instead of immediately slicing at them.

“What gave you that idea?” You questioned, turning once again in an attempt to hide your nervousness from him. You could hear him walk closer towards you.

“You cant even look at me. I must of done something,” He responded, every word giving way to more hurt. “I’m sorry for whatever it was. I assure you that I didn’t mean it if I did; offend you, I mean.”

Pitiful; he sounded absolutely pitiful but you willed yourself not to break. This was for your own good. You were protecting yourself. “You didn’t do anything. I-”

“Then what happened? It’s driving me crazy! I walk in, you walk out. I try to talk to you, you say a few words and excuse yourself. I thought I wouldn’t be able to survive your teasing but this silence is far worse!” He ranted, stumbling over his words as though he had no choice but to let them out. 

“We shouldn’t be friends, Phillipe.” You told him, that was all you could think to say.

“I don’t want to be friends!” He nearly shouted and you stiffened, an ugly feeling rooting itself deep inside you.

“Good.” You responded, beginning to trudge through the trees which surrounded you once more. He followed quickly behind. 

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I-Would you just stop and listen to me!” You stumbled slightly as he took hold of your arm, stopping you in your tracks and spinning you around. Your breath got caught in your throat, your heart racing as you finally looked at him. His face held a look of frustration but it softened slightly, morphing into a grimace filled with confusion.

“I want you in my life and if that means that I have to risk my neck everyday to stay beside you then I will. This-this thing that’s going on; it kills me, it absolutely kills me because every time I look at you, I can’t help but want to be closer to you. Every time I hear the captain and Isabeau speak about one another... I long for that to be us. You’re the most amazing woman I have ever met in my entire life and if my life were to end today then at least I could say that I met you.” He rambled, eyes gazing into yours so intimately that it made you shiver. 

“I-I love you y/n. I don’t know what else to say but that. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I will continue to love you for the rest of eternity.” Your heart leapt out of your chest, tears stinging your eyes. 

Without a word, you lunged forward, gripping on to him like your life depended on it, arms winding themselves tightly around his neck as you buried your face in his chest. He stood still, shocked for a moment before wrapping his own arms around your waist and pulling you closer. 

“I love you.” You told him, voice muffled by his shirt. He hummed questioningly in response and you pulled away for just a moment. You could feel his arms tighten around you, obviously not wanting to let you go. 

“I love you.” You whispered and his face broke out into a smile, eyes crinkling with joy. 

To spend eternity in that moment; pressed against him, cradled in his arms: that would be heaven. The beginning of your happy ending; you thought to yourself. The perfect fairy tale, and it was only just beginning. 

[libralita]

Truths and Roses have Thorns About Them | Chapter 6

Beginning | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: The Marchen Tavern draws in many strange characters from all across Angielle and beyond. While it may bring wonder and mystery to those who stop, it does make keeping staff members a challenge. However, Fella Treslyn is up to the task of being the Marchen’s new cook. But is really ready to deal with all the antics it has to offer?

“What a brilliant day! The sun is shining, the town is full of laughter and my sweet Fella here to accompany me.”

Fella covers her mouth to keep from laughing. “Rumpel, must you say that every time we go into town?”

Miss Karma had not come out of her room in several days. Miss Parfait would be the only one to go in to talk to see her. It kept gnawing a the back of her mind. However, during her breaks Fella still wanted to go into town. Rumpel asked her to go with him to by medicine for Annice. He eventually wore her down enough that she agreed to go.

Rumpel was nice company but she could feel him keeping an eye on her. He wanted her to hold his arm and stay close to him. Unlike the freedom of what Miss Karma offered.

At least she did not have to carry bags.

...Okay, she kind of missed carrying the bags.

“This must mean that you are paying attention to my words! That in itself is a compliment, Fella.” Rumpel said, sounding happy.

“If you say so.” Fella chuckled, though it was a little forced.

Rumpel let out a sigh. “You are still worried about Karma?”

“Of course I am, she hasn’t come out of her room in days.”

“Miss Parfait is keeping an eye on her,” Rumpel assured her, Fella sighed but continued on their journey. They were on their way to the usual store to restock the medications when Rumpel stopped.

“Uh…Rumpel?” She asks softly.

“Madam!” Oh, gods. “I can’t help but notice the pained expression upon your beautiful face. Is there anything I can do to assuage your worries?”

He really was a relentless flirt. While Karma was unreasonably annoyed by the flirting, Fella found it kind of…endearing. He had said he wanted to make every woman smile and he did that by flirting. Though it became a little awkward when Fella was on his arm and he refused to let her go. “For seeing your lovely face shadowed by such sadness stabs me right in the heart.”

The woman made a surprised sound and there is a moment of silence and then Rumpel feels tense. What was going on?

“Oh, I’m sorry—” Rumpel begins.

“It’s you!” A woman’s voice cuts him off. She…knows him? Rumpel could not remember anything of his past besides that he was a doctor. But…this woman knows him?

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…”

Fella tried to tug on Rumpel’s arm but he didn't seem to recognize that she was doing it. “Um, this is awkward, madam, but I’m afraid I don’t know you.”

“…What?”

“Or…do I? Do I know you?”

Fella cleared her throat. “Sorry, Miss but my friend is cursed. He has amnesia.”

“Amnesia…?” The woman is quiet for a moment. Stop being so quiet! I can’t follow along! “You do seem…different. Changed from before, in any case.”

Rumpel sounded surprised. “So you knew me before? How terrible it is of me to forget such a lovely face! But perhaps you could help me remember…?”

“I can. I can help you remember.” By the woman’s voice, she did not seem affected by Rumpel’s usual flirting. Fella was starting to get worried. This seemed like Rumpel was putting himself in a dangerous situation. This woman could take advantage of him!

“You…you can?” Rumpel asked, sounding...strange.

“It’s…no wonder I can’t remember your name. You have the Fairytale Curse, don’t you? And…you truly don’t remember me?”

“I…I’m sorry.” He sounded truly sorrowful.

“I’m Bria. Your fiancée.”

His…WHAT?

Both Fella and Rumpel were taken aback by the announcement. “My…fiancée?”

Rumpel let go of Fell and took a step forward. “You don’t remember holding my hands like this when you took me to the forest and proposed to me?” Fella heard no response from him. “I loved you, you loved me. And I still love you very much.”

“I-I don’t remember this,” Rumpel says, still sounding confused.

“How can I help you remember?”

Rumpel’s voice is faint, but still, he tried to sound cheerful. “Uh, the circumstances of the curse tell me that I need to remember through memories and um, a journal, somehow…”

“A journal?” Bria’s voice was forced to Fella's ears. “I have your old journals. I can show you the very first love letter you wrote to me.”

“Ah—wait—!” Fella heard them walking away but it sounded like Rumpel was trying to go back to Fella. “I need to escort Miss Fella back to—”

“Don’t worry about me, Rumpel.” Fella said, shaking her head. “I can go get the medicine and get back by myself.”

Rumpel made sounds of protest before Bria convinced him that Fella was fine. Fella stood there and listened to their fading footsteps.

~

Fella rushed back the Marchen. She asked if Miss Parfait or Miss Delora were around. Miss Parfait was busy with Karma so Delora was her only option.

“Miss Delora!” She said, going up to the witch.

“What is it, Fella? Did you add an extra grain of salt to the—”

“Delora.” Fella complained. “I was getting medicine with Rumpel and this woman came up to him. Her name is Bria and she claims to know Rumpel and she says she’s his fiancée!”

Fella imagined Delora was giving her a very strange look. “Fiancée?”

“Yes!”

Delora started laughing and Fella’s shoulders slumped. “That flirt has a fiancée?” She said through laughs.

“Yes, but Miss Delora, what if she’s lying to him? What if he’s in trouble?” She said tugging at Delora’s sleeve.

Delora patted Fella’s head like she was a silly child. “Don’t be so worried, Fella. I’m sure it will be fine. He’ll get his memories back one way or another.”

“I feel like you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“Dear, Parfait, and I have been helping with curses longer than you have.”

Fella was about to argue when she stopped. Helping with curses? “Does it really count if it’s just one? And really only a third of one?”

Delora snorted. “That’s the thing about this job, sometimes you have to pretend to be a doll on an ice princess' shelf and then curse her to make sure she doesn’t become a monster. Other times…you do more subtle ways.”

“…”

“Go make dinner.”

~

Fella was done sitting around and doing nothing. Not only had Karma continued to stay in her room but now Rumpel seemed to be…off ever since meeting Bria.

She tried to push back the self-doubt and feeling of uselessness as she began making the cupcakes. You can do this! Miss Karma loved these cupcakes and it showed that Fella cared about her. Right?

“Focus.” She told herself, tying her apron on.

“Focus.”

“Dion!” She cheered grinning. She saw him every once in a while but they were both busy with work. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

“My own payment is being a taste tester.”

Fella did most of the work—obviously—she just had Dion make sure her measurements were right. When there was lull in the baking process she went up to him and gave a loving smile. “Wonderful, amazing cousin?”

“What?” He said, not falling for it.

She took something out of the freezer it was white chocolate in the shape of a chameleon and edible paint. “Pleasseeeee?”

Dion groaned but took the paint and white chocolate. He didn’t show it often but he was a really talented artist…apparently. Fella did not have an appreciation for the visual arts. Though he had painted the pictures in her books to make her be able to feel them.

“Hey…Dion?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you…read me a story when you get a chance?”

“Is it a fairytale?”

“Yeah.”

Dion chuckled. “Sure, Fella.”

Fella smiled as she continued to work. “Dion, what do you know about this place?”

“The Marchen? Only that it’s full of cursed people and Miss Parfait is a fairy.” Dion said and then asked. “Is it really that strange?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

~

Fella finished her cupcake. It was a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting. Fella had used the frosting to make it look like a flower on top. Dion had helped her paint it orange and yellow. Apparently Miss Karma wore those colors a lot. Then she stuck the green lizard on top. She put away the other cupcakes and then placed Miss Karma’s in a box.

After thanking Dion, Fella went upstairs. Her heart was beating rapidly as she stood in front of Miss Karma’s door. They needed to talk. Something was going on with Miss Karma and she was worried about her friend.

She knocked on the door. “Miss Karma…?” She called softly. When Fella said her name she heard rustling. Drawers being opened and then footsteps to the door.

Suddenly Fella was pulled harshly into the room and the door was shut behind her. “What are you doing?!”

“Why do you do this, Fella?” It was Miss Karma’s voice but it was angry.

“I…I came to speak with you.” She said, trying not to squeeze the box too harshly but she was starting to get nervous.

“Why? Because you’ve been doing everything by yourself lately? You come to complain? Or giggle and gossip about that man.” Who was she talking about? Rumpel? Klaude?

“No, I wanted to check on you.”

“Fella, can’t you read the mood?” And then suddenly two bare arms stretched on either side of Fella, pinning her against the wall. She felt the heat from Miss Karma’s body. What was she doing? Fella felt something cool on her hands, she had accidentally squeezed the cupcake and now the wet cardboard was falling to the floor.

Miss Karma’s voice came out in a harsh tone. “Why? Why aren’t you struggling and attempting to run away? Or beat me with your cane?”

“You…you aren’t dangerous,” Fella said she was surprised how even her voice sounded.

“Then you know nothing about me!” Miss Karma said, her voice sounding harsh but there was a…sadness in it.

“No, I don’t…but I am your friend and I want to help you. I can’t when you keep secrets.”

“Help me?” Her voice is sardonic and bitter. However, he sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “Secrets are secrets for a reason, Fella. You should know that. If I could speak about them I would. But I can’t. And you trying to poke your nose into my business is only making it harder.”

Harder?

“Fella, you cannot imagine what this feels like. And that woman! I’d thought she was the one to break my curse. Her smile was as bright as the sun…” Fella was becoming confused. It briefly reminded Fella of when Rumpel received his first memory. Where he was in another place, thinking of other people. “That’s why…never again…but then you ruined everything, Fella. You—”

I ruined everything? Fella immediately moved to get out of Miss Karma’s grasp. The other woman stumbled back. “I am not going to be blamed like this. If you wish to be alone then enjoy yourself.”

Fella moved to leave. “Fella, wait!” But she continued out the door and back to her room. Fella tried to cover her mouth to stifle the sob building up but she is met with frosting and cake. Now her face, dress, and hands covered in remnants of cake. The sob escaped her lips.

~

Fella wasn’t sure how long she was sulking in bed but she heard the door open. “Hey, Fella.” Dion’s soft voice said. “I leave you alone and what happens? You end up crying in your room with cake all over yourself.”

“I was not crying.” She said, stubbornly. “Just sulking.” He left the room for a moment and comes back with a tub of water and a cloth. Warm water washed away the cake on her face and hands. She changed her dress to her nightgown.

“So, I do have to punch Karma?”

“You are not allowed to hit women.”

“There are always exceptions to the rules,” Dion said chuckling. “Are you allowed to have these fairytales here?”

“It doesn’t seem to be a problem,” Fella said, she could tell he was trying to hint that he could read to her now if she wanted. She scooted over in her bed. “Can you get the Beauty and the Beast one.”

“I thought you didn’t really like that one,” Dion said, still taking the book and laying next to her. “Something about how horrible it would be to be stuck with the beast.”

Fella chuckled. “I met someone who has this curse. I want to remember more about it.” She said softly. She listened to her cousin's deep voice read the story. About a selfish prince who was turned into a horrible beast. Then a beautiful woman falls in love with him to break the curse. Fella felt the pictures. The soft strokes of Belle. The harsh brushes for the beast. The smoothness of metals of the rose. Dion truly was an artist.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

~

“Is everything okay, Fella?” Annice asked quietly.

“I’m fine.” And she kind of was. While she was still a bit upset as to what happened the day before, she wasn’t going to let that get her down!

As they were prepping the kitchen, Fella heard the kitchen door open. “Oh! Good afternoon, Miss Karma.”

“Hello, Annice.” Miss Karma’s voice was more pleasant than before but it sounded…tired. “May I have a minute alone with Miss Fella?”

Annice agreed and quickly left. Neither of them spoke, the only sound was Fella chopping.

“Fella, I am sorry for what happened yesterday.” She said and then she sets something on the table. Money? “And I am sorry that I caused you to smash your cupcake when I…Well, here is some money so you can get a new one.”

“I didn’t buy it. I made it.”

“…Oh.” She sounded ashamed. “Then I am sorry again that you could not enjoy it.”

Does she…not realize I brought it for her? “Miss Karma, why would I bring a cupcake into your room to talk to you?”

“I…don't know?”

“I made it for you, and I wanted to give it to you last night to help make you feel better since you were acting so strangely,” Fella said. She hesitated and then she moved and took out the leftover cupcakes.

“Fella…you made these for me?”

She sounds so surprised. So unsure of herself which was strange for Karma. Fella took one and offered it to her. “You don’t get the white chocolate topper.”

Miss Karma hesitates for a long time before gently taking it. “This is…like the one at the shop with the little chameleon.” She said and there is some joy in her voice.

“It’s to also thank you for being my friend.”

“Fella…” Miss Karma’s voice is soft. “This is absolutely wonderful. It’s so beautiful, I don’t think I can eat it.” That last part was a half-hearted joke.

Fella chuckled, taking a cupcake for herself. “And I forgive you for last night.”

“Thank you.” She said. “Is there anything you want that I can give to you?”

Fella could tell she was really trying to sound better, however there was still this sadness to Karma that made Fella's heart ache. She did not like to know that the people she cared about were upset. “I…I want a hug?”

“Huh?” Karma sound genuinely surprised at Fella’s request. Miss Karma gently took Fella’s cupcake out of her hand and then took Fella into her arms. Fella wrapped her arms around Karma, smelling her sweet perfume. This did not feel like a hug she would give one of her sisters or mother.

“Something like this?” Fella nearly shivers at hearing Karma's voice in her ear.

“Ye—” Miss Karma made a distressed sound and broke the hug. “Miss Karma are you alright?” It was like the day that she cut Fella’s hair. Like she suddenly felt something painful.

“Not…now.” She muttered through a strained voice.

“What’s wrong?” Fell asked, worried. She moved to put a hand on Miss Karma’s back. It feels like she's clutching her chest again. Does Miss Karma have a heart problem? Or does this have to do with her curse?

“Ah, Fella…don’t…don’t worry about it.” Miss Karma straightens up.

You ruined everything. Miss Karma’s voice from last night played in the back of her mind. “Am…am I causing this to happen to you?”

“No!” Miss Karma says quickly. “Most definitely not. I was…feeling under the weather. And…and also bitter.”

“Bitter…?” She tried to think back to when Miss Karma had first acted strangely. “Because of…Jurien and Garlan…?”

Miss Karma did not respond to that. Instead saying, “It’s nothing for you to worry about, darling. For now, I should let you get back to work.”

“Wait, is…is there anything else I can do for you?”

Fella felt Karma gentle pat her head. “No, sweet girl, you’ve already done enough for me. I will enjoy your cupcake.”

Fella thought that Miss Karma’s voice sounded a bit more genuinely happy. “It is a day old though.”

“It will still be brilliant.” She said. “Thank you, again.”

Miss Karma bid her a farewell and Fella decided to eat the cupcake. It’s…actually really good! Perhaps it is the fact that she made up with Miss Karma that made it taste that much sweeter.

[ericsonclan]

A Touch of Pneumonia

Summary: Violet checks on her girlfriend to find her sick, but with no intentions of following orders and staying on bedrest XD

Read on A03:

Violet stood by the front gates, impatiently kicking the ground. It was well past sunrise. She and Prisha had planned to take a morning walk together, but she’d been waiting over an hour and had still not seen Prisha emerge from the school. Violet swayed uneasily on her feet. She wanted to go in and see if Prisha was in her room, ask her what was going on. But she also didn’t want to be a stalker. What if Prisha had just forgotten? Would she think it was creepy if Violet hunted her down in her room? It was better to wait, even if standing here doing nothing was eating her up inside. Omar emerged from around the corner of the school, carrying a basket of herbs and greens he had taken from the greenhouse. She had offered to help, but Omar had simply shook his head and went on his way. He had his morning routine of breakfast prep down to an art form. Bringing someone else into the process would only irk him. Clem stood up on the watchtower, casting a concerned glance down at Violet from time to time. She’d tried to strike up a conversation once or twice, but Violet was too distracted to keep it going. AJ had gone off on patrol of the grounds, taking Rosie with him. Only Willy, Ruby, Aasim and Louis remained inside. And Prisha. Where was she? Was she trying to send some sort of message that she didn’t want to go on the walk after all? Violet shook her head in annoyance. No, that was stupid. There had to be a valid reason she wasn’t here. Prisha wasn’t the non-confrontational type. “Maybe you should go check on her,” Violet looked toward Clementine. “It’s unusual for her to sleep in this late,” “I guess,” Awkward silence. “If you want to cover watch, I can go in and check on her instead,” Should she take her up on the offer? No, that was stupid. God, Violet, get it together! You can do this – just go knock on her door. Violet straightened her shoulders, steeling her resolve. “I’ve got this. I’ll see what’s up,” With that, she was off in the direction of the dorms.

It didn’t take long before she was standing in front of Prisha’s door. Pausing for only a moment, Violet knocked on it resolutely. No response. What should she do? “Uh, Prisha, are you in there?” “Violet?” “Clementine sent me to check on you,” Coward. Mention the walk! “Violet, I…” her voice cut off. “What was that?” Nothing. “Prisha? Prisha, I’m coming in!” Violet swung the door open, heart pounding. Prisha lay upon her cot, her face flushed and sweaty. Her sheets lay in a twisted heap at her feet, her blanket pulled up to her chin. Prisha’s eyes met Violet’s, hazy and dark. She inclined her head to speak. “I think I have a touch of pneumonia,”

“What?!” Violet spat out. “A touch of pneumonia?” “Yes, but don’t worry. It took me a bit longer to get out of bed, but I’m on my way now,” Prisha sat up, swaying a bit to the right as she did so. She dazedly reached for one of her boots. “Prisha, you look fucking awful,” Prisha tried to manage a smirk. “Is that any way to greet your girlfriend?” “You know what I mean. We need to get you to Ruby right away,” “Please,” Prisha shook her head in scorn. “This is nothing. If I truly had pneumonia, I would have a terrible cough to go with it. One with plenty of hacking and phlegm… but I’m breathing perfectly fine,” As she pulled one of her boots up, her body seized up and she began to cough violently, her body shaking with the force of it. She lifted watery eyes to meet Violet’s. “That was simply an example of what I don’t have,” She’d had enough of this. “Ruby!” Violet shouted, booking it out of the room and down the hallway. “Ruby, get your ass out here now! Prisha’s sick!”

About a half hour later, Prisha was propped up in bed with a plethora of extra pillows, looking quite peeved at the current arrangement. Violet stood by her bedside, arms crossed, daring Prisha to just try and escape again. She had already failed twice. Ruby was crushing some herbs in preparation to give to Prisha. Violet felt like rolling her eyes into the back of her skull. Prisha had been right with her self-diagnosis: she had pneumonia. Apparently her girlfriend was just too much of a stubborn ass to actually follow the medical protocol to get herself better. Ruby walked over to Prisha’s bedside with a small bowl in her hands. “Alright, I’ve mixed the false boneset in with some berries to help improve the taste. Try to eat all of it, you hear?” “Thank you, Ruby,” Prisha said, reaching out from her swarm of blankets to take the bowl. “You really didn’t have to trouble yourself,” “Why, Sug, of course I did! We can’t have you being sick and worrying poor Violet here half to death,” “It wasn’t that bad, really,” Violet glared daggers at her. “Well, if you don’t want to take it as medicine, the juice is rumored to work as a sort of aphrodisiac, so that’s a bonus,” The girls stared at Ruby in horror. “Anyways, I’ll leave ya girls to it. Make sure to stay in bed and drink plenty of the water Aasim brought up. Bye now!” With that, Ruby bustled out of the room. Prisha looked down at the bowl with distaste, but scooped out a spoonful. She gulped it down loudly. “Whoopee,” she croaked. She turned her head to Violet. “Do I look sexier now?” “If it’s an aphrodisiac, it would be working on you, not me since you’re the one who’s eating it, dumbass,” “Ouch,” Prisha scowled. “You’re rude sometimes, you know that?” “I’m only rude to idiots,” “Now that’s taking it a little far, wouldn’t you say?” “You refuse to acknowledge you’re sick, try to sneak out of bed and won’t even take all your medicine! What am I supposed to fucking call that?” “You know,” Prisha said, tossing a pillow to the floor. “A couple years back when I was pinned down by some walkers in an old dental office, I picked up a copy of Scientific American and it said that studies showed there was no proof of causation between bedrest and recovery from the common cold,” She threw another pillow to the ground. Violet crouched to pick the pillows up and began chucking them back on the bed. “Well, you don’t have the common cold, you have fucking pneumonia!” It became a race to see who could get more pillows onto the floor or the bed. Competition was fierce at first, but Prisha quickly grew winded and entered another coughing fit. Violet rushed forward to prop pillows behind her and lay her back against the fluffy mass. She began to place the extra pillows around Prisha’s sides. “Violet, you’re smothering me,” “I’m smothering the illness out of you!” Suddenly Louis popped his head in. “Hey, there. Just thought I’d check in and see how you lovely ladies are doing,” Both girls turned toward him with a look of vitriol. “Get the fuck out of here, Louis!” “Ok, ok! Yeesh, message received!” As soon as he had appeared, he was gone. The girls turned back toward each other. Prisha eyed Violet warily. “If I promise to stay in bed and eat the rest of the medicine, will you stop hovering so goddamn close?” “Fine,” Violet growled. “It’s a deal,” She made her way over to the other bunk and plopped down on it. “But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight!”

They sat like that for hours, Prisha dozing in and out of consciousness, Violet curled up on the opposite bed, never taking her eyes off her ward. Omar came by sometime in the afternoon with food, stating that Ruby had mixed more medicine into Prisha’s portion. Violet made sure Prisha ate it all and drank half of the pitcher of water on the dresser. The afternoon dragged on, hardly a word passing between the two. Willy and AJ had dropped off some books for their entertainment (and Garbage, though she had immediately scrambled out the door), but Prisha was too tired to read much and Violet couldn’t be bothered to try. Finally, as night began to set in and Violet lit the room’s candles, Prisha spoke. “I’m sorry for being an ass,” Violet was silent, unsure and unwilling to respond. Prisha sighed and continued. “You know I was on the road for years. During that time, I didn’t have a bed. I hardly ever had medicine. When I got sick, I had no one to depend on but myself. I couldn’t rest because I had to keep moving. And I survived. I didn’t let any illness take me down, no matter how fucking awful I felt,” Violet couldn’t meet Prisha’s eyes. “That doesn’t mean you have to do the same now,” “I know. I know I should be grateful that I don’t have to press through anymore, that I have people to take care of me…” Prisha drifted off. “This is going to sound fucking stupid,” “Try me,” “When you came in and saw how sick I was and got Ruby, hauled all these pillows and blankets in here and made sure I was eating and drinking water and lying down…. It reminded me of my mom,” “… Is that a bad thing,” “No, it isn’t.” Prisha let out a heavy sigh, laying back on her pillows. “Whenever I got sick when I was little, she would absolutely bury me in blankets. She made this special soup full of spices and veggies that she said her grandma had made way back whenever my mom was little and got sick, and she’d forced me to eat every last bite. She’d sit with me all day and we’d watch all these Indian dramas on TV, really stupid, soap-opera type shit. She wouldn’t leave me for a single second,” The room was quiet. Violet heard a soft sniffle. Was Prisha crying? She turned to look. Her girlfriend’s eyes shone with tears and her nose was running. She was gazing out the window. “I know I shouldn’t project my own shit onto you. It’s just… you taking care of me made me miss my mom so fucking much,” She was crying now, her sobs catching in her throat. “Hey,” Violet exclaimed, approaching the bed. “Hey, no, it’s alright. That’s not stupid,” “Yeah, it is,” Prisha insisted, burying her face amongst the pillows. What could she possibly say back? Unsure what else to do, Violet crawled up on the bed, laying beside Prisha and wrapping an arm around her. Prisha turned her head back in shock. “No, don’t. You’ll get sick,” “Don’t worry about it. Pneumonia’s not gonna fuck with me,” Violet nestled herself deeper against Prisha, the blanket pile enveloping both of them. Prisha adjusted her right arm which lay above them both, reaching out to gently play with Violet’s hair. Violet felt some of the tension leave her body as she relaxed under the covers. It was a minute or two before she spoke again. “My mom worked three different jobs. She wasn’t home most of the time, and neither was my dad. Whenever I got sick, she’d call my grandma to come over since she couldn’t miss her shift, then head out,” “So you were alone at home?” “Yeah, but that’s how it was most days anyways,” “Did your grandma stay with you then?” “Sorta. She’d come by after a few hours with a can of Campbell’s soup and heat it up in the microwave. Then she’d sit in the living room and watch her shows till my mom got home,” “She wouldn’t sit with you?” “Sometimes I’d go out in the living room with my blanket and watch with her. When she fell asleep, I’d switch the channel to cartoons,” Prisha paused in her hair brushing. “I’m sorry,” “Why?” “My words must have come across as inconsiderate, complaining about missing my mom when yours wasn’t even around when you were sick,” Violet shrugged. “Everyone’s got their own lives. Ours were just different,” Prisha didn’t say anything, but she continued to stroke Violet’s hair. Violet could see herself starting to drift off amidst the warmth of their blanket cocoon. “Violet?” “Mmm?” “Thank you for today. For staying with me,” “Not like I had much else to do,” Prisha chuckled. “If you say so. Oh, and one more thing,” “Yeah,” “Once I have Ruby’s permission to get off bedrest, we’re going on that sunrise walk together,” She’d remembered. Violet felt herself smiling. She was too far under the blankets for Prisha to see it though. “Ok,” “Goodnight then,” “Night,”

The next day, Violet woke with a cough.

[it-will-not-last-the-night]

Bowl

Ryuji and Yusuke look at a bowl. 

The sudden gesture caught Ryuji unawares, the boy halting halfway to lifting another piece of beef into his already open mouth, gazing with an expression halfway between blank-faced confusion and mystifying curiosity at the boy seated opposite him and, more precisely, the object he was pushing towards him.

Faced with a rather baffling situation Ryuji, rather eloquently, responded with; “Huh? What’s that?” Before resuming his interrupted motion, the piece of meat hoisted between two chopsticks finally making it into his mouth, at the same time letting Ryuji now point, for emphasis, with the empty chopsticks at the package, for lack of a more precise term, of brownish wrapping paper.

“Repayment, or, if it is not to your liking, we can consider it like collateral,” his companion, perched on the edge of his seat rather than slouching into it like Ryuji did, explained in a calm voice, his face neither blank or confused, but rather, if you were to ask Ryuji, just the same inscrutable mask of calmness it normally was.

The two boys were almost a study in contrast, Ryuji’s posture was abysmal, his shoulders hunched, his face scrounged up, whilst Yusuke sat with the sort of straight rigidity which was usually the province of Cranes, his willowy legs folded neatly one-over-the-other, as his calm, to the point of serene, expression continued unwaveringly in the face of Ryuji’s rather loud chewing. From clothing, to bearing and appearance, the two were, to be blunt, an odd duo. 

“Co…what? What are you talkin’ about, lemme see,” he had begun peeling away at the boring brown paper covering…whatever it was, something small and rectangular in shape, using one finger to tear a small gap in it, even as his other hand continued to pack food into his mouth.

Outside the eatery Shibuya was noisy and bustling as usual, people moving, people talking, people being people, life and the living going on, unperturbed or bothered by the strange exchange happening in a small Beef Bowl Eatery along the walkway. It was, by now, a relatively frequent haunt of both boy’s, though they’d never intended it as such. It was just a confluence of circumstance, Ryuji insisted in getting Yusuke what he liked to call ‘real meat’ and Yusuke couldn’t be bothered to choose a place to eat, thus they made the same trip to the same place Ryuji could afford, in other words the cheapest in the area, factoring in potential cost of train fare needed to get they’re in the process. 

They hadn’t planned for it to be a reoccurring thing either, but somehow it had become so, although it wasn’t regular or frequent, they didn’t have a ‘Beef Bowl Day’ as it were, but erratically, intermittently, they would go, together. Even more so since the end of last year.

Regardless, inside, Ryuji had finally caught a peek of what Yusuke’s ‘repayment’ was and, after a stumped look at his friend, had messily torn the wrapping off completely, revealing;

“A…bowl?” He said, slower than usual, as his eyes travelled up and down the length of what, it seemed, was a painting of a meal of some sort, familiar to an extent, with décor packed around it in the background. Ryuji, as if to confirm he wasn’t just looking at it wrong, twisted the small canvas in his hands, cocking his head to the side, whilst Yusuke answered; “I based it off the Curry Bowl we had, two weeks ago actually, remember? We both tried it? You said it we should both experiment with flavours we were unused to so I ordered it and-”

“I remember, I remember,” by now it wasn’t said hastily or abruptly, Ryuji meant no rudeness by it nor was it even a sign of irritation, he just knew that if Yusuke wasn’t stopped early on then he could easily ramble for ages over the most inconsequential of details and, if given the chance to reminisce about almost anything, would take that chance to explore how his own recollection of sensations operated. Normally Ryuji wouldn’t even mind it, as Yusuke could gab on for ages without needing someone else’s input, giving him a chance to finish his food in peace. Also, though he’d probably never be willing to say it out loud…sometimes Yusuke said some pretty interesting stuff.

Today, though, was different, today he’d stopped him because he didn’t want them getting off track;

“Huh? Oh yeah, I do see it actually, huh, pretty good likeness, ‘specially since, what, you did it from memory? …wait! That’s not the point!” Realizing he was now in danger of going off track, Ryuji placed the painting down (gently!) so he could lean forward over the table, one eyebrow raised sceptically; “I don’t get what you’re givin’ it to me for? Repayment? Collateral? For what?” 

As if a flower wilting, Yusuke’s neck bent ever so slightly to one side, his head following it, as his eyes regarded Ryuji with slight incomprehension; 

“I thought…it would be obvious,” but the silence from Ryuji which followed made clear it wasn’t and, seeing an explanation was necessary, Yusuke’s head aligned itself upright again, a slender finger coming from out beneath the table to tap thoughtfully at the side of his cheek;

“You’ve so often provided funds towards our meals here, and transport as well, that I felt a need to provide some form of compensation. I know you don’t require any,” he neatly interrupted an almost grumbled rejection, his other hand coming up placatingly; “Consider it something I chose to do for myself, not because I felt I owed you it, but because I wanted to give it,” 

Ryuji’s slight frown wasn’t hard to catch, he’d never been very adept at hiding anything, least of all his feelings, but, to his credit, he did manage to suppress the instinctive impulse to tell Yusuke to ‘stop being so weird’. If one thing good had come from his friendships, all of them, it was a more understanding attitude towards other people, to try to see their points of view and…it worked because, if he took only a moment to think about it then, though the method Yusuke used was one Ryuji found weird, the actual idea wasn’t.

Ryuji was exactly the sort of boy who, if his friends told him he didn’t have to pay them back, would feel it a matter of his own honour to do so; a fact which only made him remember he still needed to pay Ann back.

But he could understand Yusuke’s desire to ‘pay him back’ as it was and found himself, whilst Yusuke went on talking, idly looking down at the image depicted. 

“Since I am, alas, yet again rather lacking in monetary wealth, I thought I would maybe try something like the artists of old, and provide you with payment in the form of portrait, I had actually been talking with Futaba not so long ago, on the infernal ‘social media’ she signed me up to without my knowledge or approval, and, I should note, as a result once again compromising my email address, forcing me to change it-“

“Yusuke, I told you I don’t need to single Futaba story you have,” he perched back in his seat now, actually picking up the picture, looking it up and down, brow furrowing, as if he was actually putting some effort into scrutinizing it.

Of course, as always, Ryuji could say it was ‘good’, a blind chimpanzee could do that, Yusuke’s grasp of art was amazing, his skill incredible, saying it was ‘good’ was about the bare minimum that could be said of it. However, sadly, it was still all he could say. Ryuji didn’t know what else to say, how else to say it, it was just…’good’. 

And so, he dreaded the moment, a little, he knew was coming. The moment Yusuke would ask him ‘what do you think’ and he’d be forced to give the lamest of answers. Makoto and Haru would have known the words to use, the devices to compliment, the styles to note. Ann would be able to gush like no-one else, and Futaba would have found something to criticize about it just to stir up trouble, heck Akira would probably have been able to do all three…

But…’good’…just felt…so lame. Was that the best he could say? Over something Yusuke had made just for him? Even if, part of him, felt that was weird surely, he could think of something, anything, to say, something more than just a bland placeholder for a lack of his own opinion, something…something…

“As I said, if it isn’t to your liking then consider it collateral until such a time as I have enough funds to-”

“It makes me hungry…”

The silence following Ryuji’s comment was not long enough to be awkward, or oppressive, the fact that it was broken by Yusuke’s very poor attempt at stifling a chuckle, resulting in a sound akin to someone coughing whilst blocking their nose, helped make it comical as opposed to depressing;

“Well I will…take that as a compliment of the realism of the depiction then,” he said, smiling that slight smile he preferred, so curiously prone to rather subdued facial expressions, even though in almost everything else he tended towards the flamboyant. 

“Right, we’re doing this now,” the painting was down, and Ryuji was signalling to a server, fire now lit in his eyes;

“Doing what exactly? Isn’t it about time we head out?” 

“Curry bowls, both of us, now,” by happy coincidence his curt instruction doubled both as an order for their server and an answer to Yusuke’s question, the elegant boy now having a chance to be the somewhat confused one;

“Huh? But last time you said-”

“Doesn’t matter what I said, we’re doing it,” Ryuji turned, giving Yusuke a rather smug, half-smile, before pointing a finger at him accusatorily; “’Sides, its your fault making me hungry with this damn painting of yours, if you wanna think of this as extortion,” 

“Extortion…” Yusuke repeated.

In the end it’d been better than just saying ‘good’ again, Ryuji stuck to that. Sure, it’d been a weird comment but, in the end, a comment from his gut was probably more what Yusuke wanted than a comment from is brain. 

He could have thrown it away, but he obviously didn’t. Not because he was particularly attached to art, he simply wasn’t, even now, though he could recognize Yusuke’s art was good, he still didn’t really care about any piece of art in particular. However…it was Yusuke’s, it mattered to Yusuke, and because it mattered to Yusuke, it mattered to Ryuji. It had weight, it had significance, because of what it meant to them both and, so, it was for that he kept it, and not because he thought it was particularly good art (which it was!).

Looking at it, the truth was, made him feel good. Besides, more importantly;

“Mom’s gonna love this story,” he grumbled, smiling, to himself in sight of his home. 

[philsdrill]

Chapter 31: The Feline

Fic Summary: “Everyone had a link with their soulmates, some could hear some of their partners thoughts, some had a tattoo that would appear with their partners name; for me, I knew when they got sick.” For a while Phil has thought that his soulmate might have an eating disorder and doesn’t expect to meet him in the restaurant where he works.

Genre: a lot of fluff, recovery, really fucking domestic, waiter!Phil

Warnings: eating disorders, anorexia, bulimia, hospitals, panic attacks, references to past abuse, mentions of suicide, mentions of self-harm, a lot of awkwardness, small amounts of smut. This is potentially triggering so for your own sake, please think twice about reading if anything this might affect you.

Disclaimer: I don’t have personal experience with eating disorders, but have done some research. If I have anything about them wrong, feel free to send me an ask and I’ll sort it out.

Word Count (for this part): 4.4k

[Uploads will be hopefully every couple of weeks! (follow @philsdrill-updates to hear when I post)]

A/N: Exactly two weeks from my last update - I’m actually on schedule for a change! (also I may have written a chunk of this at like 2/3am but shhh)

MASTERPOST

<= Previous Chapter

Dan’s POV:

The day came when we were getting Ethan and Adam packed up and ready to head home. Well it was home for Adam and hopefully it would become home for Ethan too. With Phil and I driving them down tomorrow, it was a bit last minute, but Ethan had finally organised with his mum that he could go back to his parents house and pick up his stuff. The complication was, that Ethan’s dad no longer wanted anything to do to him. His mum was a bit more flexible; she personally wasn’t too bothered about the gender of Ethan’s soulmate but she had to agree with her husband’s views. From the sound of things, it had taken her a lot of time to persuade him to allow Ethan over to pack up his belongings. In the end, he had agreed the condition that Ethan came and went while he was out at work.

Adam, Phil and I would all be going with him to help out. It wouldn’t be easy for him to pack up a lifetime’s worth of belongings in one day. He was going to have to be selective, as Phil’s car wasn’t all that big. He could leave things there, but there was no guarantee what would happen to them.

Ethan knocked on the front door and the rest of us stood slightly behind him as we waited for an answer. Eventually it opened, to reveal a woman who must be his mum.

“Hi Ethan,” she said, the interaction sounding a little forced.

“Hi mum,” Ethan said, clearly not sure how to speak to her after this long.

After a moment or two of silence, Ethan’s mum spoke up again, “So are you going to introduce these three to me?”

“Okay, this is Adam, my soulmate,” Ethan said, putting an arm around him and a small smile growing on his face, “This is Dan, Adam’s brother… and this is Phil, Dan’s soulmate.”

“And guys, this is my mum, Karen,” Ethan added for Adam, Phil’s and my benefit.

“Nice to meet you,” Karen said to all of us, “Come inside.”

The four of us stepped inside and let her shut the door over behind us.

“I’ve looked out a few boxes and bags for you,” Ethan’s mum said to him, “I think you should take everything you can, because your dad will probably get rid of it if you don’t.”

“Yeah, like he got rid of me,” Ethan mumbled under his breath.

Ignoring Ethan’s comment, his mum started up the stairs, “All of you follow me. I haven’t really done much as I know Ethan will want to tackle this in his own way.”

Ethan and his mum took the lead up to his room, Adam then Phil and I following behind. I was the last to enter the room and the sight I took in before me wasn’t exactly a tidy one. Ethan’s room was probably exactly how you’d imagine the room of a teenager with depression who left for dinner and didn’t come back. His belongings were scattered all over the place, there was a textbook open on his desk and his bed was still unmade.

“I washed the clothes you left on the floor, but I felt doing any more tidying was a bit invasive,” Karen explained, “I’ll leave you guys to it, but let me know if you want any help folding clothes or anything.”

“Okay, thanks,” Ethan said, looking like he just wanted his mum to be gone already.

As soon as she was out of the door and had shut it behind her, Ethan took off his shoes and climbed onto his bed, nuzzling his face into the pillow.

“Do you need a minute?” Adam asked softly, gently patting Ethan on the pack.

“Nah, I’m fine. I just missed my bed,” he explained, then paused, looking a little sad.

“If we’ve got space in the car, we can take your duvet and pillows with us too,” Adam commented, “Would that help?”

“That would be good,” Ethan nodded, “I know I’ve spent so many sad moments under it, but there’s something about this duvet that just feels like home.”

“How about we get started?” Adam suggested. “How about you start by going through your clothes? Bring out everything you want to take and if there’s anything you don't care about, leave it in the wardrobe or drawers at the moment.”

Ethan quickly busied himself with pulling clothes out of his wardrobe and passing them to Adam, who put them on the bed. I offered to fold them up and then gave Phil the nod to help too. We had an effective little production line going and before long, we'd folded and stacked t-shirts, shirts, trousers and jumpers. Ethan moved onto his underwear drawer and Phil and I finished off the last little bit of folding.

We picked out the bag that looked best for size and got the clothes loaded in. Adam was then able to stuff all of Ethan's socks and underwear in to fill up all the gaps.

By the end of the process there were only a handful of things left in Ethan's wardrobe and drawers, like a hoodie he hadn't worn in years, some holey socks and a long-sleeved t-shirt that he'd realised was slightly bloodstained.

Ethan moved on to gathering stuff from his desk: laptop, art supplies, sketchbooks, chargers and headphones, an assorted bundle of cables… Once Ethan had put these on the bed, Adam organised them into groups and Phil and I started packing them into boxes.

As we worked, I noticed that Phil kept having to pause to sneeze. Ethan had disturbed a lot of dust by pulling up cables from his desk, so I was guessing that was to blame. I opened Ethan's window, with the hope of clearing the air a little.

As Ethan moved a large teddy bear to his ‘to take’ pile, he paused to cry into it for a minute. Adam gave him a little space at first, but then moved to place a hand on his back.

“What’s their name?” Adam asked softly.

“Teddy,” Ethan sniffled, “I’ve had him since I was little.”

“Does Teddy want to come with us?” Adam asked, bringing his arm around the slightly tearful Ethan.

“Yeah, if that’s okay?” Ethan replied, sounding a little unsure if it would be.

“Of course it’s okay,” Adam nodded, “You can bring whatever you want… well maybe apart from furniture which won’t fit the car… but other than that anything.”

“Thanks,” Ethan mumbled, “Sorry, I just feel a bit immature still wanting to have a teddy when I’m seventeen.”

“When things are that old, they have sentimental value, so I get why you want to keep him,” Adam said, understandingly, “Also it’s okay if it’s still a comfort thing for you, like I want you to feel at home.”

When Teddy had been put to the side, Adam gently wiped the tears from Ethan’s cheeks and they got back to work. Ethan decided to take a couple of minutes out of his room and headed to the bathroom with a box for his toiletries.

“I don’t think this is easy for him,” Adam said to us, before following after Ethan.

“Yeah, it’s not going to be. I can see you’re doing your best to be supportive, but if there’s anything else we can do, let us know,” I said, wanting to do what I could to help.

“You’re helping a lot already, but okay,” Adam said, joining Ethan in the bathroom.

A couple of minutes later, they returned with a box containing shampoo, shower gel, hair product, deodorant and a number of other tubes and pots I didn’t quite recognise. Ethan opened up his bedside drawer and added a couple more things; one of these I recognised to be a bottle of lube.

The next thing Ethan brought out the drawer had a metallic rattle to it. I didn’t figure out what it was until he shakily passed it to Phil, who was standing nearest to him. It was a box of blades and sharp things, some of which looked a bit bloodstained.

“Ethan, I’m going to go and put these in the bin outside,” I said, taking the box from Phil.

Ethan nodded, at the same time being wrapped in a hug from Adam, who had realised what was going on. I left the room to take the sharp things to the safety of the bin, leaving Phil to zip up the bag of clothes and see what else he could do.

--

Phil’s POV:

After Dan had left to go to the bin, I was overtaken by a couple of sneezes which left my nose feeling a bit sniffly. I excused myself and made my way to the bathroom to blow my nose. After I blew my nose, I realised my face was feeling a little funny; it was probably my sinuses and the beginning of a cold. It wasn’t the best timing with going down to Dan’s parents house tomorrow, but I’d make sure to take some medicine when we got home later.

On my way back to Ethan’s room, I bumped into Dan in the hallway, on his way back from the bin. We both returned to find Ethan sitting on his bed with a blanket around his shoulders. He was shaking a little bit and Adam was sat in front of him, gently holding him. It was clear that something had happened while we were gone, but I wasn’t sure what.

“He found his suicide note,” Adam mumbled, in explanation, turning to us very briefly.

“Okay,” Dan nodded, both of us taking in the piece of paper that Ethan was clutching, “Shall we…”

I unintentionally interrupted Dan by sneezing yet again. I’d tried to hold it back until he had finished speaking, but I was steadily feeling worse.

“Phil, are you getting sick?” Dan asked me, changing the subject, “I don’t know how many times you’ve sneezed today.”

“Neither…” I mumbled, a little miserably, breathing a little heavily as I felt my chest go tight with sadness over getting ill, “And I guess so; it feels like it.”

“Okay, try your best not to sneeze on everyone else and we’ll get you some medicine later when we’re home,” Dan said, softly.

“Shall Phil and I give you some peace?” Dan asked, turning to Adam and Ethan and finishing his earlier question.

“I think that would be good,” Adam agreed.

“Okay,” Dan nodded, “Before we go, do you need anything?”

Before either of them could reply, the door slowly creaked open and a ball of orange fur walked into the room. I had no immediate reaction to the arrival of the cat, but Dan started to freak out on my behalf.

--

Dan’s POV:

When the cat walked into the room, only moments after Phil’s sneezing, I immediately remembered that he’d told me he was allergic to them.

“Phil, go sit outside,” I said, rather demandingly, knowing that I needed to get Phil out of this house and then assess how bad the situation was.

“What?” Phil said, sounding confused.

“Cat,” I said firmly, “How allergic are you?”

“Quite,” Phil said, sniffing and rubbing his eyes, then freezing, “Wait. Are my eyes swelling up?”

“Let me see,” I said, reaching my hands up and holding Phil’s face still while I looked, “Yeah, they are.”

I felt two pairs of eyes on us and looked over to see Adam and Ethan watching our exchange. It seemed to have distracted Ethan from what he was holding, but as good as a distraction as this was, I needed to get Phil out of here, especially now the feline was in the room.

“Ethan, I’d forgotten you had a cat,” I explained, “I’m going to take Phil outside and hope this clears up.”

“Shit sorry; I didn’t realise Phil was allergic otherwise I would’ve said,” Ethan apologised, as the cat jumped into his lap, “Ahh I think Mabel misses me.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t really come up often and I didn’t think…” I said, trailing off as I pulled Phil out of the room with me.

We headed for the front door and once outside, I sat down with Phil on one of the steps. I hadn’t had time to grab tissues or anything, with my main goal to get Phil out of the cat air as quickly as possible.

“What do you need?” I asked, not having dealt with his allergy before.

“Can you ask…” Phil started, pausing and wheezing slightly, “...ask Ethan’s mum if she has some Piriton or another allergy medicine? Either that or take me home to get it?”

“I’ll go and ask,” I told Phil, knowing that would be the quicker solution, “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

I found Karen in the kitchen; she was sat at the table, reading something.

“Hi Karen,” I said, as she looked up, “Do you have Piriton or some kind of allergy medicine? Phil’s allergic to cats and we didn’t realise you had one.”

“Yes, hold on,” she said, getting up and rifling through a cupboard, “There’s definitely some in here, because Ethan’s taken it for his skin allergies before.”

After a few moments, she passed me a box of tablets, “There you go. I hope he’s okay.”

Karen was about to return to her reading, when I realised I’d need a glass of water too, “Can I get a glass of water too? Sorry about this.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, spinning around, opening a cupboard and passing me a glass, “And it’s fine.”

She pointed me in the direction of the sink, where I filled the glass with water, before returning to Phil. By the time I got back to him, his eyes were looking worse, so I popped out the tablet for him and made sure he had a good grip on the glass. He seemed to struggle more with swallowing it than usual, but then, he was having an allergic reaction.

I stayed with Phil as we waited for the medicine to start working. I was concerned for him, with the slight wheezing in his breathing. I was on the verge of deciding to take him the hospital and if things didn’t improve soon, I would.

Thankfully, the antihistamines started to work, but I had been getting anxious with Phil’s breathing being a bit off. His breathing gradually became less laboured and although they were still puffy and red, his eyes loosened up a little. When we agreed he was feeling a bit better, I got him to move and sit in the car instead. He’d been getting cold, well we both had, but in this moment, I felt it was more important that Phil was warm enough. I gave him my hoodie too, before I left him in the car and headed back inside to help out. Phil probably shouldn’t go back in there, but with my help, it would hopefully be done a bit quicker.

I worked on bringing the packed bags and boxes out to the car, so that Phil wouldn’t get too lonely. I took a precaution and hoovered the outside of the bags and boxes, not wanting to get any stray cat hairs in the car. It was still a while before Ethan was done, but finally I was loading his duvet and pillow into the car. His mum had looked out a clean duvet cover and pillowcases for them, after me expressing my worries about the cat hair.

I let Adam and Ethan know that I’d be in the car with Phil, so just to join us when they were ready to go. I got into the driver’s seat; I would be driving us home as Phil was drowsy from the medication and his eyes were still a bit puffy

Adam joined us first, explaining that Ethan was saying goodbye to his mum. I think we all understood that he’d need some time for that. Ethan arrived, teary-eyed, five minutes later. He piled into the backseat, next to Adam. As we drove away, Ethan started to cry a little, as it hit him that he might not be back there ever again. I could hear that Adam was attempting to comfort him, but it couldn’t be easy.

--

The afternoon consisted of Phil sitting in bed, wearing a comfy hoodie, with a big box of tissues by his side. Meanwhile Adam and Ethan were packing up their stuff in their room. I made sure to keep Phil supplied with snacks and drinks of water, keeping him company most of the time. Although he wasn’t technically ill, he was suitably miserable. Although his allergic reaction had passed, he was still suffering mildly from some of the symptoms, so we’d keep on top of the medication until he seemed clear from those too.

His eyes were still quite red and at one point I caught him rubbing them irritably. He looked uncomfortable, as if there was an itch which he couldn’t quite scratch. I left him for a few moments and headed into our ensuite to soak his facecloth in cold water. I grabbed a towel too, to deal with any drips, then brought the wet cloth to Phil. I got him to lean back and shut his eyes, then I slowly applied the cold, wet cloth over his eyelids. He hissed at the initial contact and remained tense for a minute or two, but I could tell the cold was starting to soothe when he relaxed a little under my touch and let out a sigh.

I sat with him for a while, periodically returning to the bathroom to make the cloth cold again. I could see it was making his eyes feel a lot better and I kept this up until it was nearing dinner time. Wanting to be on the safe side, I gave Phil another dose of medicine when it had been long enough since his first. For dinner, I heated up leftovers from yesterday. While Adam and Ethan scarfed them down, Phil didn’t seem to have much of an appetite; it looked like exhaustion was getting the better of him. I made sure that everyone got to bed early; we had a long drive ahead of us tomorrow and I wanted to make sure everyone was up and organised. I had a feeling that I would probably be driving, unless a goodnight’s sleep significantly improved how Phil was feeling.

I had Phil in bed just after ten; I’d expected with his tiredness that he would’ve fallen asleep almost immediately, but we’d been lying down for about twenty minutes and although yawning profusely, he was still awake.

“Come cuddle?” I suggested, wondering if Phil just needed a little help to relax.

He rolled towards me, let out an uncomfortable sounding groan, then nuzzled his face into my neck.

“You okay?” I mumbled, the groan not quite being like him.

“My chest aches,” Phil complained, “I’ll be fine, but it’s just not comfortable.”

With Phil’s face being so close to my ear, I noticed the slight wheeziness in his breathing as he spoke. I gently brought my hand up to his chest and held it there for a minute, feeling his breathing.

“Is there anything I can do to help? Open the window? Turn the heating down? Get another blanket? A hot drink?” I asked softly, wanting to do what I could for him.

“Uhmm,” Phil thought aloud, “I don’t know if I even still have it, but there might be some peppermint oil in the bathroom. Could you take a look?”

“Sure,” I said, pulling away from him and getting up.

It took me five minutes of rummaging and pulling everything out of the cupboard, but eventually, I found the small bottle Phil was thinking of, right at the back. I returned to our room with it, interrupting Phil in the midst of a miserable sounding cough.

“I’ve got it,” I said, going to his side of the bed and crouching down next to him, “What d’you need me to do with it?”

Slowly sitting up, Phil took the bottle from me, “It has a dropper and I just put a few drops on my pillow, I think? I haven’t used it much; Louise gave it to me a year or two ago when I had a really bad cough and it helped a bit.”

“Okay,” I said, watching as Phil opened up the bottle and did as he said, putting a few tentative drops of the oil onto his pillow. It might be annoying to clean, but we could deal with that if it helped Phil to get to sleep.

When Phil was finished, he screwed the lid back onto the bottle and passed it to me, tiredly lying back down. I laid the bottle on his bedside cabinet; that could be put away in the morning. I climbed back into bed next to Phil, my lungs filling with the smell of peppermint as I got closer to his pillow. I had to admit, the smell was quite soothing, so I had faith in it.

I put one arm around Phil, but didn’t hold him too close, giving him a bit of space to breathe. A quiet mumbled question to him had him agree that he would appreciate that little bit extra breathing room. Phil eventually started to fall asleep; he still sounded a little wheezy, but there was definitely an improvement.

“If you feel any worse or can’t breathe or anything, wake me up immediately,” I said to him, the statement very firm, but my voice soft and quiet.

“Mmm’kay,” Phil mumbled sleepily, but I knew he was just awake enough to get the message.

--

I didn’t know if it was an offshoot of our soulmate connection, or just me being an overly worried fiancé, but I kept waking up throughout the night to check on Phil. Around three, I woke to him making some slight choking noises, like he was struggling to breathe a little.

“Phil,” I said, shaking him enough to wake him up, “Phil, are you okay?”

As I woke him up, I rolled him over onto his side, knowing that being on your back didn’t always go too well with coughing.

“Phil,” I said again, now that he was coming to his senses, “You okay?”

In response, I was met with a coughing fit. I wasn’t really too surprised, but I hated to see him suffering all the same. I brought one hand onto his chest and the other onto his back, to feel how he was suffering.

“I think you should sit up,” I told him, then slowly started to help him sit up.

I got Phil sitting up, leaning back against the headboard. He was still coughing, but I was hoping that being upright might help. I lightly rubbed his chest as he continued to cough, knowing it was bad, but hoping it would ease of soon.

“Dan,” Phil choked, coughing so hard it was bringing tears to his eyes, “Help?”

“Okay, one word answers,” I started, needing Phil’s opinion on a few things but not wanting to make him talk too much, “Do you think you need to go to hospital?”

Phil looked unsure for a moment, then let out a rough ‘no’.

“Okay. I’m going to get you a drink; do you want tea or water or something else?”

“Water.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back, okay,” I said to him, heading into the bathroom and filling the bathroom glass up from the sink.

I took the water to Phil and helped him hold onto it while he took the odd sip. I left his side for another couple of moments to open the window, but other than that I was right next to him, doing my best to help.

“Do you think more Piriton would help?” I asked him, noticing that the box was still on his bedside table from the last dose, which had been long enough ago.

“Maybe,” Phil said, this time managing to get a few words out, “There’s no harm.”

I handed Phil a tablet and made sure he got it down okay. He fell into a brief silence after that, the coughing having settled a little now that he was sitting up, only triggered by him speaking and any occasional movements. I got back into bed next to him, and making sure that it was okay first, slid my hand up his shirt to feel his chest. It was maybe a slightly odd action, but it settled my mind to be able to feel what was going on.

Grabbing my phone from my bedside, I decided to have a brief google about allergies and peppermint oil and see whether there was anything else I could do. I discovered that you could rub the oil on your chest too, in fact it could be the sort of oil people use for massages. Presuming Phil was up for it, I decided that this was worth a shot.

I posed the question to Phil, and sure enough, had a positive uptake. I didn’t want him to lay down again just yet, but I asked him to take his shirt off and do his best to be relaxed. I gently massaged some of the oil into his chest, trying to create some kind of rhythm with his breathing. It was strange, but I could almost feel Phil relaxing under my touch, some of the tension in his chest seeming to evaporate into thin air with the peppermint smell. When I felt his breathing was steady enough, and his coughing suitably under control, we slowly laid back down. I made sure Phil took his time and didn’t make any sudden movements. We adopted a slightly closer position this time, Phil very relaxed but needing a bit of a cuddle. This time, as he fell asleep, his breathing sounded a lot better and I had faith that he would be okay… and with that, we slept through until the morning.

Next Chapter =>

[larissaloki]

90. “Sorry to interrupt, but you need to move your hands away from him/her before we have a problem,” Winteriron.

prompt request from @once-upon-a-ghost-blog my first request ever!!! this one sort of ran away with me and had to force myself to stop before i wrote like 4 more pages! XD hope this please!! With a sigh Tony sipped his apple juice, after being clean from alcohol for so long he’s demanded all functions to have non-alcoholic choices as well. Pepper would be proud if she was here, instead she was in Japan closing a deal for him while he was forced to attend this shit show. A party to welcome back the Avengers formally. Thanos had come, they kicked ass, Tony got the infinity gauntlet wished into never existing and scattering the stones again. Afterwards the world changed their tune, admitted they needed the Avengers, the accords were changed to be more friendly to supers and such. There were still restrictions but they were less so. Tony of course being the biggest pusher for them, chasing down officials to get the pardons and arguing all the unfair rules. It took many sleepless nights and days, but he did it. Despite his pro-Avengers actions, he was still weary around the Avengers, keeping his distance and if possible, flat out avoiding them. Instead, he had spent his time working on Rhodey’s braces or with T’challa on a new arm for Barnes. It took months to work through his grief over his mother. Took months to process the bombshell of what had actually happened. The guilt he felt from blaming his father all those years. Smoothing his vest out, getting rid of the non-existent wrinkles, he made his way slowly around the room. Taking a break from schmoozing the rich and famous or military men that were in attendance tonight. Passing some random art sculpture on display, giving it barely a glance he slipped out through a door into a quiet side corridor heaving a sigh of relief. Glad to be away from the hot, stuffy room at last. Moving partway down the hall he sits on a sofa, most likely placed for decoration purposes mostly than for actual use. Shifting around to get comfy, he leaned his head back, most likely crushing the artful curls on his head against the wall in the process, and closed his eyes for a few moments. In his mind, he wondered over to the specs for Rhodey’s braces, always mentally tinkering with it. It was while he was lost in thought, that he failed to hear the door open from the hall. “Well looky here~” Snapping his eyes open, startled by the sudden loud intrusive voice, Tony stares up- Tiberius Stone. Eyes narrowing into a glare, Tony shuffled to sit up straighter and moving away as Stone sat heavily next to him. A smug grin on his face. A glass is soon shoved into his face, the smell of whiskey hits his nose nearly making him gag now. “I saw you sneak out and thought you could use a drink some good company!” Stone’s voice slithered over and through him making him shudder in disgust. How had he ever found his guy appealing he will never know. “Well, unfortunately for me, both said drink and company disappoint me.” Hoping to come across as dismissive, Tony tries to stand only to stumble as a strong grip pulls him back, snuggly into Stone’s side, much to his chagrin. “Hey now! Is that any way to treat a friend!? I came in good faith! Come now Tony, you can’t still be bitter all these years are you?” “Yes actually I can, and I am...” Glaring at the offensive arm around his waist Tony turned his glare onto the owner of said arm. “let me go Ty, I don’t want to cause a scene..” Leaning in close Stone grinned, even his grin came across as slimy. “Then don’t~ lets have a drink and...catch up~” Chuckling to himself, Stone moved to lean in for a kiss.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you need to move your hands away from him before we have a problem,”

Tony had never seen Stone move away so fast as he did in that moment. Barnes stood right in front of them. Glare in place and turned fully onto Stone. It was dark enough to make lava stay in a volcano in fear of him. Backing away quickly, Stone stood up fast and put distance between him and Tony as if Tony had the plague.

“It’s not how it looks...”

“Of course not” Smiling sharply Barnes turned his full body to keep facing him, aggressive as can be, “You were just leaving right?” Nodding, face pale and damp with nervousness Stone fled back to the party as though hell itself was after him. Probably was, Tony could imagine death dusting a seat in a pit of lava and fire reserved specially for Stone.

“You ok Tony?” Jolting, Tony realised that imagining death dust a seat had somehow taken up his mind and turned back to face Barnes. Nodding he stood, ignoring the shaking in his legs.

“Yeah, thanks for the rescue there Terminator. I only had my repulsor watch on me and didn’t want to blow the guys face off...no matter how much of a shit he is..”

Chuckling Barnes grins at him his head tilting down and to the side a bit, his long hair pulled aback into a bun with a few strands having escaped. “I’m glad I could scare him off for you,”

The two of them looked at each other as silence falls between them, slowly becoming slightly awkward. Clapping his hands, rocking on the balls of his feet, Tony grins cheekily. “Well we best join the party! Wouldn’t want anyone wondering where the old War hero had wondered off to! I can only imagine Roger’s puppy pout right now!”

“Tony....” Pausing from where Tony had been starting towards the door, he turns his head to listen. “Yes?”

Licking his lips Bucky shoved his hands nervously into his pockets and looks at a painting. “I...Do you want to get out of here? I mean..this sort of thing bores me...Want to go get some real food? Say...a cheeseburger?” Tony slowly turned around fully blinking surprised at this sudden request. Only to see Bucky biting at his bottom lip still not looking a him. He can see sweat gather on his forehead.

Observing him closely, for any clue that could point to deceiving or mocking him. Finding none, he decided to take a leap here. Truth be told, after the whole civil war thing, Barnes was the one he was least awkward around. They didn’t have history of being friends. And Barnes didn’t withhold any information, he couldn’t when he didn’t know himself.

“Take me to the Five Guys and you buy and call it a date” Smirking, walking back over to Barnes, he stopped right infront of him. Prompting Barnes to finally look at him. This time it was his turn to look surprised. After a few seconds it morphed into a playful smirk. When he spoke, Barnes voice had taken on a hint of Brooklyn accent, complete with the drawl as he spoke.

“Deal. One date coming up, would you like me to walk you to the car?” Grinning he offered his arm to Tony. Drawing his eyes to the fact that- Holy shit! Barnes was in his old war suit!- how the hell did he not notice before!? Holding in a purr as he gave Barnes a quick glance over.

“You can indeed Soldier~” Grinning charmingly he linked his arm with his while brining out his phone. “Friday, send Cap a message that me and Barnes-“ “Bucky” “-Bucky are heading out for real food. Tell him to not wait up!”

[taco-bellphegor]

Albums of the Decade

I'll apologize in advance for how rough my writing is. Unfortunately this didn't leave draft form and I had a few situations come up that forced me to put writing on the back burner. I wanted to post what I had done because it would have been a waste to keep it offline.

---------------------------

Looking back, the 10s were rather personally tumultuous.  I went through a major mental growth spurt right at the beginning, and started the process of leaving multiple abusive interpersonal relationships that I had kept for all the wrong reasons (predominantly self-flagellation and the personal insistence that I didn't deserve better).  I gained the strength to leave them all behind, and in doing so I ended up growing so much as a person. I went from living in the shadows of others who insisted that I wasn't worth much and didn't contribute anything to being my own person. I learned that my thoughts and feelings truly did matter and that success was a measurement best left to myself and not to those who were setting unrealistic expectations.  I started on my personal journey to un-learn traits that abusers forced upon me and started to truly come into my own. I would love to say that my beautiful partner was my starting catalyst, but that isn't 100% true. The spark of desire to change and improve came from within myself, and my partner came at the peak moment in my journey and became not only my best friend and soulmate, but a true support that has helped me stay the course of my developing personhood. That little growth spark was there throughout my entire life, even though I didn't have the "kick" to go about acting on those thoughts and feelings.   I started off similarly to a plant that outgrew their pot and was looking for a larger space to grow in and I found a person who was willing to transplant me so that I could continue growing. She helped me to release my inhibitions and become truly free. I'm sure this was a monumental task for her to undertake, but the fact that she did is something I'm eternally grateful and thankful for.

 One of the easiest ways for me to fully delve into my escapism was to indulge fully in hobbies that allowed for escapism: the arts.  I found myself watching movies and fully immersing myself into someone else's life and problems, just so I could experience having problems that were solvable for a change, unlike several situations in my life.  When I had the chance, I loved to become one with the characters in books, putting myself into their shoes and experiencing that happily ever after for myself. Video games were the pinacle of these two art forms for me, as they had a level of physical immersion that enveloped a few more senses, causing my escapism to revel.  Music, however, was different for me. Music has held this specific sway over me that I have a difficult time even describing. It was a medium where I could allow myself to feel without the fear of others judging me and telling me that what I felt was wrong or weird. Music had a way of coursing itself through my body in a way of freeing me from what was causing me to be tied down.  I had even found ways to incorporate music into my own occult-like practices, pinning it into my meditation and lucid dreaming rituals. It became integral to my escapism, as the sound scapes caused vivid visualization. Music was how I bonded strongly with my soulmate. Despite how trite this may sound, music literally became my escape.  

I want to take some time to share the art that ultimately came around and helped shaped myself during a time of extreme growth and introspection.  The music that was a soundtrack to my becoming who I am today. The games that served as a pleasant intermission to the horrific drama that was my life.  The movies that I watched to indulge in fantasies to dark or grandiose for reality. Though I am only going to do a more in depth written look at my music for the decade, I hope that in sharing this with you all, you can understand me just a bit more as a person. That maybe the things that helped to shape me as a person will perhaps have an impact on you as well.

Albums of the Decade

1. Mastodon - The Hunter (2011)

This is the ultimate soundtrack for my decade.  This whole sound and mood was me from 2011 onwards.  This was the sound of my packing and leaving a state I lived in at the tag end of a prior decade and moving to one I'd end up having my family in. The sound of my leaving abusers and moving forward.  The sound of putting on my well worn jeans, flannels, comfy shoes and beanie and heading off to work. My go to for road trips with a very close friend as we took every scenic route imaginable. My workout tunes for when I was pushing myself physically to sweat out my misery.  Yes, it is a sound that is ultimately a tribute to all of the music I listened to during my years in high school, yet it's remixed. New. It is the sound of my shedding all of my adolescent awkwardness and finally coming into my own. It helped me to look back and see where I came from, then look forward and see where I was going.  It came out during a time when I needed songs for hitting the old dusty trail. I didn't expect it to grow on me as much as it has, but dammit it's just me through and through.

2. Lingua Ignota - All Bitches Die (2017)

Lingua Ignota was a surprise hit for me.  I generally can't listen to a huge amount of noise music as the higher registers of sounds that artists love to use causes severe pain and discomfort to me. Yes, I understand conceptually that is the point, however it's so bad that it's unenjoyable.  Despite this, Lingua Ignota fully captures a very specific feeling for a time in my life when I couldn't escape from my abusers. For when I was constantly kept down by them, and whenever I did find a way out, they found new and improved ways to keep me trapped.  It encapsulates the anger and pain and hatred and disgust I felt when my family forced me into homelessness. The anger of being abused, the pain from having to take it because there was nothing I could do, the disgust of knowing that this cycle was going to keep perpetuating itself because there were people in my life who insisted on having the upper hand and the hatred of not knowing what to do next.  If I could have taken this album and took it to the me that was homeless, throwing up constantly because I had no clue what tomorrow was going to drop on me, going through withdrawals, I would have handed myself this. It was the catharsis I desperately craved when everything around me was spiraling out of control. Though this wasn't a thing when I needed it, I'm glad it exists and I can feel comfort from it because there's another person out there that felt the way I did.

3.  Korn - The Serenity of Suffering (2016)

It was a shock to find a Korn album well outside of high school that resonated so strongly with me, but here I am and here it is.  Even in high school, Korn didn't necessarily ring true with me on a lyrical level. Mostly a sound aesthetic level. This album does both.  I have always found a love/hate relationship with my depression. There were times when my own personal misery would drive harmful people away, proving it as being an effective shield. I enjoyed my solitude when I wasn't forced to be around people who didn't understand me, nor tried to.  Whenever I had breaks from my depressive state, I felt awkward. Like happiness wasn't meant for me, and it fit like a shrunken shirt. It was a temporary thing, and I knew it. That my happiness was always on the cusp of being taken, and unfortunately the majority of the time it was. To this day, I still have fears of my partner getting so tired of my shit that she just packs up and leaves.  That my son will grow to resent me because I'm terrible. Frankly, I don't think it'd come as a shock. This album felt like it was finding comfort and solace in your deepest moments of despair. That my depression was always going to lurk just around the corner, and that was just fine. It was oddly comforting knowing that someone out there was doing their best to turn their misery into a motivation.  For now, this remains my "sad album".

4.  Author and Punisher - Ursus Americanus (2012)

This album is important because it served as a bonding experience.  It is the sound of all of the loneliness I went through. The few times when I was miserable when I was alone because I had to listen to my thoughts.  The machines in this album are the sonic equivalent to the times after I had bottled my emotions up so much that I had to let it out and explode. That numbness that would follow my emotional explosion is this sound.  The echoing dullness and loneliness as I had to sit and be an emotional void, starting to fill my bottle back up again until the next time I melted down and exploded and had to start the never ending cycle all over again. My partner sent this album to me as a recommendation, and it came at a time when I needed to hear it.  My bottle was overflowing and I was being kept down by people who would blame me whenever anything went wrong, when my ex would have gaming sessions with all of my friends and invite me just to talk to me like I was beneath him. When family members were insisting that they knew best for me and that I was just inevitably going to end up back on the street again.  My friends were all associating with my abusers, bringing them into my private spaces and allowing them to force me to say I was the one in the wrong, that I was deserving of their treatment, that I had to "apologize or else" and I was trapped in my bedroom until I apologized for a wrong doing that I had nothing to do with. I had to break the bottle before it shattered and hurt me.  The sound of that void of emotions and energy is still relevant at times even now, despite my wanting to not admit it. Much like my escapism, my emotional bottle is a part of me that will never go away.

5. Holly Herndon - Proto

I have a lot of issues with dysmorphia and dysphoria, as well as extreme amounts of self-loathing.  I really truly don't like myself. There are times where I wish I was just a free-floating consciousness that interacted with people, but for the most part just observed everyone else as they went about their daily lives.  I can't stand seeing myself in a mirror, but honestly have no way to truly fix this. When I found my wife, I found the one person who didn't really see me as a physical body. She saw my soul. It was the first time I ever found someone who didn't pay attention to my looks.  She never made disparaging remarks on my physical body, or demanded I look one way or another. She saw me as me. She truly saw me as that free-floating consciousness, and that moved me quite deeply. She has been working with me on seeing myself as she sees me. It's a difficult journey as my brain just can't comprehend anyone seeing me as anything other than what my inner voice says.  When she says I'm beautiful, I believe her. I know that was she says is true because I feel it down in the depth of my core. Though the days are unfortunately few and far between when my brain images matches what my eyes see and it aligns with when my wife says I'm beautiful, I have these fleeting moments of feeling and seeing that outer beauty. This album is that ethereal and fleeting feeling of being beautiful.  Even if it was there only momentarily, it was just within my grasp long enough to provide a respite from the continuous onslaught of negativity and horrific characature of my body and face that my brain loves to manifest. It's beautiful and slightly cold and distant. The solemn sound of feminity. The mechanical feeling of going through the motions of hearing "you look great" and then when the music swells, you actually FEEL that "looking great."  I truly hope that this beautiful ethereal electronic music is going to become the sound of the oasis of hope in our dystopian future.

6. Queens of the Stone Age - ...Like Clockwork 

 I have an extremely complicated relationship with my mother.  She's close to me, yet I keep her at arm's length. She's supportive of me, yet I'm always afraid to let her know what's going on in my life for fear that I'll have repurcussions of her reactions at any given moment.  Her hospitalizations affected me in so many ways, both directly and indirectly. Though there are so many admirable traits that my mom possesses, I also had fears of becoming like her. This album feels like that complication.  It is full of moments of "yeah, I understand how my mom feels" with lyrics and musical motifs that ring through with her lowest of lows. There are times when it feels and sounds like the house parties she both threw and attended with low lifes, and I was stuck listening to everything through a locked door.  There's the grimey vibe of "I just left the bar after spending the last of rent money paying off my tab so I can keep coming back, fuck the landlord!". There's also this sound that even though this all keeps happening, it will eventually have to come to an end because everything does. It's the soundtrack of all of the times when I made life choices eerily close to the ones my mother made and I was made to stand back and watch it all play out, counting all the ways that I was on the course of my own self destruction while the echoes of her own path resounded over mine.

7.  Lorn - Ask the Dust 

I promise I'm not entirely miserable and forcefully introspective.  I have other moods besides being a miserable bastard, I swear! I will go ahead and just give a quick nerd alert here. I had read someone describe this album as a lost Silent Hill OST and they couldn't have been more accurate.  It deserves to be the soundtrack of the nightmare rendition of the mall that Heather is traipsing through. It's the album Pyramid Head blasts on his airpods while he's rip roaring and sword dragging throughout the abandoned foggy town.  It's a great chill album that has atmospheric creepiness to it that I can't get enough of. It's catchy, dark and moody and I wish there was more of this style out there to listen to. If this album had existed back when I was a freshman in college, it would have been the one I put on during night time drives that ended up with my friend and I getting an Icee before we headed back to our dorms. As it stands, it serves as a great reminder of the memories I have of late nights with friends.

8. Diablo Swing Orchestra - Pandora's Pinata 

I didn't necessarily enjoy high school, but I did enjoy hanging out with friends and theater.  Yes, I was a theater nerd (and still technically am). Though I wasn't one of the kids who was screaming things up and down the hallways, I was mostly the silent and depressed background tech, the make up artist that made sure to correct any accidental smudging during costume changes, the props master that did their best to make sure scenes flowed with minimal hitches, the lighting and sound tech that made sure no one was blinded by stage lights and there were no screeches or muffled voices, and the set designer that worked to design scenery that was incredibly minimal and light yet provided enough imagery for the minds of audience members to fill in the gaps. I didn't mind that I was never a main character and was a supporting role.  It was easier for me to watch the more popular kids fulfill those roles and for me to immerse myself into the more technical side. That isn't to say I didn't enjoy acting. I loved being able to shed my own life and take on someone else's for a while. I desperately wanted problems that were as easily solvable as the ones that came from a screenwriter's mind. That said, Pandora's Pinata is the sound of garish and grandiose stage performance. There's a wide range of emotion from the frantically high highs and the deep lowest of lows. It encapsulates my experience as a theater nerd, and the intensity of the passion I have for both theater and music. Though I'm not active in theater now, and I generally don't talk about my love of theater because of the stereotypes associated with it, I'm glad to have an album that helps me with my theatrical feels.

9. The Ocean - Pelagial (instrumental)

I had spent a great deal of my life in land locked areas.  I didn't really get to go on those much lauded "family summer vacations" where you would travel to a new and exciting place to escape the boredom and rut of your home life.  I didn't get to see the ocean or go to a beach until the tag end of the 00's decade, but I did get to experience Venice Beach for myself in this decade (a trip to LA sounds amazing right about now). I spent a lot of time escaping a lot of my troubles by taking regular trips to Earthquake Park (a beach park in Alaska).  I loved walking up and down the coast, finding the objects that washed up from the namesake earthquake (one time the frame of an old VW Beetle was on the shore) and interesting rocks and shells. Mostly, I just loved to sit out there, burying my toes in the black sand and watching the sun set while listening to the waves.  It was one of the few precious moments when I could recharge, even though I inevitably had people with me on these trips. I felt alone and at peace while watching the sky grow darker. This album perfectly captures the ocean and all of its depths. I didn't think I'd ever encounter something that made me feel my ocean escapes until I heard this.  It has it's moments of harsh loudness, but then it comes back down and goes into deep melodic throes of the cold pressure of the ocean. Whenever I used this album to meditate, I couldn't help but see the various ways of how the sea is absolutely stunning. The earlier tracks are the tide pools and sun light bouncing off of the water. It's such a light start and just gets deeper and heavier as it goes.  Though I personally found the vocalist version of this album as distracting, the instrumental speaks volumes without needing words.

10. mus.hiba - White Girl

I started off my decade in Alaska.  It was an opportunity to start my life over again, as well as to find myself as an adult. I started off with a lot of the same world views that I had in high school, a lot of which was unnecessarily toxic.  After many years of reflection and healing, I was able to shed my worse thoughts and fears and habits and become the person I am today. That whole journey started in Alaska, and it's a place that though I have several bad memories of, I have several good ones that I can't ignore.  My love of nature really grew here. I finally lived somewhere that seasons actually brought drastic change! The springtime with "breakup" (when the snow melted and the ground thawed), construction, and days where it's cool yet tolerable. The short lived though highly appreciated summer, with it's long days, mild heat, long walks in the neighboorhood after work, kayaking on small lakes, and the desperate attempts to avoid the extremely large mosquitos that could practically whisk you away to bug bite paradise. The falls where the leaves are all different colors, and seeing those colors paint the mountainsides was breathtaking, where hiking trails took on a new challenge as you had to avoid wildlife that was passing through on its own terms, the slight chill in the air that meant you only needed maybe one or two extra layers that didn't hamper your mobility.  And the winters. Winters that were filled with long dark spans of time, where sleeping, eating and pub crawls brought immeasurable amounts of comfort and comraderie, where you learned the sound of heavy snow and could see all of the stars in the sky so clearly. This album has the feeling of those winter nights. The feeling of coming in from the bitter cold to warm yourself by the fire. The chilly walks in snow and ice to get from the bus stop to work. The sound of people navigating a harsh and beautiful environment yet finding many ways of experiencing joy and sharing it with others. Though this wasn't released while I was still in Alaska, I still love this because it feels so much like there. The dreamy nostalgia of times that I enjoyed and am glad that I experienced, yet knowing that they had their place and that reliving them would be a pointless endeavor that would bring little new enrichment in my life as I know it now.

These are the top albums of my decade.  Though my writing is a bit rough and scattershot, I wanted to present how these albums felt to me, since the feelings they provided were most certainly important to me.  They are the sound equivalent of my thoughts and feeilngs and experiences, and my hope is that if you do decide to check into these albums, you'll maybe think of me and share a little of what I feel as well.  

Honorable Mentions

These are albums that also resonated highly with me throughout the decade.  Though I won't provide an in-depth review of them, I hope that you will also consider checking these out as well.  They're all amazing albums in their own right, and I would feel bad for not including them as highly reccomended albums.

Sigh - Insomniphobia: This is another album that appeals to the theater kid in me.  It's technically brilliant, has so much melodramatic flair and some of the best compositions that it's hard for me to not feel it as a love letter to musical theater.

Ghost  - Meliora : If I had to reccommend only one album that shows the pinnacle of this group, this is the ultimate Ghost album. It's highly indicative of their sound, is lyrically fascinating, and makes hailing Satan pretty awesome.  This felt like to me like the sound of sex, drugs and rock and roll lifestyle with the devil as your sidekick.

Priest - New Flesh :  This is cyber noir and I love it.  Moody androids singing throaty ballads over catchy darkwave made me wish I was walking in the rain, smoking a cigarette while on my way to use my cybercredits to buy groceries at a corner store for the week.  

Father John Misty - I Love You, Honeybear:  I love this album as it is the lead singer laid bare.  He knows he's a walking, talking human trash fire, but he doesn't shy away from it.  He says that he's insufferable and terrible, and honestly aren't we all? It gave me the feeling that everyone is terrible in one way or another and that it's okay to indulge in your awfulness every once in a while.

Tobacco - Ultima II Massage:  This was extremely 90s for me.  It feels like the times when I had recorded my favorite top pop hits from the radio, rushing to hit the "stop" button to avoid recording radio adverts, and my listening to the recordings, erasing the recordings for the next flavor of the week, and eventually having a tape so warped it was barely functional.  This was those summers of laying in a hammock, lazily listening to music while struggling to find something to do yet being too apathetic to do anything about the boredom.

Video Game OSTs

I started off my college career as a Game Design major.  Though I abandoned my major because of a drastic lack of support (financial and emotional) and because my classmates were so unbearably toxic that I couldn't stand to subject myself to them even in my moments of extreme depression, I still find enjoyment in playing games.  I played them a lot as a child to get away from my parents and their poor life decisions that would lead to a lot of pain for them and myself. I played them when I just needed that intermission from life so that I could feel something other than overwhelmed for a brief time.  I played them with friends after school, all of us cramming together around a small TV screen to demolish each other in whatever competitive multiplayer we could find. Though I don't consume games at nearly the same rate as I used to, I do still get a lot of enjoyment from them when I do.  It's grown into a fond way for me to share a hobby with my son, as we both play together on Minecraft and talk about what we're thinking about or feeling or just using it as a backdrop for us to talk about how life is making us feel and making big plans together. Here are some video games and their OSTs that struck a chord with me.

Video Game OSTs of the Decade

1. Toby Fox - Undertale OST

2. Widdly 2 Diddly - LISA OST

3. Keiichi Okabe & Keigo Hoashi - NieR: Automata OST

4. DJ Cutman - WiiU Grooves

5. Theophany - Time's End: Majora's Mask Remixed

Video Game OST Honorable Mentions

1. Jim Guthrie - Sword and Sworcery OST

2. Daron Korb - Bastion OST

3. Shoji Meguro - Persona 5 OST

And finally, here are some albums that even though they didn't cause me some drastic feels, I enjoyed them and listened to them so often that it would be a shame to not include them somewhere.  Feel free to check into these albums when you get a chance! Who knows? Maybe these will find a way into your playlist that gets shuffled and you'll have some new tunes to move and groove to.

Yeasayer - Odd Blood (2010)

Shooter Jennings and Hierophant - Black Ribbons (2010)

Flying Lotus - Cosmogramma (2010)

Death Grips - Exmilitary (2011) & The Money Store (2012)

Mustard Pimp - No Title or Purpose (2011)

Diplo - Express Yourself (2012)

Santigold - Master of My Make-Believe (2012)

Slime Girls - Vacation Wasteland (2012)

Deftones - Koi no Yokan (2012)

Lady Gaga - ARTPOP (2013)

Major Lazer - Free The Universe (2013)

Run the Jewels - Run the Jewels 2 (2014)

FKA Twigs - M3ll155x (2015)

SOPHIE - Product (2015)

Charli XCX - Vroom Vroom (2016)

Ghost - Prequelle (2018)

Devin Townsend - Empath (2019)

BABYMETAL - Metal Galaxy (2019)

Rammstein - Rammstein (2019)

Priest - Obey (2019)

-----------------------------------

Thank you very much for reading through my writing. I appreciate it a great deal.

[josiah-fire-brand-blog]

Real. Messed Up.

Trying this Tumblr thing out and we’ll see if I keep coming back to it. It’s weird thinking this was the pastime of my friends while they were in middle school, but I’m sure they’re long gone from this platform. But hey, I was looking for a place to share my thoughts, ponderings, and musings, I heard a thing or two about Tumblr being a great place for that, and so I thought, “Why the heck not?”

What seems to a rather inviting staple for the community this site advocates is authenticity. It’s something I have come to value probably more than anything in these last couple of years. Growing up being given a lot of reasons to not be who I am-- whether explicit, implied, or even just perceived-- it took up until breaking through the threshold of my twenties before I started approaching this subject in a healthy way. In middle school and high school, where everyone bows to Lord Insecurity, I was a bit of an awkward kid and only proud of my weirdness because I was ignorant of everyone’s unspoken perspective. Being told I’m annoying by folks I wanted to be accepted by made me feel like I had nowhere to go; I already had a parental figure that I felt discouraged much of what made me who I am. Combined with so many other things, I concluded that people don’t like me but they like something I can at least force myself to be. I tried to be what people wanted to be friends with, what people would be willing to praise, but it didn’t work; people can tell if you’re being fake and they don’t want to have anything to do with that.

Even when I eventually made some friends that were sincere, if I could drop my guard and finally show my imperfections, I still had to be the perfect friend cause I felt like I owed it to them. It wasn’t until a three-year-long relationship I was in ended and I was forced to face the parts of me that I hated. The emotional scars from being a child of divorce and feeling like I was forced to live under a new father figure that shot words at me like “dumbass” and “retard,” all the inner vows I made from feeling like I was betrayed by friends and girlfriends that I looked at to find some sort of definition and belonging, and facing the depression and anxiety that plagued me because it all got worse and worse. That relationship of three years was a refuge where I could escape my problems and try to forget what was wrong with me. But no more.

I looked to Jesus at 17-years-old to help me stop doing the things that were hurting me, then I pause for 3 years and find myself to be returning to him after all that time saying, “I realize I’ve got a butt ton of issues and I need you to fix them.” It’s been three and a half years since that day and I can gladly say I am in the most secure and healthy place I have ever been. The process wasn’t always fun, it took me confronting things done to me as well as things that I had done, finding out what was necessary to forgive, heal, and move on, and doing it. There were a lot of nights I cried myself to sleep, where I was so emotionally exhausted that I didn’t want to see people, and I thought I was so messed up I would never see the end. But then, a tender, fatherly nudge in my heart would whisper to me things like, “let endurance finish its work in you so you can become mature, complete, and lacking nothing.” “Finish,” meaning there is an end. “Work,” meaning it doesn’t always feel like play. “Become,” meaning there is a destination that can and will be reached. I’ve made a lot of new and true friends along the way, and I enjoy to this day the powerful interactive force known as connection that is birthed out of authenticity.

Learning who I really am and living it out invited others to do the same and a colorful pallet of personalities begins to form as stories are shared, ideas are birthed, and whole movements arise out of agreement and comradery. Like pieces of a puzzle coming together, we would seem to form an image of a greater design when we not only complemented each other’s strengths but also compensated for each other’s weaknesses. In that atmosphere, we were invited to be open even with how much we lacked or how messed up we were because we encouraged and picked each other up, like different parts of a body working together as a unit to make sure we both got to the end of the race of life that we were all running.

This post here kinda serves as an introduction for you to not just know my history but what is to come as well. I like being real. That involves subjects such as art, stories, faith, mystery, exploration, dreams and aspirations, and theories yet to be tested. I’m looking forward to putting up for entries and even some interaction with some folks on here.

Until next time, Firebrand out!

[alyinargentina-blog]

Wasting Time

The past two weeks have been challenging in a lot of ways. After Igauzu I was 110% ready to hop on a plane that same night and head back to America for reasons that I don’t fully understand myself. Nothing changed in Iguazu: Claudia was still shitty, I still felt like Buenos Aires was a lot but not too much all the time, and I was ready but no more than I had been before the weekend away to be in a city where everyone could understand me and where I didn’t have to clutch my backpack to my chest at all times. The week after Iguazu was our last week of school and of assignments. We were supposed to have our makeup class for derechos humanos but that didn’t happen because no one went. Sorry Juan. On Wednesday we had our last castellano class, which was our presentations for the UBA professors. 

Honestly have no idea how mine went, felt okay about it at the time but also my literary analysis of a play that I really understood about 2/3 of could’ve been completely off the mark and I would’ve been none the wiser. But the UBA professors were not theater specialists, so they probably had little to no interest in what everyone’s presentations were about in the first place. The entire process of the presentations and then little interviews with the professors we had to do afterwards was pointless, and sort of demeaning, but it also was the end of ever having to participate in Argentine academics in person again so I was pretty happy about that. Because of Juan’s failure to email us the consignas for the final essays on time, the due date got pushed back to last Friday, so I still had to write those after the presentation. Accidentally wrote a lot more than Juan probably wanted us to, most of which was probably rambling, but I’m not entirely convinced he’ll read them very closely nor that we’ll get bad grades on them because it would make IFSA programs look bad if students came out with bad grades. 

Nevertheless, we won’t actually know what our grades are until October, because that’s when IFSA is finally going to get around to sending us our grades, which I think is ridiculous. I understand that our IFSA professors have other jobs and have social lives and things, but so do professors in the US and they absolutely don’t take three months to grade the single assignment we had in a class. But this also just reinforces my opinion that IFSA is not going to give anyone a bad grade, and if they were going to, I think they’d have to inform us of that fact prior to October. 

Now that I’m free, academically speaking, I’ve had a lot of time to sit around and do nothing and feel guilty for it. It’s been difficult to motivate myself to go do things because of a few factors: I don’t really want to be in Buenos Aires anymore, I have a limited amount of friends who I can go do things with and they either are already busy, are traveling, or don’t want to go do things when I want to, money, or interest in the things I probably should be going to do. Last week, when Katie was still here, we went to a few different cafes, we went to the San Telmo market again, and we went to the ecological reserve in puerto madero and ate incredibly oily sandwiches. It was all fun, but I felt like we were also doing things to pass the time instead of doing them because we actively felt like we couldn’t miss seeing them before we left. Her mom and grandma got here Tuesday, which mean stat since then I’ve been either doing things alone or not doing anything, except for yesterday. 

Tuesday I laid in bed all day because I had eaten a spinach tart that my stomach mysteriously rejected very quickly. I was in a bad mood all day, aided by the fact that the rest of my family is in Spain right now watching soccer and drinking fun cocktails and going to the beach, while I am laying in a bed in a city that is very overwhelming trying to will the days to go by faster. If Tuesday was good for one thing, it was that it basically forced me to find things to do so I didn’t burn through 8 House episodes in one day and get worried looks from Natalia. Wednesday, I went to the MALBA by myself, which I’m actually very glad I did. It’s weirdly empowering to do things by myself, I can do things when I want, go where I want, and not feel like I have to spend four hours in an art museum when I really only want to spend one hour looking at the paintings. The MALBA was the perfect size, the art was all super interesting, and the exhibit descriptions were surprisingly liberal and very into differentiating Latin American art from European standards and I loved that. I also got to see a Frida Kahlo painting, as well as a Diego Rivera one, and I was very happy about that because I couldn’t for the life of me figure out from the MALBA website if they had Frida paintings in their collection or not. After the MALBA, I tried one last cafe from the list of cafes I had found prior to coming to Buenos Aires, and it didn’t disappoint. There was so much brie on my sandwich that I could barely fit it into my mouth. I’m still not entirely sold on eating meals alone, I’ll forever feel awkward doing that I think, but I’m glad I got to try one more flat white in this city. 

Yesterday I toured Congress with Charlotte because Gisela was adamant that Congress is a must-see in Buenos Aires. Our tour was thirty minutes long because we were accidentally the only two people there for an english tour, and two of the biggest rooms were closed for reconstruction. But we did get to go into both the House and Senate rooms where they vote, which was pretty cool, and the building was very pretty in general. Afterwards, we went to an amazing Peruvian restaurant where I discovered that I actually love ceviche and it doesn’t taste or feel like gross raw fish in the slightest. We headed back to the Plaza de Mayo to see the Madres of the Plaza de Mayo march, which was a really powerful experience. It blows my mind that they’ve been protesting every Thursday since either during or right after the dictatorship and the government still hasn’t acquiesced and provided at least a little bit of information about the whereabouts of the desaparecidos that they’re still looking for. Some of the women there were so old, it was hard to watch. Finally, we went to this ornate shopping mall that was way out of our price range, but that had some pretty cool architecture and is on all of the tourism websites for the city. 

I do still feel like I’m going places or doing things just to fill my last couple days, but maybe that’s just inevitable when you’re getting ready to leave a place and have no real obligations to fulfill before leaving. A part of me really wishes that I could’ve traveled to Peru or Chile during these last weeks, but I also know that those are vacations that I should save until I have the resources and the time to fully experience a place, not rushing through them to say I saw them and to take a couple standard pictures to show people. I also sort of wish my family could’ve came to Buenos Aires to have some context of things I talk about when I get home and need to tell them what I did for the past five months. But it is what it is. 

Although I normally start packing egregiously early, I have yet to start packing up my things for the trip home, and I’m very stressed out about weight limits and about the amount of things I’ve acquired over the course of the semester, because I definitely told myself before getting here that I wasn’t going to buy a lot. I think I’m going to start the process tonight, but I also know I have a weird amount of time on Sunday before I have to leave for the airport that I’m going to want to fill with something. But if I wait until the last minute to pack I’m going to lose my mind. 

[usnewsaggregator-blog]

Finding Your Creative Voice Again After Combat

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Finding Your Creative Voice Again After Combat

When I came home from my first deployment to Iraq, readjusting was literally impossible for me. I was a 33-year-old Army combat officer and I could no longer feel or see beauty in anything. And while I didn’t know how to leave the destructive path I was on, I also couldn’t stand to crush the hearts of my wife and children anymore. So, I temporarily moved out of my home and slept on various couches, more concerned with drinking than eating. When I would sit down to write, like I had done my entire life before deploying, I’d come up with nothing but blank pages. I had lost a lot of myself on the battlefield, it turned out. Large, significant pieces of who I was had been killed off somewhere in the desert, missing in action, never to come home.

On my second tour, two and a half years later, I tried my best to prepare the first-timers for the realities of war. My soldiers would ask me what I did before the Army, and I would laugh and tell them I used to be an artist. Those words sounded so foreign to me, too, so profoundly silly coming out of my mouth. An artist. My muse, I believed, had been gone for some time at that point. All I really felt like writing was my obituary, but even that proved too difficult an exercise. I was exactly what I needed to be for the Army, though. My job was running a unit in a combat zone, not explaining the world for the sake of art.

Five years earlier, the idea that I could ever run out of inspiration would have been unthinkable. Just before the terror attacks of 9/11, I was an advertising executive in my late 20s living in Texas, where I was born and raised. I had stumbled into my career while an undergraduate English student writing freelance copy for a boutique marketing agency. A couple of the firm’s senior concept and design chiefs, two artists in their early 50s named Brant and Brian, were dear friends who spent a lot of time helping me develop my interests in poetry, painting, and music when I first entered the industry. I had always been creative and, as my mother would say, was on an endless journey to discover new ways to articulate my feelings. While Brant and Brian were spared the period of me loudly expressing my disillusionment with a fledgling punk rock band in my parents’ garage, they were still enthusiastic about my potential in not only the fine arts, but in advertising design as well.

Related Story

How Serving in World War II Spurred My Academic Ambition

By my junior year in college, I was given a small but full-time salary sketching storyboards, designing layouts, and writing jingles. It was a glorious time, in no small part because I had found a way to pay a few bills with my talents—whereas before I mostly gave my paintings away to friends and family who could appreciate my abstract depictions of everyday items like ladder-back chairs or half-smoked cigarettes in dark oils and acrylic. Now, I had an office with a drafting table, a light box, and a window; I participated in that age-old workplace rite of learning to appreciate scotch and cigars. Before long my wife was driving a Mercedes wagon and I had been fitted for a decent suit or two.

Because I continued to write short stories, poetry, and the occasional guitar ballad, I didn’t feel like I had sold my artistic soul for the nine-to-five. I actually felt lucky to work with such talented colleagues. They were in some ways also my teachers; middle-aged women and men who had gads of experience to share, like real-life former Don Drapers and Peggy Olsons. Many of them had served during Vietnam as young officers, often fresh out of art or business school. They’d share with me fantastic stories of life abroad, and, sometimes, following a drink too many, of war itself. But their accounts of the battlefield were little more than compartmentalized ugliness on the back shelves of their memory. Something that happened decades ago, and a world away, in another lifetime.

* * *

A few years later—after a couple of job changes, and just when I thought I was ready to step away from the agency world and commit to a serious writing career—the unconceivable took place. On a Tuesday morning in September of 2001, I stood in a corporate conference room watching the horror unfold on the news: crashing planes and fire and falling debris. That’s also when I knew I would soon be in uniform.

I wasn’t itching for an excuse to dump everything I had been working on and head off to the sound of the cannons. The calling was deeper than that, fueled in no small part by the romantic notions of a lifelong dreamer. I could see myself serving my country as great icons like Jack Kennedy or Jim Wright had done before me. Young men who put their lives on hold to do their part, later emerging as heroes who’d go on to say that war had helped shape them into the leaders they were. And maybe part of me hoped I would return from combat with the wisdom of these giants, and write of my own experience on the field of battle just as Ernest Hemingway, E. E.  Cummings, and J.R.R. Tolkien had.

There were, of course, more practical reasons to join. While a military career was never expected of me, someone in every generation on both sides of my family (including my mother and kid sister) had served in either the Army or Navy, going back to the Civil War. And if I had ever felt guilty for not doing my part, 9/11 made me feel downright condemnable. So with my wife’s cautious blessing, a day after the terror attacks, I began the recruitment process. Less than a year later, in August of 2002, I raised my right hand and took the Oath of Enlistment.

Hollywood had warned me through the years that my initial training was going to suck, but no matter how many times you watch An Officer and a Gentleman, you can never fully prepare for what will happen when you step off the bus for Basic Combat Training. After two years of intense instruction, the second lieutenant staring back at me in the mirror looked nothing like the once out-of-shape artist I used to be. My wife and three children could see a different kind of transformation, too, one that seemed to foreshadow the trouble to come. Already I was reckless and brooding, my drinking had reached troubling levels, and I was more prone to respond violently to any affront, however small. The perfect time, as it were, to deploy to the cradle of civilization.

It’s not the heat, the long missions, or the terrible food that dominate the memories of my time in combat. Rather, my mind takes me to the feeling of always waiting for something bad to happen: to be driving along a main supply route, resting in your tent, or visiting with locals—and waiting for a rocket or sniper to kill you. Like the Sword of Damocles, but with no great fortune or power to offset the pending doom. And as much as I can tell myself we were all only doing our job, my most haunting thoughts are about the innocents caught in the crossfire. So, when people ask me what it was like, I usually take them down a friendlier road, one of sandstorms, biblical landmarks, and the cornucopia of free energy drinks and cheap pirated DVDs. I tell them about the unbreakable bonds that wartime brothers and sisters in uniform will always share, but I don’t bring up what it is like to lose them.

* * *

I left the Army after 12 years, following my third Iraq deployment, and tried to get back into my old routine. I wasn’t the same angry, self-destructive person who came home after the first combat tour, but there were little reminders here and there—the nightmares, an aversion to fireworks and war movies—that I would never be normal again. My family stuck around long enough for me to get my act together, and I was more grateful than they will ever know. Within a few days, I took over as the head of marketing for a regional telecom company, but I had lost my ability to think creatively, to devise catchy phrases and effective copy. So much had changed since my career had been interrupted. I struggled to get out of bed on most mornings and found no meaning in the hackneyed Monday-to-Friday ritual. With my artistic soul seemingly gone, I began to wonder again what I was doing and why.

Eventually, something simple but profound happened: I started to slowly accept that I was just going to be different. A new future was stretching out ahead of me. I began to spend more time enjoying golf, cigars, and espresso. I took up spice gardening and made pho a weekly dining event. I set aside the whiskey and learned to make exotic cocktails. My wife and I made James Bond movies part of our Sunday afternoons. I turned 44 years old and arrived at the intersection of banality and stereotype.

And then it was safe; the coast was finally clear in my subconscious. I was a civilian and once this new normal set in, and the uncertainty and ambiguity of life as a deploying soldier disappeared, my muse returned. I sat down one afternoon three weeks ago and wrote a short story about a Vietnam War vet turned Hollywood actor in his 70s who is staring down his own mortality. It was good—really good. And it has since been, once again, a glorious time. I have my voice back, and it no longer feels awkward to tell people that I’m an artist.

I’ve always thought there are two primary forces, angst and eros, that drive humans to create. It’s perhaps no surprise that the artists I admired most were Jackson Pollock, John Cheever, and Morrissey—sad souls with a darkness that I could relate to starting in my anxious teenage years and continuing well into my 30s, and whom I tried my best to emulate. While it took a major attack to get me to become a soldier, part of me once saw war as a chance to truly understand tragedy; to internalize and then capture sorrow on the written page or on the canvas or in a song. But seeing such ugliness firsthand planted the seed of a revelation that wouldn’t arrive until years later: I need enough brightness and security, not suffering, to make art. I now possess certain omniscience: the ability to see the gloom and record it, while no longer being consumed by it.

Most of my military past—the certificates, the medals, the regalia—has been boxed away, but it hits me on occasion that I was once a soldier. Like while I am sitting at a red light. Then the light turns green, and my thoughts begin to focus on whatever is next in my quiet world. And what I should write about.

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[lovefindmypassion]

Adventure #1- Paint night

One of the most active parts of my project is to get out there and experience something new, ALONE! Just those words alone are intimidating. Breaking out of my comfort zones? Venturing it without those people I trust? It is in facing these moments that i realize how much of a safety blanket others are for me. With someone else I can be braver, there are power in numbers, comfort in knowing that this person already knows your quirks and is accepting of them. But what will happen without them? How awkward will that be? It is a terrifying thought! So terrifying it usually stops me from experiencing incredible things! 

Take me for instance, I love to do artistic things, but ( with my busy schedule)and lack of friends with common interests (or bigger fears than me), I don’t get around to them.  Well, old me, It stops now! With this project I hope to gain confidence to go out and try those new interests, making me time an important part of my life. The best part!

Registering for the event, was a difficult process. The commitment to purchase something of Groupon, always makes me nervous. I am so untrusting, I will question everything, in this case wondering if it is a scam. Facing that fear, I did a lot of research on location and how the classes were generally run. I needed some kind of knowledge to what i was about to step into. Several days later, with much avoidance in between, I forced myself to sign up for this event. That was it, money was spent (i’m a struggling college student), I was all in! In thinking about it I was excited for the upcoming event. It has been over a decade since I took an art class and years since I dedicated any real time to my creative side. 

I mentally told myself to hold onto that excitement, to only focus on the excitement. I did not let my brain wonder to panic scenarios, like what if I can’t find the location (art buildings are typically well hidden), what if there’s no parking? ( I panic when all the cars stare at me while i try to parallel park, it takes me at least 10 tries to get it right), and finally who will I talk to? Will I just be the awkward girl there? I pretold myself if there is an opportunity to talk to someone and make a new friend I will push myself to do it. 

Holding onto the excitement until I arrived, worked brilliantly! Of course, a few of those thoughts snuck in but not enough to be dwelt on causing me to not go. Arriving at the art studio, I felt nervous walking up to the door. I could see couples walking in, I instantly new I’d be the odd woman out and wished I had brought my boyfriend with me. (he’s not into the arts) But that’s beside the point, this project is about me, and the more uncomfortable I feel the better. Means I am doing the project right in pushing myself out of my shell. 

Walking in, I was exhilarated to be back in an art studio! My own canvas, paints, brushes, and name tag. It was an added bonus that we were already presented, taking away one less decision to make. I met with Nancy, our teacher, she commented on how brave I was for coming to the event alone. She was a strong advocates for pushing people to try new things alone. I told her about my project, something I typically wouldn’t mention. I was excited to have support that I was doing a pretty cool thing. She mentioned not fearing breaking out of the box with our paintings, I took this idea to heart, pushing myself to not replicate the class project but to experiment instead. 

Time before the class started was awkward! There were couples or gal pals all around me! I was the only solo show. I did not know how to make conversation without interrupting or coming off as awkward or rude. So I sat there, wielding the class to start with my mind. Finally, it was time. Once I got paint to canvas, MY world opened up. I become lost in the techniques and colors. I was so focused I forgot there were other people around me, until I bumped into them. When I finally stopped to look around others paintings, I noted I was one of the few who stepped out of the color expectations. I painted a winter type scene (well, that was the intent), instead of fall, and one other painted summer. My painting seemed to be getting attention for my boldness in color choice. It was a comforting feeling to get validation for being brave to step out of the box. A few people commented on how they liked it, while the girl next to me took a picture. Wow, is this that humble artist feeling I’m having? Even though the art piece was for myself, with my boyfriend in mind (he loves snow and winter, I had hoped to possibly make a gift out of it, at least that was the intention before I realized he didn’t really like it but that’s a different story about fallen expectations) It was great to be acknowledged, my confidence was really boosted. I felt confidence growing in my choice to stay true to myself, swaying against the wind. 

[justquitesurreal]

breaking ground

‘why are you so late today?’ you asked with a slight hint of irritation rising in your voice. ‘i'm not late,’ I laughed and brandished out my watch, ‘look, it’s only 2.26pm. we are not due to start till 2.30pm.’ ‘but you always come earlier than that. you always come right after my lesson,' you insisted with a sense of self-righteousness to your claim over my time. ‘yes dear, i know. i come earlier most of the time so that we can start the session whenever you are ready. unfortunately, traffic was bad today,' i countered, bemused that you would be so doggedly biting on to such a minor point. eager to placate you, this bristled young man, i continued to say, ‘but we are not late though. so don't worry. we should be able to finish on time.’ ‘oh well, whatever,’ you mumbled under your breath. ‘is anything wrong?’ i asked, perplexed that you would behave in such a manner, especially after all the progress we had made from our first session. ah, our first session. a wry smile started playing on my face as i recalled it. to call that a complete disaster might be an exaggeration but it was definitely less than pleasant. you were sitting on that same chair, sulking with your arms crossed around your chest, and plastered on your face was an expression that clearly read “i'm here because my mother forced me to”. i had tried to share with you about the importance of setting goals, time scheduling, prioritization, fitness, leisure and self-regulation as part of holistic health management. but you scorned the mention of them and were quite adamant that medication was enough. you saw no need to plan or take ownership of your studies or your time because everything has been done or planned out for you- from notes by the teachers to reminders for tests and exams to tuition after school. you saw no need for mixing around with friends after school because they didn't like the same things you do. in fact, you don't have friends. you feel satisfied enough to play computer games after school, that was the happy loner you were. you didn't think that you needed to learn anything new. you claim to be “self-sufficient” in your own words and you were content to do the bare minimum to get through life. your resistance to change was hard ground for me as a therapist. i had felt sad for you that day, in thinking about how your limited receptivity for new ideas and preference for passive solutions may lead to days devoid of art, music, ideas, people and life that can colour your world. but i know that I can’t stop at that thought. i needed to remind myself that i'm not here to judge you or change you. i'm here to help you see more of yourself and to unravel how much more you are capable of achieving.

i needed to challenge myself to get radical. to not fall back on conventional methods of therapy. so we started debating. i would ask you a question and you would throw back a tirade of reasons in rebuttal. i would rationalize my suggestions with neuroscience and anything complicated-sounding from my mind, with the intention of sounding ludicrous just so that i can be that mirror to reflect how you may sound with your excuses. overtime, you started to challenge me with real questions. questions that matter, questions that look at changes, questions that have a life of their own, questions that make me incredibly proud of you because they show me that you are starting to think for yourself.

then there was laughter. laughter over jokes that question the world we live in, the education we have, the traditions and expectations and rules that stifle, the eccentricities of people. there was fun in those sessions- with a sense of unlocking something precious; a whole new life to behold.

oh yes, not forgetting the games, lots of them! from basketball to badminton to jenga to battleship to snap, and anything else i can find under the sun to help you see that computer games and handphones are NOT the only source of entertainment. you had laughed at the silliness of some of the games that we had played, protesting that they are too childish for you. but each time you come out of an activity refreshed and ready for the rest of the session, i would hope that you had at least enjoyed yourself. those were the days. those were the good days that we had under the sun. i thought things will end well in our last session, given all the progress made. yet, your sudden reversion to your old touchy self made me wonder if i had done it right. this whole therapy thing, is it working for you? do you see any value to it? or do you still see it as something you are forced to attend by your mother?

the finality of things makes it even more important for me to seek a definitive answer from you. ‘so, how do you feel about our last session?' i asked tentatively, half-afraid of stepping into that infathomable pool of teenage angst that is bubbling in the background.

there was a silence, so long and so loud, that it was almost uncomfortable to bear.

'i'm angry,' you finally said, 'angry and sad that you are not going to come and be my friend anymore.' your response took me by surprise because i had expected more relief than anger or sadness about parting ways after our last session. and i was glad to hear you speak so candidly about how you feel because i never thought that would have come from someone who was once so hardened towards any possibility of change.

another awkward silence.

'i'm sorry that it has to be so. i've enjoyed my time with you and i hope that you can see how much more you are able to achieve with your life if only you can put your heart and mind to it.'

'thank you,' you mumbled and walked away hurriedly with your backpack still wide open.

it was an abrupt end but i do hope that it was a good one nonetheless.

building and ending therapeutic relationships is at times a bittersweet process. but there will always be new ground to break, new lives to touch, new seeds to be sown. may it be that we will never grow weary in doing good, no matter how hard the ground may be.

[nofomoartworld]

Bad at Sports Sunday Comics with Tara Booth

By Krystal DiFronzo

Tara Booth’s work is an assertive clash of color that depicts the most humbling and sticky situations. Some relatable moments include trying to pee while wearing a romper, cutting bangs into near oblivion, and stoned Amazon shopping (with the resulting surprise package hangover). My first introduction to Booth’s comics were through her Tumblr back in the golden age of cartoonists using that platform. Since then she’s had her work published by kuš! and Colorama. She regularly posts comics and in progress work on her Instagram @tarabooth. 

Krystal DiFronzo: The first thing I noticed about your comics is the density of information, there’s so much color and pattern all piled on top of each other! Also you use gouache like a painter, not like a cartoonist coloring between lines. The ghost layers of paint create this constant atmospheric movement. The reader is made aware of the hand and medium, unlike traditional pen and ink comics. Do you have a background in painting prior to your comics? If so, why the transition to comics or are they all part of a single practice?

Tara Booth: I studied painting and graduated with a BFA at Tyler School of Art. I used to work on big 4×5 foot canvases that I built, stretched, gessoed, and sanded over and over. This time-consuming preparation, combined with the preciousness of the material gradually grated on me. I appreciate the importance of these processes and I’m happy to have access to this skill set, but it wasn’t something that I ever wanted to include in my everyday art practice (due to my extreme and often debilitating impulsivity). Producing work in art school wasn’t a problem for me, but I wasn’t a great student. It became increasingly difficult to connect to ideas being taught in my painting and art theory classes, which were focused more on abstraction and conceptualism than direct representation or narrative, which is where my interest had always been. The language and concepts we studied felt really inaccessible and detached from my experiences as a highly-dramatic, drunk 21-year-old. I started to focus more on folk art, Lowbrow, and self-taught artists. I began reading more comics, and decided I wanted to make paintings that were direct, accessible, and inexpensive to produce—so I transitioned to working on paper with gouache, with the ambition of eventually making my own comics.

KD: Your comics also have a lot of unusual formatting choices that affect how you read it. They don’t have any formal paneling or gutters, they flow across the page almost like an animation or a Muybridge study. You can read the comic either left to right or as a single-paged composition. They are also predominantly dialogue-less other than their titles. What made you come to these decisions? What’s your planning process like?

TB: The unusual formatting in my comics isn’t something that I had planned. For the longest time I felt really stunted by my background in traditional painting. I bought a bunch of comics, and attempted  to mirror the techniques I saw, but working in panels always felt totally awkward. I had little experience with Photoshop, storytelling, principles of design… teaching myself how to make a comic felt like an uphill battle. Five years after graduation, I still hadn’t produced anything solid. I had kind of given up, and finally decided that making a shitty comic was better than not making anything at all—that I should worry less about what I think a comic is supposed to look like, and more on painting within the realm of my own abilities. Once I threw all of my preconceived notions out the window and forced myself to get to work, I actually started to get recognition for what I was doing rather quickly. Embracing some of my naivety and focusing on the painterly qualities in my work has compensated for whatever technical obstacles stood in my way. I still struggle with using text in my work. Until I’m more comfortable with my writing, I’m relying symbols, visual cues, facial expressions, and body language to tell my stories.

I like that you mention Muybridge studies, I look at them all the time. They’re one of my main influences. I love them!

KD: It’s a common trope of comics or animation that characters wear the same outfit. Like opening up a closet to rows of one identical dress. Your stand-in wears such incredible outfits in every comic, they almost become characters themselves. Do you have an interest in design? (Please make Fantomah leggings a reality.)

TB: Ha! I would love to work in textile design. In a failed attempt to simplify my life, I’ve ended up with a pretty boring wardrobe. I like to use my little avatar as a paper doll, dressing her up in outfits that I wish I owned myself. (Does anyone want to offer me a job?) I also use the clothing as a way to explore difference ways of drawing. To find different ways to use line, play around with abstraction and incorporate more surreal subject matter. I spend so much time working on this one body of work, I haven’t been prioritizing stylistic experimentation. It’s nice to have tiny t-shirt shaped opportunities to paint in ways that might feel separate from my comics practice. 

KD: I’m emailing you while you’re at Printed Matter’s LA Book Fair, what was the show like for you? Could you talk about your new book with Colorama? 

TB: The Art Book Fair was great! Like plenty of other artists I have a lot of anxiety in social situations, so it was stressful for me, but wow—so much of that melted away as the fair went on. It felt amazing to be surrounded by so many talented people, beautiful books, and all of the supporters who make this stuff possible. I was able to spy on a lot of my instragam art crushes. I loved watching how excited people were to buy my work. I got to see them laugh as they flipped through my prints, and I had some fun conversations. A few people even brought me gifts! But the most important and exciting part of the Art Book Fair was finally meeting my publisher, Johanna! She runs Colorama, a publishing house in Berlin. We’ve been communicating through email for months now, and it felt like the best blind date ever. The book she published for me, “D.U.I.I”.  is the riso printed story of one of the most awful experiences I’ve had. It was also one of the most beneficial things that has ever happened to me. I got a DUII in February 2016. I’m an alcoholic, and this was the culmination of years of increasingly toxic behavior.  Court ordered sobriety seems to be the motivation that I needed to change. I’m incredibly thankful that I didn’t hurt anyone. It’s a humiliating story to tell, but I felt a compulsion to draw it all out. I feel so lucky that Colorama decided to work on this project with me. It’s very different from my more popular, colorful work. I’m still dealing with the stressful and expensive results of that experience. Making the book was a huge part of the process of working through it. I tried to lighten it up a bit and make it silly—but yeah, its all true. 

KD: Your work is true to life but veers into the surreal. It feels like it’s in the same vein as work by Julie Doucet, Gabrielle Bell, or Dori Seda. Artists who told confessional stories of humiliation and embarrassment but added fantastical elements for comedic or therapeutic effect. What about writing semi-autobiographical work interests you? Do you see yourself leaning more towards fiction or towards memoir?

TB: I’ve always been drawn to autobiographies, in comics and in literature. I really admire a lot of the artists you mention, and confessional work like theirs is part of what inspired me to make comics to begin with. For years I’ve kept a diary filled with drawings, but its tricky. Really putting yourself out there is scary. The paintings that I post publicly, while totally based on my daily life, are drastically different in tone and content than what you might find in my journals. My comics are embarrassing, funny, absurd, relatable… they can be sad, but I think it’s easy to see how I use humor and fantasy as a way of dodging some of the more raw and dangerous territory that can make autobiography so potent. I’m glad that my drawings make people laugh, I don’t want to take myself too seriously and I’ll always make silly drawings… I guess I just hope that as I continue to make comics, I’ll find a way to add more depth to my practice, whether it’s by working on developing more complex fictional stories, or by being brave enough to express some of the heavier, and maybe less palatable aspects of my life. 

KD: Outside of comics, what artists or media makers are inspiring you right now?

TB: Well, first I’d like to say how incredibly inspired I am by artists like Marie Jacotey and Aidan Koch, whose work transcends the world of comics. I want the space between the comics world and the art world to keep getting smaller and smaller. These two stand out in my mind as artists that are helping to bridge that gap. I’d love to be a part of that transition. I’m always discovering new painters. Some of my favorites are Misaki Kawai, Austin Lee, Mogu Takahashi, Katherine Bernhardt (I’m inspired both by her paintings, and by the gorgeous Morrocan rugs that she sells) and Danny Fox. These people remind me of how powerful one large stand alone image can be. I follow the work of so many illustrators, but my favorites are probably Aart-jan Venema and Monika Forsberg, I’m always trying to figure how they do what they do. Who else… there’s a lot of really interesting stuff happening with ceramics that makes me want to get my hands on some clay. Benjamin Phillips is making great pots, it looks like it could be really fun to work in that style. Clay reminds me of Janie Korn, who makes really fun claymation shorts. Having access to all of these creative minds through social media sheds light on the infinite avenues that I want to explore in the future.

To order D.U.I.I, head to the COLORAMA webstore.

Dark Noise : An Interview with Chris Hammes

Half the sky, all your attention.

What We’re Doing This Weekend: 3.20-3.22

Endless Opportunities (Or Something)

MAINTENANCE #3

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