#in cold blood

[shihlun]

[negativegrl]

as long as you live there is always something waiting

[splickedylit]

Winter Soldier Gamkar has hit 100K words and 6 completed chapters and a whole lot of supernatural bullshit and Reminding My Traumatized Boyfriend What Kindness Is nonsense. Thanks to the co-writer groupchat for reading the first draft and 1. convincing me not to half-ass my scene planning, and 2. helping me figure out Karkat's Whole Deal, lol. Clandestine military experiments.....a comic book classic...

--

You don’t know what the thing you were fused with used to be.  You call it the Cancer, in your head, to yourself, but some part of you knows it’s a whole fucking lot older than the concept of names.  It died so long ago, there wasn’t a word for death yet. 

Any of its corpse that washes up into your reality is just skeletal detritus; the assholes who experimented on you couldn’t find any consciousness to bore into your skull like the Scratch did to Feferi and Eridan.  They had to fuse it into your flesh to wring power out of its remains, and it’s only through some hideous joke of luck that it took and you’re still alive to bitch about it. 

It could be worse.  You could be a rotted, mangled corpse in an unmarked grave.

They’d almost seemed surprised that you were pissed, when you found out about that little wrinkle after the fact.  You regret a lot of shit in your life, but savaging the asshole who changed you—who killed dozens of stupid kids before you—isn’t one of them.

You don’t know who has it worse, really.  Feferi and Eridan don’t show much sign from the outside that anything was even done to them—but for all the double-takes you get on the street, you don’t have to listen to voices and whispers.  There’s no living, scheming forces trying to push you to do anything, there’s just a vast, echoing emptiness in the back of your head.  Sometimes when you sleep, you find yourself in the place where it lives—or where it died.  An endless, quiet walk through an empty shell the size of a thousand cathedrals, rotting and half-consumed.

[citizenscreen]

Paul Stewart and John Forsythe on set of IN COLD BLOOD (1967), directed by Richard Brooks

[ropesbypatricia]

"Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity."

Rope/Model: me

The ties that bind: 2 broken diamond futomomos ~ 12m of 6mm jute per leg

[hasilballward]

Photo dump of a recent book haul feat. The Snoopy plush my sister crocheted for me!!

[tygerland]

Cecil Beaton Truman Capote in Morocco 1949.

[morbidology]

Perry Smith and Truman Capote shared a profound and intimate connection, leading to speculation that Capote harbored romantic feelings for Smith during their years of prison visits while working on "In Cold Blood," a seminal work of non-fiction detailing the Clutter murders, for which Smith was one of the perpetrators. Smith, expressing a desire for Capote's presence, requested him as a witness to his impending execution. 

In a poignant telegram sent on the eve of his execution, Smith implored Capote, stating, "Am anticipating and awaiting your visit. Please acknowledge by return wire when you expect to be here." However, Capote failed to appear, citing the overwhelming emotional toll that witnessing the execution would exact upon him. The publication of "In Cold Blood" propelled Capote to unprecedented fame, yet he never completed another book thereafter.

[lisamarie-vee]

[filmnoirfoundation]

TCMFF Day One

Opening night of TCMFF includes a healthy dose of crime. The gala event will be PULP FICTION (1994), 6:30 PM at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, with John Travolta, Uma Thurman, Samuel L. Jackson, and Harvey Keitel in conversation. FNF prez Eddie Muller will introduce Raoul Walsh’s WHITE HEAT (1949) at American Cinematheque's Egyptian Theatre, 7:00 PM. On the lighter side, CLUE will play poolside at The Hollywood Roosevelt , 7:30 PM with Lesley Ann Warren in attendance.

The second round of screenings include Richard Brooks IN COLD BLOOD (1967), introduced by producer Michael Uslan, 9:30 at the TCL Chinese Theatres Multiplex, House 1 and the world premiere restoration of GAMBIT (1966), introduced by writer and film historian Sloan DeForrest.

WHITE HEAT

(1949): “Top of the world, Ma!” A G-man (Edmond O'Brien) infiltrates a gang run by a mother-fixated psychotic, James Cagney in a standout performance. This film marks the cinematic movement away from the traditional Warner Brothers’ portrayal of the gangster to the more cynical and psychological film noir interpretation. Virginia Kellogg garnered an Oscar nomination for Best Writing, Motion Picture Story for the film. Pointless trivia: Naked Gun 33 1/3 borrowed the plot. Dir. Raoul Walsh

IN COLD BLOOD

(1967) Bleak adaptation of Truman Capote’s groundbreaking true crime book. Two men (Robert Blake and Scott Wilson) brutally murder a small-town Kansas family, thinking that ten thousand dollars is hidden in the house. They flee with the forty-three dollars that they actually found, and the FBI hunts them. Dir. Richard Brooks

[peonyblossom]

we need more MCs who (can) commit murder

[leavemeinbrunswickstreet]

“Imagination, of course, can open any door - turn the key and let terror walk right in.”

Truman Capote, In Cold Blood.

[helena-bottom-farter]

The Clutter family home in Holcomb, Kansas.

[insomniacirl]

The idea of the Slytherin Skittles dealing with Regulus on veritaserum after Pandora 'accidentally' spiked his drink with it (because she wanted to test how long it would last) is so fucking funny to me, like-

Regulus: I am so mad at all of you right now I'm-

Barty: Aww! You're not gonna kill us? That's so sweet, Reg!

Dorcas: He just loves us too much- isn't that right Reggie?

Regulus: *Jaw clenched looking like he's about to actually commit first degree murder* ...Yes.

Evan and Pandora: *Sharing a look, but trying to keep from smiling*

James, walking into the room completely oblivious: Oh, hey guys- I was just gonna ask if... you alright, Reg?

Regulus: *Looking at James like he is literally everything* James, I-

Barty: *ABSOLUTELY ZERO FUCKING HESITATION, PUNCHING REGULUS SQUARE IN THE FACE*

-Cut to Regulus coming back to, a little while later-

Dorcas: Regulus, please tell me you don't feel like confessing anything at all right now.

*Evan standing in front of Barty, who James is trying to get at to throw a punch*

Regulus: Fucking hell- what did you do that for?!

James: Reg?

Regulus: Barty, I never thought that I would EVER say this, but I could actually kiss you right now.

James and Evan at the same time: Yeah. No- that's a no.

[escapeintothepages]

"As long as you live, there's always something waiting, and even if it's bad, and you know it's bad, what can you do? You can't stop living."

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote

[palestporn]

Continuing the encouragement: I would very much be interested in reading In Cold Blood on ao3!! I’d be interested in reading pretty much anything you write tbh—you could publish Gamkar’s grocery list and it would still be one of the best things I’ve ever read

Haven't posted about this over here much but STILL WORKING ON IT, 107,000 words in at the moment, 6 chapters mostly complete, probably at least 4 or 5 more to finish out?? At least? It's been a second since I wrote humanstuck stuff, haha, it's a fun shakeup.

-

Gamzee turns his hands, and you let them go; he falters back like he wasn’t expecting that, and then cautiously touches your skin with cold fingertips, tracing along the place under your jaw where your armor doesn’t cover.  Pausing at your pulse, like he can feel how it’s pounding hard enough to make you shake.

He says, “...You scared of me?”

You don’t know.  You just look up at him, so fucking tired, and tilt your head to press against his touch.  

His hands slip around your throat, and you let them.  Frame your neck, almost lovingly, thumbs pressed against your jugular veins.  A careful hint of pressure that you know could knock you out in seconds if he squeezed.  

“Gonna tell me how okay I am again?” he says, and you can’t tell if it’s a dig or a plea.  His thumb strokes back and forth over your pulse, presses for a second, twitches away again.  “Go on, motherfucker.  Tell me how you’ll fix me.”

His grip tenses when you reach up—you move slow, breathing steady, and just rest a hand on his hand.  Like he did when you washed his hair for him, just holding him there.  Waiting.  

“Tell me how you’ll fix me,” he says again, and he’s begging, this time, his grip tightens and loosens and tightens again.  “Can’t stop you.  I’ll fuckin’ let you, even.  Won’t have to hurt me, I won’t make you.  Just tell me how I’m good for you, I swear I’ll learn.”

Your eyes are burning.  You can’t turn your face away from him, with his hands at your throat—and you’re so tired.  You’re so fucking tired of acting like you know what to do.  You can feel him hurting in your chest, reaching out for you now, giving in all in a rush, a flood; you don’t know how to take what he wants to give.  You don’t want to.  You can’t.

You shake your head, and feel a hot tear track down one of your cheeks, stupid and helpless.  Gamzee twitches back, eyes widening—reaches out like he’s going to brush the tear away, grits his teeth, jerks his hands away and knots them in his hair instead.

“Sorry,” he says, wretched and small.  “I’ll take, I’ll do, whatever penance—  I know you’re pissed, ‘m sorry—”

He flinches when you lean forward—when you touch his cheek he goes still, shivering.  When you kiss his forehead, he makes a noise like a bitten-off sob.

“What should I,” he starts, half-frantic, and you shake your head and kiss his cheek, his lips, the tip of his nose, combing your fingers at his hair.  “Do you want, should I—” his hand touches your thigh, hesitant—you twitch back despite yourself and he goes still, yanking his hand back like your skin burned him.  “Sorry, fuck, sorry—  Tell me the rules, motherfucker, tell me what you want!” 

He sounds half-desperate, and the tone of his voice burns, the way he’s looking at you.  Like he looked at his god, reverent and terrified.  

“You always knew what I should do, best friend, Karkat, your will be done, your motherfucking commandment—”