#like on a surface level (not to get pretentious) it feels like wandering into an academic conference on tolkien asking what WWI is

[triptychgardener]

Hey so just maybe consider that constantly asking trans women about their justifications for their various reads of character's genders over and over and over again may, in fact, get exhausting and it sucks and you should probably stop.

Like I tend to answer asks assuming good faith and because I don't mind giving an explainer every now and again. And it can even be fun now and again to go through the my analysis process.

But the fact that so often transfem reads are interrogated endlessly over and over again while trans women are expected to be ever-flowing fonts of gender knowledge who have to defend their reads from people who haven't even done a basic bit of analysis makes actually engaging in this fandom and taking it seriously a fucking ordeal.

If you don't agree with or are confused by a read, consider reading a bit more analysis on it or, barring all else, just move on! Unfollow or block! We literally cannot stop you and it will save everyone a lot of time and energy!

[haberdashing]

No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (16/17)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Not everything, though, went smoothly after that point, and not just because Jon was still trapped in his own body, unable to act of his own accord. There were incidents that reminded him of the true gravity of the situation, how one wrong move could lead to consequences much graver than his current imprisonment.

The first incident started with Jonah Magnus writing something down, though Jon hadn’t thought much of it at first; he’d peeked at a few words during the writing, as it wasn’t as if he could look away, but upon grasping that it looked to be a missive every bit as pretentious as he would have expected from Jonah, Jon let his mind wander, focused more on how Jonah Magnus’ handwriting both did and did not resemble his own (it was formal-looking handwriting, filled with dramatic loops and whorls, but still slightly different than what he’d seen Elias write before) than the actual contents of what was being written. Whether it was some sort of bragging or a suicide note or somewhere in between, Jon figured that what mattered was the action that accompanied it, not the letter itself.

Jon had barely noticed that said letter was still in his pocket as the day went on, and as his body entered the bathroom, his mind was more preoccupied with Knowing the sort of thing Daisy had used that bathtub to clean up and how inadequate her cleaning efforts really were on a biological level than with how Jonah had preoccupied himself writing something earlier in the day.

Jon only focused again on the scene in front of him when, after locking the door behind them, Jonah took out the letter and thrust it in his face while making no effort to actually attend to business there.

Read this, Jon.

Jon hadn’t planned on doing so any more than he had when the same words had been in front of him before, but his eyes instinctively looked to the top of the page--and, Jon noticed, his field of vision moved with them, his head tilting ever so slightly upwards.

He could move again, then--and yet, though he hadn’t planned to read whatever Jonah had written out loud, his voice rose to do just that, its tone calm and clinical even as Jon’s hands shook.

“Stateme-”

Jon closed his eyes, closed his mouth, gritted his teeth together to stop the words from flowing up, because he recognized the pattern now. He recognized the pattern, but he’d read just enough before to know that what Jonah wanted to share with him wasn’t a statement--not a regular one, at least, not some brief anecdote about the supernatural. It was... bigger than that. It was something more.

It was, at any rate, very much not something Jon wanted to read out loud, especially after being prompted to by his captor.

(The phrase Free will is a funny old thing, isn’t it Jon? floated into Jon’s head, and he felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of it.)

Part of him wanted to read it, though, and not just the part of him that was starting to feel resigned to whatever it was Jonah had planned for his captivity here. Part of him wanted to see what Jonah thought was so important, wanted to learn why he’d requested that Jon read it, wanted to know what this was all about, wanted to Know-

Jon pulled his hands into fists, crinkling the paper in the process.

It wasn’t a statement. That was what mattered here, right? He could feed off statements, but if this wasn’t one--and it didn’t look the part, exactly, scrawled hastily onto paper that wasn’t even official Institute stock--then that didn’t matter. If he could- could justify in his mind it being something else, that would change things, right? Dream logic, and all that?

It wasn’t a statement. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it be.

Jon hadn’t noticed that he was hyperventilating until his vision began to dim.

Do calm down, Jon. Panicking won’t get you anywhere.

“I’m not going to- to calm down!” Now Jon’s voice shook as much as his hands, but there was a strange sort of comfort to that, to knowing that his voice was his own again, panic and all. “If anything, maybe I’ll just panic louder. Martin’s out there, you know, he’ll-”

He’ll what? Think that I’m throwing a hissy fit and do his best to ignore it? Or did you think he would somehow know better?

“I...” Jon reached for the door, but as he went to unlock it he felt his body freeze up on him again, watched Jonah Magnus back away from the door and into the filthy bathtub--Jon noticed, distantly, that he could tell when his body was his own again because the shaking started up as soon as he regained control.

There was a tape recorder on the bathroom sink now, one that definitely had not been there when Jon entered the room.

Jon’s skin was crawling as he planned his next move.

“I’m not reading this.” Jon tried to sound more sure of that than he felt.

Then we’ll see how long you last in here. There’s plenty of fresh water, so it could be weeks before you succumb to hunger. Do you really think your curiosity can stay sated for that long?

“That’s your master plan? Lock me in a bathroom and hope I get bored before I die?” Jon raised his voice as he spoke, hoping that Martin might be able to overhear, might be able to put together the pieces--the mental image of Martin kicking in the door suddenly popped into Jon’s mind, and he did his best to focus on that.

You might get bored. You will get hungry. One way or another.

Jon let out a long sigh, then ran for the bathroom door, willing to fling himself into it if that was easier than unlocking the damn thing, only to have his body forced back again before he could make contact.

Don’t you want to know what’s in there? It really is fascinating work, if I do say so myself.

Jon did want to know, he did, the yearning for knowledge burned within him-

The toilet seat was up, and that gave Jon an idea.

Slowly, carefully, Jon made his way forward again, directing his gaze between the tape recorder on the sink and his own face in the mirror. (It’d been a while since Jon had gotten a good look at himself. He didn’t look well, and not just because of the scars that dotted his body now.)

“...it was always leading up to this, wasn’t it?”

More than you know.

Jon nodded, trying his best to look resigned, crouching down as he looked over at the papers still clutched in his hand... and shoved them into the water of the toilet bowl.

The paper was already starting to break apart, the ink bleeding from the pages, before Jon flushed them down to the sewers below.

Jon wasn’t surprised to find that his body was taken over again as the papers circled the drain. It didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was that whatever Jonah Magnus had written was gone now, never to return, at least not in that same form.

...this isn’t over, you know.

Jon would have laughed, if he could.

I’m pretty sure it is, actually.

The second incident came a couple days later and started as innocuously as the one before, with Martin making two cups of tea.

(Martin insisted on making meals and snacks and tea for both himself and Jonah in Jon’s body, even after showing that he knew of Jonah’s presence, and Jon did his best to determine why.

Was it simply a matter of utility, of it being almost as easy to make food for two as for one? Was Martin thinking of Jon when he did it, knowing that Jon would taste what Martin prepared for him even if he wasn’t actually the one eating it? Did Martin just not trust Jonah Magnus to fend for himself with such things?

Whatever the true reason, Jon appreciated the gesture all the same, though he was in no position to indicate as much.)

The cups were both steaming hot as Martin brought them to the table that afternoon, and Martin didn’t hesitate to take a sip of his own, but Jon’s just sat there, with Jonah making no move to drink any.

After a minute or two of this, Martin finally looked up and asked, “Aren’t you going to have some tea? I made it fresh for you, you know.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Jonah looked at Martin for a long moment before adding, “Did you know that ingesting methanol can be deadly?”

“What?” Martin’s face, pale and panicked, showed all the confusion that Jon felt but couldn’t express.

“It’s true. Though it looks and smells much like ethanol, ingesting as little as fifteen milliliters of methanol can be fatal.”

“I... wait, are...” Martin was growing paler by the second now. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

Jon’s body shook as Jonah let out a huff of amusement. “Quite the contrary, actually. I just wonder whether you know for certain whether you put more or less than fifteen milliliters of methanol in this cup of tea.”

Martin slouched down a bit in his seat, and as he did, Jon considered the implications of what had been said. Jonah Magnus seemed to be accusing Martin of trying to poison him, potentially fatally, and Martin wasn’t denying the accusation, either... but why?

Jon’s finger circled the brim of the tea cup absentmindedly. “Perhaps you’ve changed your mind about wanting to hurt Jon to get to me. That does make the game more interesting, though I would remind you that while I can find a new body if I need to, whatever you do to Jon would prove a bit more... permanent.”

“No, I- I know how that all works. Making you find a new host isn’t worth the price of losing Jon forever.”

“Well then.” Jon’s finger slid off the top of the tea cup, down its smooth surface and onto the saucer below. “If you aren’t looking to kill Jon, I believe it would be in your best interests to dispose of this cup of tea and prepare another one, one that hasn’t been adulterated in the same way.”

“Right. Of course.”

Martin took Jon’s tea cup and began emptying it out into the sink as Jon’s mind reeled.

To borrow Jonah’s metaphor, what kind of game was Martin playing here? Why would Martin try to- not to kill him, it didn’t sound like, but to poison him to some other effect? Methanol being the poison of choice, apparently, but what was so special about methanol...?

“It’s probably a good idea to use a different cup if you’re going to make a fresh batch.”

“Yes, I got that, thank you, I’m not stupid you know-”

“I am well aware of that much.”

Suddenly the information flowed into Jon’s head, everything he had been wondering and more answered in an instant.

He learned how methanol was called wood alcohol because it was once produced by distilling wood. He learned that it was often used to denature ethanol, but that some would drink the resulting mixture anyway despite its toxic properties, either not understanding the risks or being desperate enough for alcohol that they didn’t care. He learned that drinking contaminated alcohol, through this and other methods, had led to thousands of cases of methanol poisoning over the years, hundreds dying in disgrace and pain, while even the survivors often suffered long-term effects that left their lives in shambles, including-

Oh.

That was it, then, wasn’t it? That was Martin’s plan? For once the Beholding’s bank of infinite knowledge proved actually useful for something...

As Jon put together the pieces, realized why Martin had considered that particular poison to slip into his tea, for the first time in longer than Jon would care to consider, he felt something a little bit like hope.

[delxrxouschxld]

Aphrodite-she waits on street corners, shivering in her low dress that is falling apart at the seams. She leans her dainty, bruised hand out into the street, hoping to flag down one of many gentlemen who will keep her company for the night. She shakes and avoids looking at her reflection in the puddle of water directly below her. Sometimes her mind wanders back to when she had it all. Money, beauty, love. Surface level at least. When the looks started to fade, at least she had the money to replenish them. Now she works in the cars for measly $20 bills that will ease the shake in her hand. For the moment at least, until the sun comes around and she drops her cigarette.

 Apollo-his guitar is heavy in his hands, fingers calloused with hours of playing. His small number of fans here his love songs and picture themselves as said love interest. He only longs for one, the most forbidden of fruits. The one who spends her days hunting down wrong doers. When they were younger, they all played it off as something that happened between young children. The older they became, the more separated they had to become. He plays on.

 Ares-for someone who was supposed to love war, he has now come to dread it. It was never supposed to go this far, he thinks as he sees vultures circle over the young bodies that are sprinkled throughout the desert. War was supposed to be between grown men, not children who had just left their mother’s embrace. He does his best, whispering into the ears of legal boys, telling them to turn back before they sign away their bodies with blood. No one else believes this. How can they, after they spent so many years watching him split his knuckles and scream for more?

 Artemis-she stalks her prey as they stumble through dark alleys. Growing up hunting, she never knew that she would end up turning the gun on the ones who placed it in her hands. Hands that ravaged, and took what they wanted without asking and couldn’t be bothered to say thank you after they were done. The pistol is hot in her hands, the smell of gunpowder rising up from her hair. She thinks about her brother’s words crooning in her ear, swirling through her brain and it gives her strength. She tightens her grip and thinks about the irony of a predator becoming prey.

 Athena-she had always been mature for her age. Coming out of the womb spouting words no one knew. This was how she picked her battles, sharpening each piece of language before carefully throwing it at its’ intended target. It was her defense against the ones who mocked her, refused her attempts to join. If she built up a barricade herself, no one would dare try to enter. Cut to her shoving her sign in the air, with her careful language scrawled across a poster board. She screams and screams, and wishes someone might take the words right out her mouth.

 Demeter-her greenhouse holds her hopes and dreams. The ones her daughter refused to hold in her own hands when she left for college. She left without so much of a backwards wave towards her mother. They say children are supposed to blossom into large, beautiful flowers, but Demeter sometimes wished she was still a seed that she could hold in her palm. When she receives the call that tells her that no, she will not be returning home for winter break, she walks out to her greenhouse and smashes every last plant to pieces.

 Dionysus-slinging shots behind an oak bar never got old. Even if he did, he could keep up with the young kids who weren’t even tall enough to reach most of the stock. That’s what he tries to out off as he feels his liver shutting down, begging him to stop downing shots that burn and twist inside of him. But sometimes the demons inside twist even harder and bring glass after glass up to his lips. He laughs, he pours, he flirts, he winces, he excuses himself and vomits the dreams he once had disguised in yellow bile.

 Hades-his motorcycle feels warm between his legs, but not as hot as she feels pressed against his back. He lets out a whoop of excitement as revs it harder, recklessly even. He feels her tighten his grip on him, which only eggs him on more. Mama’s little girl, going from watering her windowsill plants to crying out his name and tangling up his sheets. He thinks about what it would be like to let go, crash into the barrier guarding the open road. Would he fly with wings like angel through the air? Or would he stand above her broken body, splattered with blood and be able to walk away? After all, they say he who conquers death fears nothing.

Hephaestus-his back could be considered a work of art if they framed it in gold and gave it a pretentious name. If it was beautiful, his wife might come back from the streets and stroke it tenderly. Instead, he stumbles under the weight of his own past, as it tells a story out of bumps and gnarls, cuts and burns. He lifts his tool to try and hammer in one last nail but collapses under the weight of his once beloved tool. The fire is the only thing that warms him now. Too often, he feels the chill of death trying to wrap its’ slender fingers around his neck. Doctors say he has little time, and he intends to go out on his own terms. Hammer in hand, flames licking at his back.

 Hera-her eyes narrow into slits as she watches her husband booze and schmooze his oil into another girl’s ear. She laughs, thinking she is special, but she will just end one more notch on the bedpost, one more stain she will have to wash out. It wasn’t always like this. Before the notoriety, it was just the two of them, laughing over cheap drinks and stumbling home to their apartment. Once he made a big name for himself, she was no longer enough. The girls needed to be younger, thinner, prettier. She was left behind to clean up the messes and keep the children content. Wife of the year, she thinks to herself. If only they knew.

 Hermes-going back and forth between worlds is exhausting. In one, he is the perfect son, grades are well, his girl is fine, just busy is all, the job is wonderful, I know I can’t believe they pay me that much either, yes, I must really go, it is getting late, and you know what they say early bird catches the worm and all, yes you guys take care, and the doors shuts blocking out the warmth and throwing him into the world of the night. Here, he delivers packages to seedy places, yes this is the cut you asked for, no I won’t take twenty for that, it’s worth forty, if you insist I guess I can stay for one pick me up, god that needle feels good going in, if mom and dad could see me now, they would cry and cry. But that is what alternate universes are for.

 Persephone-her hair feels like silk as it sticks to her sweat covered back, as she rides into oblivion. He makes her feel alive, and crazy, and all the things that her mother warned her against. What did she know, clinging to her seeds and dirt. Her mother never realized that she needed more, that she wanted to taste death on her fingers and beg for more. And he does all of that and more, to the point where she wonders if she is even human anymore. He feeds her forbidden fruit and she laps it up, wondering if this is what hell is like. If it is, sign her up for eternity.

 Poseidon-the animals are crying out as he frantically parts the waves and tries to untangle them from the plastic rings that adorn their necks. His tears are invisible underwater as he watches his ocean disintegrate before his very own eyes. Humans used to worship the large body of water, used to yearn to explore its’ depths. Now they see it as their own trash can, to dump their poison in. He comes up for air, gasping. The sea doesn’t taste the same anymore. He weeps and weeps.

 Zeus-the women who thrash underneath him are more of an annoyance to him than anything else. He hurries up the process, and proceeds to kick her out. None of them satisfy him, no one sates his thirst. The bodies he explores every night hold nothing but emptiness once he dips deep. He sees the pain in his wife’s eyes and wonders if she can see the emptiness in his. The hotshot billionaire, with the cars, and the money, and the girls, and the mansion, and the family. Of course, the family, the picture-perfect family. What would they do if they knew he shoved a pistol in his mouth every night and dared himself to pull the trigger?

[wildedaisies]

INTRODUCING. DAISY 

NAVIGATE.

About

Visage

Musings

Melodies

Aesthetics

BASIC STATS.

FULL NAME: Daisy Mae Wilde

NICKNAME(S): Dais 

AGE: 26 years old.

BIRTHDAY: December 16, 1994.

GENDER: Cis Woman

PRONOUNS: She / Her 

ORIENTATION: Bisexual

BIRTHPLACE: Dallas, Texas

CURRENT LOCATION: Catalina Island, California

OCCUPATION: Bartender for Luau Larry’s / Intuitive Reader (Online)

MARITAL STATUS: Single.

PETS: 2 cats

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

HEIGHT: 5′3

WEIGHT: 114 lbs

HAIR LENGTH / COLOR: Just below her shoulder & dark brown with rose gold highlights.

EYE COLOR: Light brown

PIERCINGS: 1 in each lobe, 3 both upper helix, 1 in left nostril.

TATTOOS: She has a small infinity symbol on her left wrist. A large watercolor compass tattoo with the inscription “Not all who wander are lost” on stretching across her shoulder blades. She has a collection of small constellations running down the back of her left leg featuring Sagittarius, Pisces, and Leo. 

ETHNICITY: Black, White, & Indigenous Canadian

LIFE IN DEPTH.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: child neglect and somewhat abuse 

Daisy Mae Wilde knows absolutely zero things about her birth parents. It was a closed adoption and her adoptive parents pulled all the strings they could to ensure that any and all information regarding her existence before them was sealed away permanently.

She however does know that she was just under a year old when they brought her into their family. Growing up Daisy  thought she was rather lucky. And in some ways she absolutely was. At least she had a home where things like food, water, and shelter were never in question. At least she wasn’t being bounced around from foster home to foster home. She had two very wealthy parents who gave her anything and everything she could ever want as a little girl. She was a spoiled princess.

However, as she got older and she began to grow into her own person she started to realize that she didn’t want to be this perfect socialite princess that her mother was grooming her to be. The idea of being just another shallow future trophy wife was as appealing to her as sardines on pizza. That is not at all.

But it wasn’t until she wandered into a metaphysical shop one day while playing hooky from her elite Dallas private school that she actually wanted to be started to click into place. Something about that little shop just felt right. She ended up going home with a couple of books (one on finding her inner goddess and another about tarot, oracle, and astrology) and her very first tarot deck.

Daisy began her journey of self-exploration all the while her parents continued to force her into their vision of the perfect daughter. She wore the prim and proper clothes and went to all the charity galas and made nice with the children of her parents ‘friends’. She even took part in the debutante balls and the stupid beauty pageants that her mother loved so much.

But as she grew closer to adulthood, Daisy was beginning to feel suffocated more and more. She also began to realize how wrong her parents were in the way they had raised her. It wasn’t okay that 90% of the time they ignored her and left her to be raised by the staff only to bring her out to show off as their perfect daughter whom they rescued from “a potential life on the streets” when it suited them. Nor was it okay for her mother to lock her in a dark closet whenever she disobeyed them even slightly.

Needless to say, that realization is what lead to her hauling ass out of Dallas the day she turned eighteen. She’d been saving up most of her ‘monthly allowance’ since she was a young teen though she hadn’t originally intended for it to be a nest egg for that reason, it paid off in the end. Her first stop was New Orleans where she spent almost a year immersing herself in local culture and nightlife. From there she took off to Miami and then up to Atlanta and eventually she made it to New York where she spent a few months before moving on to Chicago. 

She had this wanderlust deep within her veins that caused her to almost itch with the need to keep moving. She stayed in Seattle for only a month before the need to bolt filled her. She made her way through California and spent a few weeks in Los Angeles before realizing the huge city was its own kind of stifling. Plus the traffic absolutely sucked.

It was as she was about to start heading East again that Daisy decided to take a day trip to Catalina Island. And as she took the ferry ride over a sort of calm began to settle within her. Something about the island called to her and if she didn’t know any better she’d almost say it was like coming home. That feeling only increased as she spent the day sunbathing on the beach, poking her head into cute little shops, and exploring the beautiful island. 

And so what began as one last Californian hoorah led to Daisy feeling like perhaps this was where she was meant to stay. At least for a little while. Certainly, that itch would show back up some months down the line urging her to move on, but until then she decided Catalina Island was for her. At first, she was staying at a beautiful hotel but once she made the decision to stay she found an adorable loft in Lafayette Square that felt more like home than any place ever had before. She even decided to take up a part-time job as a bartender at a cute little tiki bar that she fell in love with.

STRENGTHS & WEAKNESSES.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Adventurous | Effervescent | Humorous 

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Flighty | Overemotional | Reckless

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good.

WESTERN ZODIAC: Sun - Sagittarius | Moon - Pisces | Rising - Leo

She’s a complicated little thing. She’s a wild child through and through with a heart of gold. She’s a mess inside out but is always wearing a smile and telling you it’s gonna be okay no matter how bad things get. But there’s always been just a bit of aching sadness underneath all her happy smiles and positive attitude. And if she’s honest with herself some anger too. Anger that her childhood wasn’t what it should have been and that she knows deep down the reason she keeps running from city to city is because she’s terrified of once again feeling trapped like she was back home by her parents. Deep down she wants to belong somewhere but she doesn’t know how to differentiate between belonging somewhere and being trapped somewhere just yet. Daisy also has an intense amount of empathy in the way that she can easily attune herself to the emotions projected by other people. This can lead to her own emotions being compromised. Though over time she’s gotten better control of it, it can still hit her pretty hard if she’s already feeling emotionally vulnerable at the time. 

THE LITTLE THINGS.

She’s deathly allergic to wasps and bees

She’s absolutely a little bit pretentious (in that hippie free love kinda way) lol but I swear she’s got a heart of gold. She’s just in her own head a bit sometimes and is too impulsive to think logically half the time. 

Daisy is the kind of girl that falls in love very easily. Though it’s a superficial kind of love. Always surface level and anytime either of them starts dive to deep she panics and finds reasons to end the relationship ultimately breaking her own heart and sometimes theirs as well. 

She likes to dance around in socks while cooking or baking and often has her own little spontaneous dance parties.

She has two cats, a sweet smokey gray girl named Cinder and grumpy boy named Tigger. One might assume that having a pair of cats as your travelling companions wouldn’t work out too well, but you’d be surprised at how well they do. Though it’s no surprise to Daisy she did find them stranded as kittens at a truck stop in New Jersey of all places. 

Daisy does online general pick-a-card tarot readings on YouTube but also has a website where she sells personalized readings and it has a little shop where she sells healing crystals, essential oils, candles, and other spiritual tools. Though she does dream of one day having her own physical shop once she's ready to settle down. One just like the cute little shop she'd wandered into almost a decade before. 

Her favorite time of day is sunset. She loves watching the colors light up the horizon as the day ends. She believes that no matter how bad her day has gone just the fact that there’s still something beautiful to witness is enough to keep her going.

She has a minor obsession with butterflies. She’s all about change and new beginnings and since butterflies are a symbol of this concept she’s high key obsessed. 

She is highly claustrophobic. 

The end of spring and beginning of summer is her favorite time of year. She loves all the beauty that spring brings but she also can’t help but love the way summer makes her feel so free. She’s not cooped up in her apartment just to stay warm, she can go out and do all the adventure-y things she wants in the summer.

It should come as no surprise that some of her favorite colors are the shades of the sunset. She loves pinks, purples, and oranges. But if you really want to know her absolute favorite shade? It’s rose gold. 

[radioactive-park]

Damien Thorn Application

‌IN CHARACTER:

‌

‌name: Damien Thorn

age: 23

‌

gender ( pronouns ): cis male, he/him

‌

sexuality: closeted gay, demiromantic

‌

occupation/role: mercenary, works mainly alone as he finds working in teams "bothersome"

‌

location/faction: Born in The Legion. always on the move, but mainly remains near the edges of New South Park. To the outside eye, he seems to be a rogue raider, but will work with any faction that hires.

‌

personality: Extremely CONFIDENT in who he is, what he wants, what he does and what he believes in. He is AMBITIOUS, SELF ASSURED, DETERMINED with set goals that are hard to budge him away from, and he would do close to anything to ACHIEVE them.

He is INTELLIGENT, not exactly book smart but his CURIOSITY, love for LEARNING and incredible MEMORY make up for a lot of his KNOWLEDGE, but a lot of it are things that only ( he ) finds interesting.

He's also ELOQUENT, often times it ends up sounding a bit pretentious. Acute LEADERSHIP senses and great SPEECH SKILLS that are both encouraging yet borderline TYRANNICAL, but his CHARMS and undying DETERMINATION are often enough to make people listen. He has a strong set of POWERS he masters to a T.

He's also pretty OPPORTUNISTIC.

OPPORTUNISTIC, he won't hesitate to throw people under the bus or MANIPULATE or HURT them to achieve his ends, it doesn't matter who the person is; his OWN person, beliefs, views, goals and desires come above anything and all people.

He is CRUEL, SADISTIC, other's pain and suffering bring him absolute JOY and PLEASURE.

He is TYRANNICAL, and an AWFUL LOSER. His temper is SHORT and EXPLOSIVE ( literally and metaphorically ), his powers closely linked to the intensity of his anger and emotions; it makes for extremely DEADLY TEMPER TANTRUMS, LOUD and quite literally ABRASIVE — everything and everyone gets set on fire. He loves CHAOS, DESTRUCTION and ANARCHY of the WORST kind, but only if it is ( HIS ) making and his only, any other kind of disorder is deemed intolerable.

Very STUBBORN — but what else is to be expected of a taurus? — to the point of him becoming quite literally UNMOVABLE even if proven wrong. He is someone who despises loudness yet does not know how to be quiet, he has little control over his voice; it still sounds quite young, as if it never fully matured and stayed high.

His PATIENCE is NON EXISTENT, any little inconvenience is sure to SET HIM OFF, easily ANNOYED and ANGERED, he doesn't have patience for others, or HIMSELF. This is directly linked to his little to no EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, he is very UNAWARE of what EMOTIONS and FEELINGS are supposed to be like, and so, ignorant of how own — He only knows what the basics feel like: fine, sad, anger and boredom — but anything else is coped with enormous amounts of ANGER. It is very inconvenient and FRUSTRATING to him, as he FEELS so much, at all times — there's a stormy sea inside, a tormented ocean of emotions he trapped in a bottle, waiting to explode. As has been said before, his powers are closely linked to them all. This all makes him very SUSCEPTIBLE to MANIPULATION, it is easy to throw him off and CONFUSE him, because that is a state he is constantly in with himself. He doesn't know anything about who he is DEEP DOWN, and it scares him. He is very uninformed, maybe even ignorant, to many human conventions, mostly those linked to emotional bondings and physical activities — romance, sex, dating, friendships, family bonds, etc...— or why they are necessary at all, he then also refuses to act upon them at all out of disgust and discomfort. All this linked to his lack of emotional knowledge and awareness.

He also hates not having any sort of POSITIVE ATTENTION, and as shown in his episode, will gladly do ANYTHING to have it and have people ADMIRE him, but he refuses to even consider ASKING for it.

‌

bio: Hell was nicer than whatever the mortal had become. The power of it all was strong enough to shake even the deepest depths of the underworld and break its balance. Nothing that could not be handle on a surface level but nothing would be quite the same after that. His birth was bloody and unexpected, brought to the world by a woman he barely knew about and never met — she didn't matter, he had been raised to think so and so he did. Born within The Legion, worshipped by a small group of believers of ancient religions and prophecies too far-fetched to be true. As he grew, those were slaughtered, always hiding the truth of the child with red eyes they all named Damien. He never felt a thing about them, and he never cared about their lives, or who they were.All that mattered to him was that they were keeping him alive, feeding him and raising him. The Antichrist he was called, he didn't really believe it, there was no reason to in a world with no faith or chance, he simply basked in the privilege and opportunities given to him. Respected among the men, taken under their wing when only few of his worshippers were left at age 12, his gifts started manifesting. Small at first, nothing that couldn't be passed as some sort of weird mutation — but soon it got too much, and soon he started believing it, the ancient tales of the son of evil coming to finally bring an end to their miserable world. He left, killing a high ranked man and his son, with flames so bright he could've outshined the sun itself.

Escaping hadn't been hard, he knew every hole and wall of the place, used the tactics they taught and just like that he was out. Damien got taken by the raiders not long after, having defeated someone considered "strong" in a hand on hand fight, his powers were of no use. It earned enough respect for them to be taken in, and he showed himself useful enough — he was barely 19 at the time. He knew himself well now, the time he had stayed with the raiders was enough for him to take, although slowly, full knowledge of what he was capable of, both as a creature forged from the fire of hell itself and as a man, a human bodied being. He deserved after a while, to finally find himself wandering the deserted lands alone, living off paid kills and other nasty jobs he took as training. It's hard to contact him, some say he only comes when called like the devil does.

‌

headcanons: 

– physical overview: he is petite lean, with skin so fair and pale he looks sickly, he never seems to tan. Angel sort of pretty, no physical flaws. Big red eyes framed with thick, long lashes and brushy brows. He looks almost innocent, like a porcelain doll, but the constant frown and air of bitterness that floats around him break the image. His hair is shaggy, deep black and soft looking, curly and somewhat long, reaching his shoulders gracefully, a thick, neatly cut bangs shadow his eyes.

No specific demonic features that aren't his eyes, sharp teeth and hands — black claw like nails, they are long and sharp. He's able to control their length and shape, often keeps them short for practicality, but likes the long look. He has scars scattered around his body, some never seem to fully heal due to exposure, but they don't look nasty either.

– He doesn't actually know all that much about what or who he is aside from whatever weird stories the worshippers used to tell him.

– He doesn't rely on his powers as much as one would think, preferring weapons and more practical combat

– He lives in a small underground bunker that got busted open, it's hard to get in if he isn't guiding you, also because of the creatures he has chained to keep strangers away.

– He still keeps contact with some of the people within the raiders and the legion as a way to get Intel from the inside just in case.

– He ALWAYS types is all caps. Always. All the time. He likes how angry and loud the words look, and loves how it pisses people off.

– His body temperature is always hot to the touch, his emotions affect his temperature, even though he has a big control over them, fire ( just like he is ) is a very volatile element and easily spreads, and so, easily escapes him when overwhelmed.

[gamerszone2019-blog]

Etherborn Review

New Post has been published on https://gamerszone.tn/etherborn-review/

Etherborn Review

The manicured lawns in Etherborn are minimally sculptured. Their soil is thinly layered with patches of grass contained within grey slabs of concrete, and they stand in stark contrast to a backdrop of crumbling pillars and decrepit buildings. And like examining the self-contained scenes of a diorama, you’ll find yourself ruminating over these landscapes as you unravel the puzzle of how to traverse them. But while Etherborn’s minimalist beauty carries suggestions of loftier and more ambitious storytelling it’s instead hampered a dissonant narrative, and a brevity that makes it feel lacking.

Like many platformers, Etherborn seems deceptively simple initially: just leapfrog your way towards the level’s finale while collecting crystalline orbs that unlock previously inaccessible areas. In fact, some of Etherborn’s geometric planes and architectural complexity very much harken back to Monument Valley, a title that famously plays on optical illusions and the mathematically-inspired art of MC Escher. What makes this puzzle game different is that its laws of gravity aren’t like our world’s. You can simply walk across any surface–even those perpendicular to your character–as long as there’s a curved edge that connects them. However, you’re still vulnerable to injuries and death; accidentally sliding off these landscapes and into the endless void below is a possibility.

Scaling these lopsided grounds introduces another dimension and new, unforeseen challenges. Etherborn often manipulates your perspectives, challenging you to find the abstract solutions to its puzzles. There are occasions where I was left baffled, unable to move on, only to realize much later that I didn’t notice a few platforms I could jump on because they were turned onto their sides. At other times, you may even spend the bulk of a level on a horizontal wall and leaping over chasms within the same plane–a perspective that’s tough to get the hang of. It’s highly likely that you’ll slip through the cracks at least once or twice due to the obtuse angles and see yourself spiraling downwards into the emptiness below (or sideways, given the game’s unconventional gravitational pull).

Key to solving some puzzles is a keen eye for detail, which can help you to spot obscure passageways that open another route to your goal. Becoming intimately familiar with the nooks and crannies of every miniature world is something you’ll want to do not only to satisfy your curiosity about the environment–it’s also necessary if you want to get through the game’s levels. Upping the ante in later chapters are shifting monochrome blocks, which expand and retract depending on where you are–and they can be a great source of grievance when they hinder your path.

It would have been a drag to commit to all these efforts if Etherborn’s ecosystem were a lusterless one. Luckily, wandering and discovering each microcosm is mostly joyful and even oddly meditative. You can hike along the side of a flight of steps and find a starkly different landscape tucked away underneath, or run along the contours of the structures surrounding the island. Even though Etherborn’s world is sparsely decorated and may even appear sterile, with only a few shrubberies, dandelions and elements of urban decay adorning each world, it is a universe still feels genuinely intriguing.

Discovering a hidden passage or a curved pathway as a new means of moving forward toward uncharted surfaces is hugely gratifying. Given that you’ll probably be devoting a fair amount of time tinkering away at its puzzles, it also helps that the orchestral, instrumental soundtrack is soothing and non-intrusive. And while there are only five chapters in the game, each will probably take you at least an hour to figure out. Coupled with its steep levels of difficulty, it’s also comforting that mistakes via accidental deaths are also quickly forgiven, with the game swiftly transporting you back to the state you were in a few seconds ago.

What’s decidedly less impressive, however, is how hard Etherborn tries to shoehorn an ill-fitting narrative within the puzzles. You’re a featureless, transparent humanoid figure with a very visible circulatory system, a character vaguely resembling the human anatomy mannequin found in a biology classroom. At the behest of an incorporeal, hallowed voice, you’re tasked to travel across these lands in search of a series of waypoints. Tapping on these will eventually reveal various paths on a massive tree called the Endless Tree, its bark gradually peeling off to expose a meandering, vein-like system across its trunk that ties all the chapters together. It’s a nifty inclusion that references the game’s imagery of humanity and anatomy, but ultimately an inconsequential one.

Even as this disembodied voice tells a story that alludes to the beginnings of human civilization, the plot feels perfunctory and strangely divorced from its puzzles. Aside from introducing each chapter, the voice doesn’t influence the game very much; instead, it simply delves into vague parables about the folly of human nature, without really explaining the significance of your mannequin character and this exotic world. This sense of dissonance makes the tale rather tenuous to follow. Exacerbating this is how the dialogue is filled with abstract ideas that teeter on pretentiousness, bloated with lofty lines like, “And so, their vast ego was also reduced to mere language.” Etherborn would have been even more intriguing had it allowed you to project your own stories and interpretations onto this universe–like many curious onlookers would as they peer into a diorama.

The highlights of Etherborn are undoubtedly its inventive puzzles and its constellation of small, compelling worlds. But with just five chapters, its brief runtime feels lacking, and it left me wanting for more puzzles to solve. Etherborn attempts to compensate for this by unlocking a new game plus mode after you’ve completed the game, which lets you dive into the same worlds once more. This mode is largely similar to the original one, the only difference being the crystalline orbs, which are located in harder-to-reach places. Apart from the slightly more challenging platforming puzzles, however, the electrifying thrill of discovery has largely subsided–you’ve already found all the secrets, after all–and there’s little incentive to revisit it. By the end, even the allure of these small worlds isn’t enough to make you return, with only the yearning for more remaining in its wake.

Source : Gamesport

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 24 September 2018

Quick Bits:

Amazing Spider-Man #6 kicks off a new arc with art from Humberto Ramos, Victor Olazaba, and Edgar Delgado (along with a special sequence from Steve Lieber and Rachelle Rosenberg), with Nick Spencer playing up Peter’s problems with his super-villainous roommate and thereby the humour. Really quite like the art for the flashbacks.

| Published by Marvel

Beasts of Burden: Wise Dogs & Eldritch Men #2 takes a bit of a breather as the dogs try to figure out what’s going on. I love the measured pace that Evan Dorkin and Benjamin Dewey are taking to telling this story. For one you get to bask in Dewey’s beautiful art, but at the same time it’s building a bit of ominous tension. Events are still occurring, but we’re still being left in the dark as to what exactly is going on. It’s a nice mystery.

| Published by Dark Horse

Beyonders #2 is more bizarre conspiracy theory and pseudoarchaeology fun from Paul Jenkins, Wesley St. Claire, and Marshall Dillon. It’s rather entertaining to see these disparate bits of history and quasi-history come together and be twisted into this new and strange kind of adventure.

| Published by AfterShock

Bone Parish #3 sees the proverbial excrement hit the fan as the pressure gets turned up on the Winters family. The tension, action, and drama are being cranked up on high by Cullen Bunn, Jonas Scharf, Alex Guimarães, and Ed Dukeshire. Also, the art from Scharf and Guimarães is getting even more elaborate, especially in its depictions of the trips the Ash users are taking.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Cold Spots #2 is even better than the first issue, and the first issue was stunning. The story is still light on explanation and heavy on creepy atmosphere, but when the art looks like this, I’m willing to just bask in it. I love what Mark Torres is doing here with the art. He has a style that feels like a blend of early Matt Wagner, Ted McKeever, and Phil Hester and it is perfect for this kind of eerie horror. Torres and Cullen Bunn are creating something very compelling here.

| Published by Image

Cyber Force #6 begins branching out more, more explicitly building up the team, rather than just focusing on the individual origins amongst eventual team members. It’s a welcome shift in this reimagined timeline, as Bryan Hill & Matt Hawkins begin to develop the world past Cyberdata.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Die!Die!Die! #3 may have had its physical print run pulped this week due to a printing error with the cover, but it still came out digitally. It’s more over-the-top violence and action as Robert Kirkman and Scott Gimple still seem to be trying to channel Garth Ennis’ style of action/satire. You reach a saturation point after a while, so it’s thankful that they’re developing the characters fairly well and coalescing a larger kind of plot. Also the great artwork from Chris Burnham and Nathan Fairbairn helps considerably.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Domino Annual #1 has a very loose framing sequence from Leah Williams, Michael Shelfer, and Jesus Aburtov, but it’s mostly a collection of four short stories, presenting Domino at different time periods and in different situations with different people. The only common bit is that they’re all really well done. There’s a story from Gail Simone, Victor Ibáñez, and Jay David Ramos continuing the fun from the regular series, spotlighting how Domino’s Posse came together. A reflective piece on Cable by Fabian Nicieza, Juan Gedeon, and Aburtov. A gonzo action bit trying to cheer up Colossus after he was jilted at the altar by Dennis Hopeless, Leonard Kirk, and Aburtov. And finally, a humorous, but heartfelt, showcase of some of the unlovable but loved obscure and sometimes hideous “freak” X-Men from Williams, Natacha Bustos, and Aburtov.

| Published by Marvel

Edge of Spider-Geddon #4 may be the weirdest one of these yet, featuring a world where the natures of Spider-Man and the Green Goblin have been inverted, and the world has seemingly been subjugated by Oscorp. Aaron Kuder, Will Robson, Craig Yeung, Andres Mossa, and Cory Petit give us an interesting endgame here for this world, but in doing so also potentially set up the catalyst for the entire Spider-Geddon event. 

| Published by Marvel

Extermination #3 doesn’t get us any closer to understanding what’s going on with Ahab or young Cable, though in the latter’s case there seem to be hints that he’s gathering the time tossed original five X-Men to “repair” them and send them back, but that’s a guess. At the mid-point, I would have expected more crunch to the story, but that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Great art from Pepe Larraz and Marte Gracia, though.

| Published by Marvel

Faith: Dreamside #1 resumes Jody Houser’s excellent and humorous take on Faith, picking up on threads from the last series, joined this time by MJ Kim, Jordie Bellaire, and Dave Sharpe. You don’t need to have read any of the previous material (though I do recommend reading it anyway) as this does a good job of getting you up to speed of the relevant details for the story at hand.

| Published by Valiant

Fearscape #1 is a magnificent beast. Ryan O’Sullivan’s narration for the overblown, pretentious author Henry Henry is so incredibly perfect and enthralling. I know this aspiring writer, I may very well have been this aspiring writer at times. Damn good voice here. Overall, love the premise of a storyteller having to save the world, and the art is just gorgeous. Andrea Mutti and Vladimir Popov make this beautiful, especially as the art shifts to a more soft focus as the story wanders off into the Fearscape. Imagination, form, style, and structure are all at play here and it’s just wonderful.

| Published by Vault

Friendo #1 is the other debut from Vault this week, going in for a kind of contemporary sci-fi with Friendo™ glasses offering up a digital assistant tailored to you, like a more personable Siri seen through Google Glass. It’s an interesting concept, brought forward in a humorous fashion, but I get the impression that Alex Paknadel and Martin Simmonds are going for more sociopolitical commentary here. Beautiful art from Simmonds and Dee Cunniffe.

| Published by Vault

Harbinger Wars 2: Aftermath #1 is a decent epilogue to the event from Matt Kindt, Adam Pollina, Diego Rodriguez, and Dave Sharpe. Basically it checks in on all of Valiant’s heavy hitters as they put the pieces back together following the event, establishing Livewire as the world’s number one target. Very nice art from Pollina and Rodriguez.

| Published by Valiant

Hillbilly: Red-Eyed Witchery From Beyond #2 continues to be entertaining, violent, and humorous as Rondel finds himself in more precarious predicaments trying to solve what haunts the land. I really like the art from Simone Di Meo and Brennan Wagner. Di Meo’s style here reminds me a lot of James Harren’s on the first volume of Rumble and it just works incredibly well for this kind of action/horror.

| Published by Albatross Funnybooks

Infinity Wars: Iron Hammer #1 is the second of these Infinity Warps mini-series to start up and it’s really rather good. As an origin story for the Iron Hammer, you really don’t have to be reading the rest of the Infinity Wars story here, so it works well as its own thing. The mash-up here is obviously Thor and Iron Man, with Al Ewing, Ramon Rosanas, Jason Keith, and Cory Petit telling a story that expertly grafts a variation on Tony Stark’s origin into the mythological trappings of Marvel’s version of Norse Mythology.

| Published by Marvel

Jessica Jones #3 concludes the arc with Dia and Elsa Bloodstone in the first part and then has a rather runny comedy of errors in the second part set around getting ready for Danielle’s birthday party. This is great stuff. Kelly Thompson, Mattia De Iulis, Marcio Takara, Rachelle Rosenberg, and Cory Petit are doing wonderful things with this series.

| Published by Marvel

Man-Eaters #1 reunites the Mockingbird team of Chelsea Cain, Kate Niemczyk, Rachelle Rosenberg, and Joe Caramagna, along with Lia Miternique, Stella Greenvoss, and Katie Lane, to kick off this new series about menstruating women who turn into man-eating big cats. It’s...an odd premise to say the least. There are certainly layers of subtext in the story that I still need to unpack, but on a surface level this is an interesting mix of police procedural, horror, and humour. If you think Cat People, you’re probably along the right line of thought. What it does do extremely effectively, however, is utilize comics as a medium. How the pages are lain out, the differing types of content, basically just how the story is told is impressive. This is something that can only be told as a comic and it’s just a wonderful use of the medium.

| Published by Image

Mighty Morphin Power Rangers #31 is not quite a fresh start, spinning out of the events of the “Shattered Grid” story-arc, but at the same time it is the start of a new Power Rangers team and creative team in Marguerite Bennett, Simone Di Meo, Alessandro Cappuccio, Walter Baiamonte, Francesco Segala, and Ed Dukeshire. Confusion, chaos, and uncertainty definitely seem to be the goals of the story, so it’s not necessarily a bad thing if you’re coming in blind. It’s also interesting to see Di Meo’s style here, somewhat different from what he’s doing with Hillbilly. Still dark, and scratchy, but I’d probably compare this more to Sean Gordon Murphy, as it’s a bit more streamlined, better suited to the brighter colours of the Rangers’ world.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Old Man Logan #48 begins the final arc for the series before it goes out in a blaze as Dead Man Logan. Great art here from Ibraim Roberson and Carlos Lopez.

| Published by Marvel

Paradise Court #3 is interesting in that we’ve reached a bit of misdirection in the story, although kind of obvious misdirection since the exposed serial killer doesn’t look a thing like the other killer we’ve seen, which raises some interesting questions about the full nature of this gated community. Also, some really nice work this issue from colourist Leonardo Paciarotti. The change of flushness of the red in Amy’s face while she’s recounting her encounter is a really nice touch.

| Published by Zenescope

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #310 brings Chip Zdarsky’s run on the title to a close, with this single issue tale of what random people on the streets of New York City think of the threat or menace, illustrated by Zdarsky himself. It’s damn good. And a fitting end to what has been ultimately a very entertaining run.

| Published by Marvel

Regression #11 returns from the trade break with a new arc and a drastically changed status quo. Cullen Bunn has been great at setting up this insidious quality to the cult claiming Adrian for their own and that evil, disturbing nature comes to the forefront this issue.

| Published by Image

Rick and Morty vs. Dungeons & Dragons #2 continues the fun of the first issue as the family goes off to a holodeck simulation of a campaign, only to spotlight that Rick’s idea of facerolling a munchkin dungeon crawl isn’t their idea of fun. Patrick Rothfuss, Jim Zub, Troy Little, Leonardo Ito, and Robbie Robbins are delivering just the perfect crossover here.

| Published by IDW & Oni Press

Star Trek vs. Transformers #1 is the start of a limited series crossing over the Transformers with the animated series Star Trek characters, including M’Ress and Arex. The animated series was always a bit ridiculous, but fun and weird, so it fits well with incorporating the Transformers cartoon (though there do seem to be additions). Absolutely love the artwork from Philip Murphy and Priscilla Tramontano, who perfectly capture the style of the cartoons.

| Published by IDW

Stranger Things #1 begins a four issue limited series from Jody Houser, Stefano Martino, Keith Champagne, Lauren Affe, and Nate Piekos following Will Byers’ perspective during the first season of the Netflix series. It’s great. Jody Houser uses the boys D&D playing to frame out Will’s actions, lending some interesting survival tactics, as well as opening up an opportunity for Martino, Champagne, and Affe to utilize different styles for the variety of narrative frames. Also, Martino’s likenesses are rather well done.

| Published by Dark Horse

Transformers: Lost Light #24 is the second-to-last issue of this series as IDW’s Hasbroverse winds down to its conclusion. It’s really starting to feel final, with the crew’s epic battle against the Functionalists. James Roberts pens one of the most heartfelt and stirring speeches for Hot Rod this issue.

| Published by IDW

Vampirella/Dejah Thoris #1 sets this series off to a good start in a relatively straightforward manner. Vampirella is searching for a cure for the problems on Drakulon and it brings her to Mars. Erik Burnham, Ediano Silva, Dinei Ribeiro, and Troy Peteri do good set up work here.

| Published by Dynamite

Witchblade #8 drops a bit of exposition on us, filling us in on how Johnny is alive and a bit on the shadowy organization and its operatives trying to kill Alex and take the Witchblade. Still loving this series and the depth that Caitlin Kittredge, Roberta Ingranata, Bryan Valenza, and Troy Peteri are giving to it. It’s starting to develop some of the more traditional hard-tinged horror/superheroics, but still feels like a fresh and reinvigorated take on the Witchblade concept.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

X-Men Blue #36 concludes the series and with it Cullen Bunn’s tenure with the X-characters, running from Magneto through to now. He ties up a few missing plot threads and allows the characters to say a few goodbyes, nicely illustrated by Marcus To and Matt Milla.

| Published by Marvel

X-O Manowar #19 begins a new arc picking up the pieces in the wake of Harbinger Wars 2. It’s good. Very good. Matt Kindt gives us a perspective for Capshaw that was kind of missing from the event, as to why she continues with GATE and the government after how insane some of their actions seem to have been (valid points about uncontrollable psiots notwithstanding), resulting in a very strong start to this arc. The art from Juan José Ryp and Andrew Dalhouse is also stunning, especially when showing a different visual perspective as to how Capshaw sees her situation.

| Published by Valiant

Other Highlights: Betty & Veronica: Vixens #10, Black Panther #4, Gasolina #12, High Heaven #1, Invader Zim #35, Jim Henson’s Labyrinth: The Coronation #7, The Long Con #3, Marvel Two-in-One #10, Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer #4, Modern Fantasy #4, Moon Knight #199, Old Man Hawkeye #9, The Punisher #2, The Realm #9, Red Sonja #21, Redneck #15, Rick & Morty #42, The Sentry #4, Spider-Geddon #0, Spider-Man vs. Deadpool #39, StarCraft: Scavengers #3, Star Wars Adventures #14, Star Wars: Doctor Aphra #24, Star Wars: Poe Dameron #31, The Thrilling Adventure Hour #3, Venom: First Host #5, Wayward #29, The Wicked + The Divine: 1373, Xena: Warrior Princess #8, X-Men Red #8

Recommended Collections: Astonisher - Volume 2, The Crow: Memento Mori, Cyberforce: Awakening - Volume 1, Darkhold: Pages from the Book of Sins Complete, Dejah Thoris: Gardens of Mars, Encounter - Volume 1, Exiles - Volume 1: Test of Time, Hulk: World War Hulk II, Infidel, Klaus: New Adventures of Santa Claus, Lucas Stand - Volume 2: Inner Demons, Medieval Spawn & Witchblade- Volume 1, Port of Earth - Volume 2, Red Sonja - Volume 3: Hell or Hyrkania, Saga - Volume 9, Songs for the Dead, Usagi Yojimbo/TMNT Complete Collection, Wasted Space, X-O Manowar - Volume 5: Barbarians, You Are Deadpool

d. emerson eddy does not represent the Lollipop Guild.

[cohesionarts]

This just in from Cohesion Arts

New Post has been published on http://cohesionarts.com/2017/03/20/harvey-and-the-lionel-trains/

Harvey and the Lionel Trains

I think I’m goin’ back To the things I learned so well in my youth I think I’m returning to those days When I was young enough to know the truth Now there are no games to only pass the time No more electric trains, no more trees to climb Thinking young and growing older is no sin And I can play the game of life to win

–– Carol King

Harvey, Arthur, and the 736 Berkshire

For Christmas in 1955, my father bought, set up and gave to my older brother an elaborate set of Lionel trains, tracks, and accessories.   In our family photo albums, there is  just one photo of Harvey operating the trains, my brother Arthur looking on in gleeful fascination as the cast iron 736 Berkshire electric locomotive “steams” by; Just out of the frame,  circles of chemical-pellet induced smoke are puffing out of its little smokestack.

In the 1950s, Lionel trains were the quintessential under-the-tree expression of America’s post-war prosperity.   The Lionel Corporation had found a way to flourish during the war, by retooling their assembly lines to manufacture servo motors for military equipment instead of electric motors for toy trains. Once the war ended, the company repurposed those servo motors in the first post-war generation of its marquee product.

Our family was sufficiently prosperous (the family business produced ceramic household tile at a plant in Keyport, New Jersey) that our parents could afford to give their kids the very best: that Berkshire locomotive with its smoke puffing stack and whistling coal car was top-of-the-line, but that was just the start of the layout. Arrayed within the circle of tracks were equally high-end accessories:

– A cattle loader with a vibrating surface that propelled little rubber “cattle” into a plastic cattle car;

– A milk car with a solenoid-powered mechanism that ejected little metal milk cans onto a little metal platform.  The milk cans were cleverly made with a tiny magnet underneath so that they would stick to the metal platform when they came flying out of the milk car and not fall over;

– The log loader that carried wooden dowels up a conveyor belt and dumped them on to the waiting “log car” below;

– A light tower with a red-and-blue beacon that rotated just from the heat rising from the little lightbulb within;

There were several crossing gates and switch tracks to reroute the train from one circuit to another.  It was all very elegant – lavish, even – and no doubt very costly, but the Schatzkin family could easily afford it.

All of this mid-century amusement was mounted atop an 8×8 foot table that was actually two standard 4×8 plywood sheets to which my father – an amateur carpenter of sorts who kept an extensive wood shop in our basement – had added a strip of smooth molding around the edges and then clipped the two sheets together with brass hooks.  The whole assembly lay atop two folding aluminum tables which were also de-riguer household items in the 50s.

Engineer Arthur at the throttle

For that Christmas, the trains were set up in a (more typical 50s) wood-paneled room behind the living room that was called “the playroom.”  There is only one other photo of the trains in our family albums;  In it you can see 7-year-old Arthur gingerly pushing the throttle forward on the state-of-the-art transformer.  You can also see some of the accessories that came with the trains.

After Christmas, the trains were taken down and reassembled in the basement.  I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about them after that.  What do you want from me, I was only five years old and this was all more than 60 years ago…

But I do remember that one morning in 1956 or ’57, the whole set up just disappeared.

*

In later years, our mother would occasionally tell the story of what happened to the electric trains.

One night, the story goes, my parents went to a dinner party at the home of the Connie and George Selby (their their actual name was Seligman but  at some point in the 50s they Anglicized it to “Selby” – my parents suspected they wanted a name that didn’t sound so… well… Jewish).

George Sr. went by the nickname of “Dink,” so – dumb as it sounds – we’ll just call him that.  Dink and Connie had a son, George Jr., who was Arthur’s age.  They also had an elaborate Lionel train set in their basement.  I have some vague memories of seeing the Seligman/Selby’s trains, and of being envious of how much more intricate their layout was compared to ours.  There were multiple trains navigating through realistic scenery, the tracks rising and falling through multiple levels on plastic trestles. Maybe this is how the Jews kept up with the Joneses in mid-50s surbubia – with dueling Lionel train sets; the gentile neighbors who lived on either side of our house all had Lionel trains, too.

The way my mother told the story, they were George Jr.’s trains but… Dink didn’t really let his son play with them.  Dink ran the show and George Jr. was pretty much relegated to watching the trains go by.

The spectacle of a 30-something-year-old man commandeering his nine year old son’s electric trains was enough to send my father into a fit of pique.

And so, the story goes, my father came home that night so incensed that he went straight into the basement and dismantled the entire Lionel layout that he had set up for Arthur, and stuffed everything – the locomotive, the coal car, the milk car, the cattle car, the transformer and all the accessories – into a cabinet. The next morning he announced that  “if you want to play with the trains, you’ll have to put them back together yourself…”

Which my brother never did.

The Lionels stayed dismantled and stashed in the cabinet in the basement where my father put them for several years.

They still hadn’t come out of those cabinets when Harvey died in the fall of 1958.  He was 37.  Arthur was 10.  I was 7.  Our little sister was 4-1/2.

Fast forward with me now,  all the way to 1959:

ca. 1960, photo by Monroe Edelstein

I’m in the third grade and for some reason that I will never recall I went down to the basement and  got my father’s Lionel trains out of the cabinet where he had left them. Without any instruction or coaching I put the tracks together and connected all the wires and for the first time in years the Monmouth Avenue Railroad was running again.  Hey, look, there’ the old 736 Berkshire, and the milk car and the cattle car and the log loader, and the crossing gates, and the little blue plastic man popping out of his miniature green-and-red gate house, swinging his little plastic lantern…

After that, the trains became “my thing” until we moved from Rumson to Maplewood in the spring of 1962.  Before that move, my mother hired a noted photographer to come to our house to make portraits of the family. The photographer asked what I was interested in and I showed him the trains in the basement.  He posed me with that cast iron locomotive.

*

I told my therapist parts of this story last week.

We talk a lot about my father.

More than anything my father longed for a creative life.  Like me, he was a writer and a photographer, but he spent his (short) career making tile for kitchens and bathrooms.  He was never published – unless you count the time that a letter he wrote to Macy’s was used for an ad in the New York Herald Tribune – but I’ve got a trove of his comic short stories in my basement that are still funny.

Almost 60 years after he departed from this planet, I still wonder how my life might have been different if he’d stuck around – at least long enough to see that <I> was the one who was destined to play with his electric trains.

I think he would have approved.  And we would have had something to bond over, at least for a few years.

My mother often said of my father that “you were just getting to an age where he could do things with you…” when cancer dispatched his 37-year-old soul.  I have only a handful of actual memories of him.   One, in particular:

It’s October, 1955.  I’m four, not quite five years old. The Russians have just beaten the US into space with the launch of Sputnik, Earth’s first man-made moon.  One cold autumn night, my father took me – just me – out to the nearby high school football field to see if we could spot Sputnik wandering among the stars.  We  never did see the satellite, but the moment left an impression that remains vivid to this day.  Now every time I look up at the stars… I’m back on that football field with my father.

I wish he could have been around for the moon landing in 1969.  I think we might have watched it together. Oh, sure, there was a lot of other stuff going on at the time; I shudder to think what he, a World War II veteran, would have thought of his sons’ resistance to the draft and the war in Vietnam.  And then I think: Maybe it is fitting that only the good die young. That way we never have pictures of them as angry, bitter old men yelling at us from the other side of the “generation gap.”

And I remember when I showed my mother my first personal computer in 1979.  As I showed her how I could enter text and then wipe it off the screen with a single press of the “delete” key,  she said, “your father would have loved this…”   Really.  He was what we now call a gadget freak.  From Lionel trains to computers… we would have had that much in common.

*

I have been struggling of late with the whole idea of… approval.  Of claiming and manifesting my creative instincts.  And trying to not feel undeservedly pretentious about saying even that.

Creative types.  We’re wired differently.  And we go through life seeking validation and approval from – ironically – the more conventionally wired.  I have spent my entire life doubting my creative instincts, even when they are clearly manifest.  Like every writer (?) I finish one thing and wonder if there’s anything left.  It hasn’t helped that my greatest success as a writer was followed by my most disappointing failure.  Is it any wonder that infinite doubt ensues?

There was an odd little series on Netflix this year called “The OA”  that, among other things, addressed the theme of the “invisible self.” In an early episode, the principle character, a young woman named Prairie, cautions a companion to be gentle with his own inner forces:

“You don’t want to go there,” Prairie cautions, “until your invisible self is more developed anyway. You know, your longing, things you tell no one else about?”

All this business about my father and his electric trains came up when I was telling my therapist that lately I, too have been feeling… invisible.  It seems at times that I am just unwilling or unable to inhabit my own soul.   Like there is some creature inside me that I am the only one who can see – and not altogether clearly at that.  And that the people around me – even the people closest to me – want to reflect back on me… not my invisible self, but theirs.

And the soul recedes.

I realize it’s mostly pointless at this point in my life, but still I can’t help but wonder: If my father had been around to see me set up and run those electric trains…. would he have approved? Would he have seen a reflection of himself, and in that reflection beamed back a glimpse of the invisible me?  Maybe that glimpse, however brief and fleeting, might have provided enough recognition and approval that I wouldn’t still be longing for it 60 years later.  His validation in that moment could have left a lasting impression, much like that cold night when a young father and his little boy scanned the heavens for a dot of light drifting among the stars.

*

When my family moved in the spring of 1962, the trains were dismantled again and packed into a box. Never mind that I didn’t get to pack the box; I was at summer camp when the family moved – but hat’s whole other story.

Once I arrived at the new house, I don’t think I ever took the trains out of the box.  By then my interests had shifted: I wanted slot cars,  and my parents – that would be my mother and her new husband, aka my stepfather – told me I couldn’t have both.  We sold the Lionels to a family from Newark for all of $75.

I’m sorry, Daddy.  I don’t have your Lionels any more.  But I still wish you had been around when I started playing with them.

*