#the shoes are heavily referenced from the anime

[tak1e]

working on a spidey deku ref but in the meantime: the doodles

[portraitofadumbassonfire]

Thots On NOPE (SPOILERS)

I get why this is divisive, but, Jordan Peele has constantly described the themes of the film as dealing with Spectacle. He is 1000% right, but I personally think that the themes have even moreso to do with exploitation.

When it comes to Ricky or "Jupe" I've seen so many reviewers saying that subplot had nothing to do with the film as whole, but it did in a VERY haunting way.

When Ricky is talking about the SNL skit that parodied a traumatic time in his life, he recalls it like a well executed comedy sketch. Then it cuts back to him hiding under the table.

I've seen so many videos online that have some sort of attention-grabbing title, regardless if it's accurate to what you will actually see, but the OP is aware of what makes people click on what's to be supposedly promised in the title or the thumbnail. They know what will attract a crowd. Not to be too graphic, but even porn videos will do the same thing, anything to get clicks & clout.

When Ricky starts the show promising a spectacle, he's used to the reaction he gets, hence why he always does the show showing off the "aliens" at 8:00 PM. Or at least practices the show at night, but the reason he does probably has to do with the "aliens" showing up at that specific time, hence why it's the first time we see activity from the supposed "aliens". (When we see the lights from the show when the sun is down in the first few scenes of the film. We don't know if it's rehearsal or just another show of his.)

He's willing to risk the possibility of an attack from a wild animal like the supposed UFO because he dealt with the attack from Gordy. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. (like the shoe standing upright, which could be the "bad miracle" OJ refers to) He truly thought he could handle the intensity of the "alien ship" since he survived the attack and lived to tell the tale. He developed some kind of God complex that he could work around the danger of a "trained animal". His wife even said "Even trained animals can be unpredictable."

The people on set with Lucky are a great example. Who the hell stands behind a horse as an adult? Who's the genius who had different chimpanzees for a T.V. show with 0 wranglers? There are still people whom are dumb enough to go to the zoo and go over safety barriers, taunt the animals, or even hold their children close from any danger.

It's ironic how people are very obsessed with the concept of aliens, but if too many people can't handle creatures from earth, what makes us think we can handle the ones not from here?

The stars of the SNL skit straight up mocked a heavily disturbing moment in his childhood, yet he's still profiting off of the moment where this kids dress up as aliens to scare his neighbors as a joke and an intimidation tactic. (notice how their alien costumes look also like ape costumes)

Plus he said he was getting paid by people to sleep in a memorabilia room referencing multiple violent deaths on a TV set. Even with Oprah herself, when she interviewed the woman who was attacked by a chimpanzee and got her face ripped off, people in the comments criticize her for exploiting the woman instead of talking about how she moved on from the spectacle of a tragedy.

For the Haywoods, they're trying to uphold a legacy, they're the only black-owned horse trainers and their great great great-grandfather is someone whom had not been credited for their work as the first motion picture captured. For Emerald to be the one who captured a picture of alien proof as the descendant is SOOOO symbolic.

The cinematographer, Antlers, a white man played perfectly by Michael Wincott, didn't like the lighting in the shot he took so he took the risk to get a perfect shot. The TMZ biker had a whole helmet that reflected everything around him because who else would be obsessed with getting all of the chaos around them than TMZ? (The same publication that somehow managed to know that Beyoncé was filming the music video for "XO" & announces celebrity deaths before the family even gets a chance to.)

I've seen videos of so many disturbing events before, during, or after the fact that I can see what Mr. Peele was going for in commentating on. There's an infamous tiktok showcasing someone in the middle of a near plane crash I've seen reposted on Twitter, there's footage of a bear and a cougar in a circus attacking their supposed "trainers", talk show footage of a lion going after a toddler & almost biting the poor child it was sitting next to, the frozen and preserved bodies of those who've tried do climb Mt. Everest, and I've even seen a man who documented himself after getting graphically attacked by two grizzly bears. Yet the views on those videos reach the millions.

There's so many times a fucked up or upsetting moment in time has been exploitated to the point where it can be made a joke, a traumatic scene, or a topic of discussion, and that for me is what NOPE was commentating on. Some will not catch on with one viewing, but I recommend a second, or even third watch to fully get what's being told.

Films like that, that have a longer shelf life are what inspire me. It's a rarity that a filmmaker chooses to give their audience a challenge.

[slasherholic]

synopsis: you reflect on a few incidents in your relationship with asa that really should have tipped you off as red flags while you wait for him to come back and torture you some more.

contains: gender neutral reader, graphic depictions of violence and torture, psychological torture, death, kidnapping, rib trauma, referenced abuse, current abuse because it’s fucking asa, I’ll throw in manipulation and gaslighting just to be safe.

note: quite a few scenes and tidbits in this were heavily inspired by a chat I had with the brilliant and lovely @sanguine--honey, so thanks again for letting me include those in this fic c:

word count: 4k

(Part One, Part Two)

Asa Emory / The Collector x Reader | Loose Ends | Part Three

When he finally unchained you from the pole he dragged you violently up several flights of steep stairs. His strength seemed tireless no matter how much you struggled.

You were bruised and battered and smearing blood on the floor behind you when he got to where he was taking you. He ignored the desperate way you were still screaming at him and threw you violently in a black trunk in a room with bright white lights and steel lab tables. He had slammed the heavy door shut so hard the force of it knocked a painting off the wall. Many locks turned on the other side. You clutched your stomach with both hands and doubled over and began to dry heave.

You sat crying in the dark. When the tears wouldn’t come out anymore, you looked for a way out. Tried to feel around the edges. Your arms burned terribly and you could smell your own body fluids lingering among the overwhelming smell of disinfectant loitering in the air. Your face ached from where he’d held your mouth to silence you when he plunged the needle in. There was a perfectly round hole in the side of the trunk, the size of your pinky nail, that appeared to have been made with a drill. An airhole. Or a peephole.

But the trunk itself was locked up tight. There was no getting out.

 You studied the room through the peephole. There were four other trunks sitting upright on the floor to the left of you, at least that you could see, lined up one after the next to form a semicircle. Each was a different color—red, blue, green, brown, in that order.

You called out very softly and asked if anyone was there.

Silence.

Sniffling again, you sat with your knees curled tightly into your chest, and allowed your mind to romp.

There had been signs, red flags abound, and you had ignored them, made excuses for him in your head, filed every uncomfortable incident away to be rationalized at a later date. You might not have known until the very end that he was this. But you had known enough. Asa, beneath his carefully manufactured charm and suave, was the coldest man you had ever met.

So you arrived at the crushing conclusion that you had nobody to blame for this but yourself.

There had been one instance, close to the start of your relationship, or whatever it was you had with him, where you found yourself very inebriated in his expensively furnished living room.

Asa had implied over dinner that he would like to go upstairs and have sex after you were finished, and he’d cleared the plates off his dining table nearly twenty minutes ago. You challenged him to arm-wrestle first.

“Please?” You spread your legs out on his blue persian rug, intent on staying awhile. 

Asa sat across the room from you in the cushioned chair closest to the hall, his hands folded in his lap. The look on his face was growing rather unamused.

“I already said no. Can we move along?”

“Come on, have a little fun.”

His expression grew more dour still.

“You’re drunk. Very drunk. I thought I told you to go easy with the drinking.”

“You, Dr. Emory, are being a total stick in the mud.”

You pestered him about it until he humored you.

He took you by the hand and set your arm up on his nice coffee table which he had cleared delicately of a stag beetle specimen in a spotless glass display.

“Count of three.” You slurred, a smile growing in your eyes, one he didn’t care to return.

“One.”

He adjusted his grip dexterously around your fingers. His arm was bigger than yours by far.

“Two.”

The thick tendons in his wrist jumped out. It would be no contest. You wanted to try anyway. You thought it would be fun.

“Three.”

You fought against his hand with everything you had. You laughed. Asa let you struggle against him for a few moments, regarding you with an utter lack of concern on his face. For all your efforts you couldn’t budge his wrist by a centimeter. 

Then he smashed your hand so quick and hard into the coffee table your knuckles throbbed and you yelled.

The laughter fell from your face like a stone. You jerked in his grip. His hold moved down to your wrist where he held you tightly and didn’t let go. Suddenly, you didn’t like the way he was looking at you.

Asa, leaning forward, spoke to you very slowly, and made you linger on every syllable, as if you were stupid.

“Are you finished? Shall we move on? Or would you like to go again?”

He squeezed your wrist a bit harder. You could feel the pulse in your arm quickening, throbbing in his grip, which was getting tighter every second.

You let him take you upstairs without suggesting any more games.

In the morning, you hardly remembered the sex, but your hand was bruised. Asa didn’t mention anything to you about it as he got ready for work. It was the last time you had ever been drunk around him.

You jolted awake in the trunk. Your arms burned in a way that sent vicious chills through your extremities. There was a wet stain on the wall where you must have fallen asleep at some point. Resting a hand on the trunk, you stared cautiously through the peephole.

Asa wasn’t there. But the painting that had fallen was back in its place on the wall.

Your stomach sank. You thought some more to try and distract yourself from the pain in your arms and your aching body.

There had been that one night in the park. The night you stayed awake many sleepless hours trying and failing not to remember what you witnessed.

The sunset had dissipated and the only light remaining in the park was what filtered down from the black street lamps towering like spires all along the sidewalk. Asa had touched something on the bench he didn’t like, and had gotten up to wash his hands in the nearby bathroom. 

You watched a pair of moths fluttering around each other near the lamp across the path and noticed someone approaching from the corner of your eye. Assuming it was Asa, you turned to ask him what species he figured they were.

It wasn’t Asa. 

The mugger shoved you forcefully off the park bench. You spilled onto the cold sidewalk, knocking your head on the concrete.

“Give me the fucking wallet.”

The man must have thought you were alone. He wore black jeans and a grey t-shirt. He brandished a short switchblade at you which you stared at with wide terrified eyes. You were shocked to silence, frozen in place.

The mugger made a grab for the wallet in your shaking hands.

And Asa had tackled him from behind with such force that both men went spilling into the grass on the opposite side of the path.

He was back on his feet by the time the mugger was still clambering to his mud-stained knees. You watched Asa’s hand go somewhere beneath his olive jacket as he pulled out a knife you hadn’t known he carried. He flipped it in his grip and held it with the blade angled down toward the grass. His face had become profoundly unreadable. 

His movements dripped with practice and polish as he sized your mugger up. The muscles in his legs were spring-loaded as he stalked back and forth along the grass. Every step had a purpose.

He dove in for a slash across the man’s stomach. You saw blood spray in a wide arc and heard the man make a painful strangled sound. Asa ducked beneath a clumsy swipe for his face, stepping away again. He passed his knife from one hand to the other; now, he was circling the man. Not adjusting his stance. Circling him.

The man lunged at him with a grunt. The switchblade raced for his chest. Asa caught his wrist and slashed him deep across the thigh.

You’d always known his reflexes were astonishingly quick. Once, you dropped your expensive camera while photographing the exhibits at the museum, and he had grabbed it before it hit the ground, lecturing you in a more-or-less jesting manner about getting a lanyard for it as he stood to hand it back to you, an incident which at the time had made your cheeks warm.

Asa planted his shoe squarely in the man’s abdomen and kicked him away hard. The man made a guttural sound as he tumbled back on the grass, gasping for air, and Asa let him clamber to his feet again, still circling. The look on his face was no longer indifference. It was something far more intense.

The man turned, staggering, and tried to run.

Asa was faster. He tackled him again, wrestled him brutally to the sidewalk. The man swung blindly, got lucky in his desperation—and clipped him across the shoulder.

Asa snarled. Not a grunt, it had been a snarl, low and throaty, like an animal.

He slashed violently at the man and his knife flashed sharply in the lamp light. Blood erupted from the cut in a heavy mist. The man fell back on the ground, dropping his own blade, clutching his throat. Asa straddled him on his knees, and grabbed him by the face, wrenching his head up. You heard the crack of the man’s skull meeting the concrete from where you sat.

The man started shouting desperately for help.

You watched Asa raise his knife. His arms and shoulders flexed and strained the sleeves of his jacket. You knew by the look on his face alone that you were about to witness a murder. Before you knew what you were doing, you were yelling at him to stop.

Asa didn’t hear. Or he ignored you.

He drove the knife hard into the man’s stomach.

The man made a wet strangled sound, bringing up his arm to try and block the onslaught, because Asa was already raising his arm again.

He stabbed the same spot. Every stab that followed was faster. The man’s yelling became screaming and you saw Asa’s hand shift to cover his mouth. The man’s muffled screams fell to thin whining. Then ragged wheezing. Then, stopped. 

A cricket chirped beyond the reach of the street lamps. The moths fluttered near the bulb across the path.

Asa straightened up his posture. His nostrils flared heavily with breath. He seemed to take in the gored body on the concrete beneath him, which had gone motionless.

Five seconds hardly passed before he stood, slowly, rising to his full height, carefully side-stepping the body. The man’s blood trickled off the tip of his wet knife and dripped on the concrete next to his black dress shoes. His jacket sleeves and the sides of his charcoal pants across his thighs were stained with long dark swaths. He rolled his shoulders. The breeze tousled his disordered hair.

There had been a few moments you could recall when it really occurred to you how big Asa was.

He wore flattering clothes often, and your eyes were sometimes tempted towards the wide muscles in his chest, but the way he talked to you was very ensnaring, as he always seemed to have something interesting or intelligent or just plain sarcastic in a dry but not-to-be-taken-seriously way to say; so when he spoke, you found it difficult to look anywhere but at his handsome face. You only really witnessed the scope of his strength when you slept with him. The ways he was able to handle you when he wanted made you feel, at times, incredibly vulnerable around him.

Asa had turned his whole body toward you when he considered you where you sat huddled on the sidewalk, reigning in the hot breaths which broadened his chest and spiraled into the chilly night. The man’s blood had gotten on his cheek. You started to shiver. He regarded you with a look that read staggering disapproval, as though this, and what would inevitably follow, was not worth his time, as though it might as well have been your fault, as though he was currently considering very strongly doing something about it later in private.

“You should call the police.”

Before you knew what you were doing or why you were really doing it you scrambled for your phone in your pocket and tapped on the screen with very shaky fingers, “9-1-1.”

The ambulances pulled up to the street corner first followed shortly by two squad cars. Asa stood up slowly from the green park bench to meet them, and you stayed kneeling on the cold sidewalk.

He introduced himself to the officers as Dr. Asa Emory and dealt with their questions very professionally. At one point, he had pulled a neatly folded paper out of his wallet, which the questioning officer took, shined her flashlight at, and returned to him, nodding her head. The story was very apparent: a couple walking in the park had been assaulted at knife-point, and a registered concealed-carry weapon had been used to dispatch the aggressor.

The officers came over to question you. Asa, standing off to the side, removed his bloodied jacket, which he hung neatly over the park bench. He watched you closely. The look on his face was like the prick of a thorn.

You diverted your gaze away from him and nodded at the officer’s questions dumbly, staring at the medical workers as they bagged up the body on the sidewalk. An EMT was called over, who concluded that you were in moderate shock, and that you should go to the hospital.

“I won’t be riding along with you.” Asa was down to his tan sweater, rubbing his newly cleaned fingers together at his side, which he had been given bottles of water to wash off at his request. The indifference on his face didn’t lift as they strapped you down to the gurney.

“The officers have a few more questions, so I’ve agreed to go with them down to the station.”

His words were factual and rhetorical, as if your input on the matter wasn’t at all needed, so you didn’t say anything back to him.

It was the last you heard from him until he showed up in your hospital room several hours later. Your stomach lept a little when the door opened and he came in.

He was wearing a change of clothes, his hair groomed back into place, looking very much the part of respectable Dr. Emory again. He had brought you dinner from the lobby downstairs. 

He sat in the only chair in the room as you picked at the warm mashed potatoes in the black tray, and made conversation about how you were handling things, and if there was anything he could get you, and though it all felt very shallow and obligatory you found yourself playing along as best you could, because sitting in the room alone with him was giving you very obvious goosebumps.

Asa drove you home later that night. You got out of his car without a word, went to your door, and quickly did the lock behind you.

After falling into bed, you were afraid of him. You couldn’t bring yourself to admit it then; you tried to cling tightly to the parts of him you still thought you loved. But from then on, you were, genuinely, afraid of him.

What made it worse, you suspected he saw it, too.

His holds on your wrist when you turned away from him before he had quite finished lecturing you about something very irresponsible or just plain ignorant you had done were firmer. There was the way he moved his jacket occasionally when he shifted his posture, and you caught a glimpse of his holstered knife for a moment too long. And how, when he asked you a question—one to which you didn’t immediately have an answer—he turned all his attention on you, and began to approach you, boxing you in, cutting off your escape, slowly repeating the question. 

He’d known. Without a doubt, he had known.

Sobbing started in the trunk next to you and it jolted you harshly out of your thoughts.

It sounded like a man. A younger man. You tried to talk to him.

“Hello?”

Sudden silence fell. You repeated yourself.

“Is someone there?”

“-Yes.”

The voice came out very quietly. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what there was to say.

“What’s your name?”

Silence for another moment.

“It’s Noah.”

There was rattling as Noah shifted in his trunk.

Noah told you he’d been taken on a Tuesday. A horrendous sinking feeling settled in your stomach at that.

Tuesday was six days ago. Asa had come back very late that night smelling strongly of disinfectant and nitrile, as he did sometimes. You figured he'd stayed past closing hours at work for something important but asked him about it anyway, in the name of making casual conversation, an occurrence which had been growing steadily more reclusive between the two of you. His response had been clipped and curt. You didn’t ask him any more about it.

Noah seemed to hear Asa coming down the hall before you did.

“Stop. Stop talking.” His voice was suddenly desperate, laced with terror. “He’s coming back. He’s coming back. Please don’t talk. Don’t say anything.”

But that wasn’t part of the plan.

The locks clicked open on the other side of the black door.

You started pleading at him with your raw hoarse voice the second he stepped into the room.

“Asa, please! You know I didn’t tell anyone! I’ll do anything you want, you know I will! Asa, please!”

You weren’t even sure what you were begging him for. Please let me out. Please clean my arms before they get infected. Please don’t hurt me anymore.

He shoved your trunk so violently as he walked past that your head knocked against the wood and everything went dizzy for a moment.

Through the airhole, through your fresh, blurry tears, you watched him squat down, and unlock the brown trunk next to yours, the one the young man was in.

Noah couldn’t have been older than his early twenties but his face was exhausted and gaunt. His shirt was gone and his red sweatpants were soaked through with sweat or something else. The shackles around his wrists and ankles rattled as Asa’s arm darted into the trunk.

He wrenched the young man out by his tangled brown hair. Noah made an anguished sound, but didn’t struggle much as Asa hauled him swiftly towards the operating table. 

It occurred to you then what Asa had drilled the peephole in your trunk for. 

The young man begged desperate things while Asa locked his shackled wrists and ankles down to the fixtures on the table. No. Not again. Stop. Please don’t do it again. You looked closer, noticing the long row of stitches running down his side, the skin around them still red and puffy, and thought you might be sick.

Asa grabbed him roughly by the face, and leaned in very close, settling his hand on his bare abdomen. He said something next to Noah’s head too quiet for you to overhear. Noah’s chest heaved rapidly. Asa stood again, and gave the side of his ribs a light stroke before he walked away.

The young man on the table had paled fast. He lay staring at the ceiling with huge unblinking eyes, trembling, looking very much in shock at what he had just heard.

Asa took his time choosing the surgical tools from his cabinets. You watched him prepare the room, too afraid to look away. Maybe it was all a bluff. Please god let it be a bluff. He laid out two separate trays on the stainless-steel countertops, putting his tools in one, and set an extra out near the sink.

It wasn’t a bluff.

Noah was very awake when Asa began to cut his chest open. 

His body obscured your view of the table but you knew the exact moment the scalpel sank in because the young man made a horrible screeching noise and began thrashing violently in his chains in a huge clamor. His body seized and his eyes rolled back in his head. He seemed to try to vomit; nothing came out. 

Asa did not carry out his work hastily. Finished with the bloodied scalpel, he set it in the tray adjacent to his clean tools. When he turned away from the counter, you glimpsed his face.

The look of steady concentration he wore was no different from the times he’d let you watch him process an important specimen or sketch or paint. He clamped Noah’s skin back with pairs of forceps, and peeled off his wet black gloves, beneath which he was already wearing a fresh pair.

You took in the sight on the table while Asa went to the corner of the room to discard the gloves. Noah’s wet red ribs glistened beneath the long hanging lights and you could smell the slippery viscera from where you sat. You watched them expand as his lungs inflated with tortured breath, which was no longer anything but a bloody gurgling deep in his throat.

Asa came back, going next for the surgical pliers, ghosting his hand along his options until he seemed to settle on the proper one. When he looked up, pliers in hand, he was deliberately, unmistakably, casting his gaze across the room at your trunk. As if to make sure you were still watching.

Your heart nearly stopped. Air wouldn’t come in.

Then he returned to his work and started clipping Noah’s ribs off.

You could hear the bone snapping every time. The young man passed out more than twice on the table and that was the only time there was silence in the room.

Asa deposited the rib clippings in a third tray, and went to wash them free of blood and tissue in the steel sink while the near-corpse on the table made awful rattling noises, struggling to breathe; Noah seemed to be watching Asa, too, trying at least, but the immensity of his struggle had burst capillaries in his eyes.

Asa laid the ribs out on a pristine white cloth, organizing them from shortest to longest, toweling them individually off, and went about measuring them lengthwise with a yellow tape, then again around their circumference. He placed them gently in a bin, sealed the lid tight, went for a pen, and wrote something in his neat handwriting on the label.

You watched him take a curved needle and load it carefully with fine black suturing thread pinched delicately between his finger and thumb. Noah screamed and squirmed weakly with all he had left as it went in, which wasn’t much at all. Asa pulled the needle in and out, bringing his skin back together until his gaping chest was shut again.

The young man was still alive when Asa hauled him back into the trunk, a fresh row of black knots holding his ruined flesh closed.

Or at least he was still twitching, blinking, drawing shuddering agonized breaths through his wide-open mouth from which there ran an endless trickle of saliva and blood. The bottom of his stitched-shut chest was concave where his lower ribs used to be. He didn’t look like he’d live another hour. You hoped he wouldn’t.

Asa shut the lid and did the latches.

He went back to the counter for the ribs, taking an indirect path around the table, which carried him right towards you. You scrambled back from him as fast you could. The trunk didn’t let you get very far. You felt his fingers rap along the lid from one side to the other and couldn’t choke back your broken sound.

He left through the heavy door, doing up all the locks, and this time, you heeded Noah’s advice. Your mouth stayed utterly, obediently, shut.

After a few minutes of hopeless wheezing, Noah fell silent in the brown trunk, and never made another sound after that.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Killan Josta: The Rabbit

Listen. Exactly one conversation with @wildfaewhump​ and this boy found himself nearly fully formed, and he wanted his backstory and who am I to deny an OC who technically doesn’t exist their moment? 

Exists in the same world as @wildfaewhump​‘s Iesin and Talvos, and this is in no way relevant and should definitely not fill you with hope for his future. He is a sad boy. No hope for him.

CW: Suicidal ideation (of the ‘would be better than this’ variety, is brief, happens twice), debt slavery, beating and violent abuse, kicking, blood, death threats, emotional and financial manipulation, referenced purposeful malnourishment

“Where d’you think you’re gonna go, Matti?”

Killan’s thin shoulders hunched up somewhere near his chin and he drew his knees up to his chest. He could see a bit of red soaking into the rough woven cloth in his pants where he’d hit the ground and scraped hard along a bit of tree root sticking up out of the dirt.

Under the hollow created by the lifted root, he could just see the glitter of an eye, some kind of bitty rabbit or chipmunk or other tiny prey animal hiding. 

He wished he had somewhere to hide, too.

Show me how to escape, he thought to the creature. Teach me how to run or fly fast and far enough next time. Are there really woodgods like my mother used to say? Are there really monsters who sometimes save people like in the stories?

“Hey. Matti.” Ren snapped his fingers before Killan’s face.

“My name’s not Matti,” He said in a half-whisper, then flinched instinctively against the blow he knew was coming.

He threw his hands up just in time to take the brunt of Ren’s heavy-handed slap meant for his face.

“Your name’s what I say ‘tis,” Ren snarled down at him. He leaned over Killan like a great big tree giving off shade and Killan shrunk even more under the baleful look in his eyes. The other hunters and sometime bandits that worked with Ren had settled in a circle around the two of them, four more. Beron, Vanya, Tinch, and Pylko were all as broad and terrifying as Ren ever was, but they deferred to Ren - which made Ren, the holder of Killan’s debt and the one he was starting to think might never let it be paid, the scariest of them all.

“If I say you’re Matthias and call you Matti, that’s what you are. Isn’t that right?” The hand was threatening again, held high in the air and Killan kept his arms up to protect himself, curling them over his dirty brownish hair. They took baths once a week, the group did, and Killan always got last turn at the bathwater and he never felt clean unless he dipped into the river when sent to get water and took the time to scrub himself and took his punishment for dawdling when he returned.

Except this time, he’d tried not returning.

They hunted him down anyway, rubbed his head in the dirt to punish him for putting on airs of cleanliness, and worse was coming. He knew worse was coming. There was a sick pit of fear in his stomach marrying with the hunger that chased him through days and nights. He was worked too hard for little in return, but if he ate too much...

“Y-yes, Ren,” Killan tried from behind the dubious security of his own thin wrists and arms. “I-I’m Matti if you want, ‘til I pay off the money. When… when will I-”

“Not for you to know, debt-slave.” That wasn’t Ren but Beron, who aimed a kick to his side he wasn’t ready for, a crack into his ribs that sent Killan sprawling sidelong into the dirt with a cry. 

Once that dam was opened, all their violence burst forth, and it was all he could do to curl into a ball and take the kicks from their good leather shoes. All five of them had their go, laughing and having fun with him, just like always.

Each cry, every whimper or whine, was a mark added to his debt. Ren counted cries as more he owed them for the inconvenience of having to hear ‘Matti’ be a weak little mess who couldn’t even take a hit like a man. 

He counted all the food that Killan ate on a little list, marked the wine he drank from the wineskins on occasion, too. Killan owed him for the little tin cup and plate they let him keep, owed him the nights they made stew and let him have a spoon, owed him for the clothes on his back that had gone worn and threadbare, for the needle and thread Killan used to mend every bit torn open by their fists and their boots.

He owed them for the second set of clothes they’d gotten him so he might be clean, just for a day, now and then when he did the washing. 

He owed and owed and owed.

He’d been thankful when they saved him. He was still thankful, but part of him had started wishing they had just let the other ones throw him in the river in town after they stole all his coins, just let them toss him like a pebble with weights tied to his feet force him down.

It would probably hurt less to be dead, at least. It would hurt less than this.

But… but there were beautiful days, too.

There were days when Killan walked beside the horses just so he could fall back a little and look around at the sun dappling through the trees along the path, or other days when they kept camp instead of moving on when Killan could race himself to the river for water, or dive into a deep forest pool and get himself clean, blessed blissful clean, and sun himself naked on a rock until he was dry, feeling like one of the wild beasts who could have come and gone as he pleased.

There were days when they were nice to him, cuffed him lightly instead of harsh, pulled him to sit with them around the fire to tell their old stories of fae stealing babies away until Killan shivered and went pale and they laughed, but it was good-natured laughing. Not mean, not really. Not the way they usually were.

There were days during his watch with Beron where Beron would show him how to make tiny little animals out of wood, carving this way or that until he made a tiny fox, a wolf, one time a bird that whistled if you blew into its beak.

They didn’t mark his debt up some days, when they were happy with him, and he could sing their drinking songs by heart and get rewarded with a grin and a clap to the back.

So there were good days, too, and he leaped desperately from good day to good day like a squirrel jumping between trees. 

But after a few bad days, he’d had enough, and thought he could run even though they were hunters and bandits.

He’d been wrong.

“Y’know what this means, Matti,” Ren said heavily, as though Killan were a grand disappointment. “Don’t you?”

Killan’s whole body ached, and all he could do was groan on his side on the forest floor, feeling old leaves soft beneath him, smashed into his hair, dirt and mossy green smeared along his face. He throbbed with pain every place their boots had gotten him, and hated his own thin leather shoes cut badly and bought cheap that sometimes wore his skin raw and bloody along the sides of his feet. 

He’d get boots when he earned them, he was told.

What else could he do to be worth good boots? What more was there that Killan had not already done?

“I-I’m sorry, Ren, I d-d-don’t-”

“It means we’ve got to tie you behind my horse again,” Ren said. The others clicked their tongues against their teeth, disappointed sounds. Killan slowly pushed himself up, hissing through his teeth at the flare of pain just about everywhere.

“You… you d-don’t, I didn’t-”

“No, we do. If you’re going to try and steal your debt from me, Matti, then you’re going to have to be kept close. Where would you be if I hadn’t saved you, Matti, huh?”

Killan looked back down at the ground. “Dead, Ren.”

“That’s right. You’d be dead if it weren’t for us taking pity on you. And what do you think it tells me when you try to run off and steal my bread?”

Killan’s chin jerked up at that, jaw set in a faded hint of stubbornness. “I baked the bread!”

Ren backhanded him, sending him back down to the dirt, like he lived there. Like he belonged in the decaying leaves where mushrooms sometimes came up in the spring and Killan would pick them by the basketful to cook in oil for dinner, back home, back before. “It’s my bread whether you bake it or not. Stealing bread’s a crime, ain’t it?”

Killan wiped at his mouth with his arm, spat into the dirt and ignored the blood in it. “Yes, Ren.”

“Right. And runnin’ from a debt is a crime, too. You’re lucky we caught you first - show your face in a town and they’d lock you up ‘til I came for you, wouldn’t they?”

Not if they didn’t know I was a debt-slave.

Killan wisely kept that to himself.

“Should’ve let him run,” Beron said, ruffling Killan’s hair as he cringed away from the unwanted touch. “Let the fae eat him.”

“They don’t come down from their stupid mountains,” Vanya drawled. 

“Sure they do,” Beron said, but offered no detail or proof. “Where else would they get humans to eat?” He was the one who told the best stories about fae, stealing babies from mothers and taking the children in a village as thralls and leading them away with song, making men kill themselves in front of their horrified true love. They were spooky stories that left the hair on Killan’s arms standing up but kept him leaning forward towards the fire, waiting for more.

Killan liked Beron’s stories, even if he didn’t like Beron.

Even if Beron always kicked him hardest.

“Hey.” Ren hit him across the face again to get his attention, and Killan’s teeth came down too hard on his lower lip, a burst of salt-sweet coppery taste against his tongue as his lip busted and he coughed, gagging at the overwhelming taste. “You listening, Matti?”

My name's not-

“Yes, Ren,” Killan muttered, trying to speak around his lip, so it came out more like Yeh, -ehn. “I-... listenin’.”

“Good. Next time I catch you running from me, I’m going to tie half a raw deer to your back and have Beron use his fae whistle to call one down to tear you apart. And if a fae doesn’t make quick work of your scrawny arse, trust that everything else that smells it on you will.”

Killan shuddered. Beron’s stories made the fae monstrous, rows of sharp teeth and feathers that could cut like a blade, big claws on their hands instead of proper fingers. It wouldn’t be a good death, but at least it would be one. “Unner-... unnerstan’, Ren.”

“Good. And I don’t want any of your mopery no more, either. All you do is mope around actin’ like you don’t have a perfectly good lot in life compared to your bones restin’ in the river where we found you. I’ll take a happier face from here on out and anything less will make it worse for you. Now get on your feet.”

Killan swallowed blood, felt his stomach spin and lurch and threaten to make him bring up his meager breakfast all over the forest floor. He nodded and pushed himself to his feet, falling into line with the men who owned him as they headed back to camp, the occasional smack or kick or curse urging him on even as he limped and dragged one foot a little behind the other. 

Ren owned his life until his debt was repaid, but the debt was higher with every breath he took, and he was starting to understand that Ren would never let him go.

He spat blood on the ground as he limped, and wondered if maybe a fae would eat him, if ever he could find one and politely ask it to.

Killan tried to take a breath and winced at the sharp spike of pain from his side. “I th-think you cracked my rib,” he mumbled to Beron, who had come up on his right. The tall, older man glanced sideways at him and shifted, elbowing him sharply right in the side.

Beron, who was sometimes the nicest of them all, right now grinned at Killan’s answering hoarse whimper.

“That’s another mark,” Ren said from up at the front, and Killan made another hopeless sound that only brought Beron’s smile wider.

“Don’t worry, cracked ribs heal fast enough,” Beron said, suddenly jovial and friendly, clapping Killan on the back just to watch him stumble and hiss through his teeth to hold back the sounds as he got his balance back. “I’ll cook tonight, lad. You can lie down early.”

Unsettled by the sudden switch from cruelty to kindness, Killan looked up, only to stumble over a tree root he would’ve seen if his eyes had still been down, falling to his hands and knees on the forest floor, palms scraping dirt and the just-closed cuts across his knee opening up to bleed again.

Killan sniffed back the heat that was building behind his eyes and set his jaw as he forced himself back to his feet, trying to ignore Beron’s booming laughter at his back as he hurried to catch up to Ren.

By the time the leader looked back at him, he had set an empty but vaguely cheerful expression on his face, despite the bloodied lower lip, despite the bruising already starting up across his face on both sides, despite cracked rib and hurting back and aching legs. 

Ren didn’t want to see him being sad about his lot in life anymore, and Killan was so tired of getting hurt. Lying wasn’t all that hard. It would be easy enough to lie, with the right reasons, and if I look right they won’t hurt me so much seemed as good a reason to smile as any.

He set himself to look as happy as he could, and hoped that Beron had really meant it about letting him get into his bedroll early.

Ahead of them, the sun came down in dappled yellow through the canopies of the tallest trees, and Killan fixed his eyes on the sight, forced the slightest smile to stretch his split lip until he winced. 

The smile wasn’t really all that hard to force, if he was honest with himself. He might be hurt, and bloody, and dirty and downtrodden, but… but you could live for the forest, if you really wanted to, not just live off of it. 

Killan could’ve been happy in the woods forever, on his own. In the deeper woods like this he could almost swear the air felt like magic. 

[whump-only]

a friend visits

cw: referenced non-con, threat of non-con, trauma, slavery

Where Hunter is v angsty bc Lorelei cannot be trusted! But can a stranger?

---

The doorbell rang and Hunter, on a panicked whim, slid into the closet. He felt stupid for trapping himself, knowing Lorelei would punish him for acting like an animal if he was found. 

Hunter listened as Lorelei laughed with someone in the kitchen. Their muffled voices shifted into the dining room, and Hunter knew he should take the chance to leave without Lorelei noticing. But all of his sleepless nights suddenly weighed down on him. The quiet darkness enveloped him and dulled his buzzing fear. Hunter sank deeper into the closet and fell asleep. 

Hunter woke to Lorelei calling him. He pushed away the now heavy and stifling coats, spilled into the hallway, fumbled to replace the shoes he’d knocked over. Breathless, he finally stood at attention in the doorway to the dining room. 

Only then did Hunter remember Lorelei was with someone else— a woman. A woman! It’d been so long since he’d been in the same room as one, that’d he’d grouped them into that vast category of ‘things on TV.’ Her presence made him feel so powerfully self conscious that he snapped his focus onto Lorelei instead.

“There he is.” Lorelei was leaning on the table, his face flushed red. Hunter barely had a second to register panic that Lorelei was drunk before Lorelei curled one finger. Come here.

Hunter moved to his master, but jumped in surprise as someone—the woman— grabbed Hunter’s pant leg and pulled. He shuffled to her, finding himself unable to look at her directly.

“Let’s see him,” she hummed, “Turn around for me.” Hunter did as she asked, feeling hot prickles all over his skin.

She let go. “You picked a good one, Lore. He’s cute.”

“I know,” Lorelei said warmly. Hunter grabbed the table, suddenly unsure if he was drunk too.  

“He’d be tall too, if he stood up straight,” she said and Hunter jumped into good posture, embarrassed. Lorelei was smiling loosely and didn’t seem to mind that Hunter forgot. 

“See?” the woman said and Lorelei hummed. 

“You cooked an excellent dinner. I thought it was delicious,” the woman said and it took Hunter a moment to realize she was talking to him. 

He was choked by surprise. “Ah— thank you miss.” He bowed his head. She kept staring at his reddening face. 

She continued. “And this place is spotless. Is this all just for me or is it always this clean?”

Hunter glowed. 

“Stop it, Bri. You’re gonna make me have to reward him,” Lorelei said. Hunter went still. Reward. No. He didn’t want that. Not from Lorelei. 

“Well, I insist. For such a good helper,” the woman said and Hunter wanted to beg her to stop, it would be bad, Lorelei was drunk, please stop. 

Lorelei leaned back, eyes half lidded. “What do good boys get?”

Hunter cringed, panic swelling at the thought of Lorelei pinning him into the floor, that’s a good boy—

“How about a piece of the cake?” the woman said. 

“Well, we could. Would you like that, Hunter?” Lorelei said, with his testing smile. 

Hunter’s throat closed at cake. This must be another one of Lorelei’s plans, Hunter realized. It had to be, it always was. Did she know about what cake did to him? She wanted this, to make Hunter feel heat and then touch him? He shook his head. No. Please no. 

The woman’s smile weakened. “First pet I’ve met who’s not a fan of cake.”

Lorelei shrugged. “Ehh. Sweets make him nervous. He thinks they’re drugged.”

“Drugged?” The woman said. “What do you mean, like medicine?”

“Like aphrodisiac. Or tranquilizer. Or both,” Lorelei said. 

“Lore. Really?” she said, with an edge of disgust, which sent a spike of defiance through Hunter, momentarily halting his sickened shame.  

“...What? Come on. We have fun,” Lorelei said and Hunter thought he’d throw up. 

The woman sighed. “Come here, cutie.”

Hunter obediently drew close, hungry for another scrap of pity, yearning for her to stand between him and Lorelei for another second. He liked the way her hair fell over her shoulders, shiny like Misha’s. Unlike Misha, her skin looked as though it’d be soft if he touched it. 

She looked up at him, sleepy but serious. “Lorelei, close your ears. What would be a good reward for you?”

Hunter stood up straight, trying to puzzle through his options but his mind remained stupidly blank. 

Then Lorelei said loudly, “Best gift I can give him is my absence. Right, Hunter?” 

Hunter knew the mean gleam in Lorelei’s eyes without seeing it, could sense the sharpness of the trap that was just set. 

She frowned, “Lorelei. I didn’t ask you,” then looked expectantly back up at Hunter. “You can tell me. What should your reward be?”

Hunter swelled with appreciation for her but then it cooled. He couldn’t know if this was a trick. She was Lorelei’s friend, wasn’t she? Hunter remembered. “A-anything you want, miss,” Hunter said. 

“I knew you’d say that,” she said, “Because you’re very good. But I know you’re thinking of something. I won’t tell your master. You can whisper it in my ear.” She flashed a grin at Lorelei. 

Hunter’s stomach was knotted up so tight it hurt. Two little rings hung from her ear. She could trick him. She could tell Lorelei, get Hunter in trouble. 

But Hunter wanted—needed— someone to care. To take his side. He whispered into her ear. “Can— can I sleep alone in the closet? Please?”

The woman smiled big again. “That’s a good choice. I could probably arrange that.”

“Thank you miss!” Hunter said forcefully. 

“What’d he say!” Lorelei demanded. 

“Nothing. That’s between us,” the woman said and stood up. She walked coolly into the kitchen and Hunter resisted the urge to bound after her. 

Lorelei leaned over the table and pointed a finger at Hunter. “I’m gonna find out.” 

Hunter didn’t doubt this. Lorelei could wring anything out of Hunter. He half expected Lorelei to jump over the table and lock his hands around Hunter’s neck... 

The woman, re-entered, holding a box. “Stop it, Lore. He just wanted the cake.”

Hunter was stunned. She placed the box on the table and pulled open the lid, and sure enough, there was a half eaten chocolate cake inside. 

She gestured toward the cake. “Go ahead. As big of a piece as you want. Just like you asked.” 

Was this a trick after all? Or—? Hunter grabbed a fork, pulled the flimsy box close, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t remember if he actually requested the cake. “Thank you, miss.” He gripped the fork tightly so it wouldn’t shake and stuffed a bite into his mouth. 

The piece of cake sat heavily in Hunter’s mouth, refusing to go down his tight throat. He tried to smile. 

“Told you,” she said sweetly, wrapping an arm around Lorelei. 

“Hah. He loves you already,” Lorelei replied, leaning into her. 

“Good,” she said, and planted a kiss on Lorelei’s head. “Ready for bed, Lorey?”

Hunter felt a lurch of disgust from the way they touched each other. 

Lorelei looked up at her. “You’re sleeping over?”

“If you want me to,” she replied. 

Lorelei stood up to kiss her and Hunter focused awkwardly on pressing his fork into the cake. 

“Of course I want you to,” Lorelei muttered. 

Lorelei led her to the bedroom and Hunter stood to start clearing the dishes. 

“Hey,” she called, at the threshold of the bedroom. “You should get some sleep too.” He thought he saw her wink before she closed the door behind herself. 

“Yes ma’am!” he called after her. After a beat, he felt a strange, overwhelming sadness he couldn’t place. 

Hunter carefully put the cake back in the fridge and their dinner dishes in the sink. He wiped down the table, dumped the leftover wine from the glasses. 

He then climbed back into the closet and lay awake for a long time before finally falling asleep. 

--

More here 

[rinasspookystories]

Fish Bones

I've heard a number of stories about gifts being bestowed upon kind hearted individuals. Trees, animals, mystical beings...just to name a few. This case, in particular, involves a young girl and gifts she receives from the bones of a fish. An odd thing to be able to grant wishes or gifts, but I suppose there's stranger. Maybe. Allow me to start this explanation with a story. In it, there is a man with two wives. Not an unusual sight. Especially among the higher class families in China. The wives each birth a daughter, both of which are as lovely as their mothers. I know this much based on the testimony of the father and the portraits he showed me of his family. Indeed, he was married to a pair of beauties. His first wife reminded me of a viper. Beautiful, angry, venomous. She would wear makeup to hide any flaws on her face (so perhaps she was not as lovely as she truly was). But then, that was merely what could be seen on the surface. Her eyes showed far more. You could see an inner cruelty, the venom, shining in her almond shaped eyes. Eyes that were too heavily lined and weighed down with far too much mascara which hid what could possibly have been rather attractive hazel eyes. And then she also wore too thick makeup that was one, maybe two, shades lighter than her natural complexion along with deep rouge on her lips that only accentuated how thin and tense her mouth was. Personally, I feel she may have been trying far too hard.

The second wife, whom this man has proclaimed to be his favorite, brings to mind wildflowers. There's a softness to her face and in her coal black eyes. A complexion matching someone who spends much time outside and tending to a garden (apparently a favorite pastime of hers). And not even a static image can hide the smile hidden in the corner of her full lips. I can certainly see why he's chosen her as his favorite. Were I the kind who might marry, I would certainly want this lovely creature. Such a shame that she had passed before her time. Now, for the daughters. As stated before, there are two of them. The elder being born to the first wife and the younger being born to the second. Both girls take after their mothers. Though it should be mentioned that the first, thankfully, doesn't share her mother's stern expression or penchant for heavy makeup. This first daughter has the same eye shape and color as her mother, but the lack of heavy makeup makes it much easier too see the color of them. The only difference is that the daughter's eyes are somewhat more slanted and makes her look like a fox. Not that that is such a bad thing. The vulpine-like features suit the girl quite well and give others the impression that she is far more cunning than she appears to be. Such a shame that her personality doesn't match her features. She could certainly be a force to be reckoned with in court if she was the sly creature she looks to be. Sadly, she's actually quite dim and as vain as her mother. And a horrid complainer. Although, I'm not certain there's any teenaged girl that wouldn't complain about pain and discomfort while going through the process of foot binding. Before I move on, I should explain that China does not favor foot binding much, anymore. While some families do still perform the procedure, it's usually started when a girl is much, much younger. While their feet were still growing. Not when the girl was nearly full grown. I believe that she may have also been dealing with an infection from the procedure when I first met her. Moving on now. The second daughter was the very image of her mother. Thick, black hair and wide, doe-like eyes the color of ebony. She even had that same little smile in the corner of her mouth. This girl, Yeh-Shen, is also the primary subject of this case. Which should be noted that she was very forthcoming with her side of the events. To begin, Yeh-Shen's mother died while she was still a young girl, leaving behind a beautiful garden with a fish pond. According to her father, she spent much time at the pond after her mother's passing. Apparently, she'd taken quite a liking to a particular fish in the pond. To say that this was the extent of things, though, would be wrong. Things get much worse in this story. As a merchant, the girl's father would often spend long durations of time away from home. During these times, the first wife, we'll call her Qiao, would treat Yeh-Shen as a servant. Forcing her stepdaughter to clean, cook and tend to her and her daughter's every need and whim. Qiao would even belittle her, calling her 'Lazy Girl' and whipping her if she didn't move as quickly as she wanted. For her own part, Qiao's daughter, whom shall be called Niu, wasn't as bad as her mother. She wasn't much better, but she also wasn't so abusive. Unless you counted kicking Yeh-Shen in the face when her feet were being cleaned and bandaged. Niu, though, would often thank her sister and didn't take part in the beatings or the name calling. That being said, she didn't exactly make it easier for her, either. Mostly by not offering to help with any of the chores and not speaking up against her mother for the woman's poor behavior. I suppose it can't be helped, though. Qiao can be quite intimidating. As mentioned, Yeh-Shen often spent her free time in her mother's garden and tending to a particular koi fish. I was fortunate enough to have gotten to see a painting of this fish, done by the girl in question. She's quite talented with paints and the fish was quite beautiful. Mostly white with a pale gold diamond between it's eyes. I imagine the fish must've looked as if it's scales were made of pearls while the marking looked more like fragments of amber. Even in the painting, you can see an intelligence in the animal that isn't commonly noticed in a fish of any kind. while we spoke, she told me tales of how the fish, called Bai, would often swim up to greet her and allow her to pet it as if it were a house cat. She also spoke of how Bai would 'dance' for her, as if performing for it's mistress in the hopes of cheering her up. No doubt, Yeh-Shen genuinely loved this little fish. She didn't even need to say as much as I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice. It's a shame that there must be one more bit of tragedy before a happier end comes. In this case, Bai was killed. As a form of punishment as well as to feed her own child and herself, Qiao scooped the fish from the pond and forced Yeh-Shen to prepare it as a meal. There's no doubt that the poor girl cried the entire time and continued to do so as she gathered every tiny bone and wrapped in silk. Yeh-Shen then spoke of how she cared for the bones as if they were a treasure, wishing nothing more than for her friend to return to her. As it happens, the festival celebrating the new year took place just a few, short months after this. Qiao was adamant that Yeh-Shen not attend. Considering this was also a time when young women and men often sought out a potential spouse, the woman didn't want the extra competition against Niu. I imagine anyone seeing that girl hobbling along in binding shoes would only bring about feelings of pity. Not exactly a great way to try and get a husband. However, this is not Niu's story. While she was forced to stay home, Yeh-Shen spoke to the bones of her beloved fish. Something she claims to have been doing since it's death as it brought her comfort. As she carried on a one-sided conversation, her garments changed from muslin rags to silk robes and golden slippers. While there's no evidence to prove it, it seems the bones of the fish were able to grant it's mistress's wish. She was able to go to the festival. The festival in question was a rather large event. One that I was unable to attend due to having holed myself up with my work. But I did hear a great deal about the spectacle afterwards. How a tiny golden slipper led to a simple servant girl marrying the son of one of the most powerful lords. It's at this point that the story's events were told from the perspective of the young lord, Li Shou. He had found the slipper shortly after parting ways with Yeh-Shen, having been talking with her for some time. He had hoped to get her name, but she had fled before telling him. A shame as that may have made it much easier for him to find her and return the little shoe. What should be noted is that I keep referencing the size of this shoe. There is a reason. The object appears to belong to a rather young girl, not an adult woman. Had I not been shown the size of her feet when shown the slippers, I would've believed that there was no way it belonged to her. During the search, Shou had all the unmarried ladies try the slipper on. Given a woman would've had to have had a severely deformed foot to fit into such a small shoe, it's no surprise that no one was able to fit into it. There was even moments when, according to those who witnessed it, the slipper would shrink whenever a girl would be close to the same size. No doubt there was some form of magic still involved and it was helping this young man find it's rightful owner. At some point, the slipper was brought to Yeh-Shen's home where Niu tried on the slipper, first. Naturally, it didn't come close to fitting the young woman's foot and no one was really keen on helping her force it on the infected appendage. Qiao tried to keep the true owner of the slipper from being seen, but since the lord and his men needed to pass by the garden and the pond in order to leave, she failed in her attempt. Lord Shou goes on to tell how he approached the frightened servant girl and asked her try on the slipper. Sure enough, the slipper fit her dainty foot perfectly. Now is the part that has me the most intrigued. For it was moments after Yeh-Shen put on the slipper that her beloved fish had reappeared in the pond. And, according to the young couple, Qiao dragged Niu into the garden to try and stop Shou from meeting her stepdaughter. When they reached a certain spot by the pond, the koi, resurrected by some unknown force, had leaped up and struck them with it's tail. The impact resulted in the two toppling into the pond where they transformed into a pair of koi fish. Lord Shou said that he had never heard screams such as theirs. Screams that indicated the change must've been quite painful. Thankfully, they allowed me to see these fish. The original koi was just as lovely as the original painting indicated. These two new ones, though... I'm not certain what to consider them to be. Both are a mottled black and orange with dull, black eyes set on their very human faces. The longest one, I assume was once Qiao, had a very thin face and would bite at anyone who tried to approach. The other, I can only guess to have been Niu because of the deformed tail fin. Certainly seems to be a fitting end for them.

[dantays-inferno]

All the homages to Tom Hiddleston in the ME! music video

This may seem outdated now that TS8 has arrived, but I’ve been working on this post for a long time, and after a listen to Folklore, I think it’s still a bit relevant ;) 

I wanted to share some Easter eggs we unearthed while doing an archaeological excavation of the ME! music video.

I know what you’re thinking...that video came out over a year ago! Aren’t those Easter eggs a little rotten from sitting out there this whole time?

Don’t fret, dear reader. The eggs were well preserved like bread baked in Pompeii just before Mt. Vesuvius blew. That is to say, these Easter eggs pointing to Taylor’s undying love for Tom (who can blame her!) are both deeply buried and in shockingly plain sight.

Our journey into the excavation all started with this:

I was watching this video and noticed the jaguar sculpture on the desk and just about died because I will always associate jaguars with Tom Hiddleston’s ad campaign for them. The ads contain three of Taylor’s favorite things: London, cats, and Tom Hiddleston. I’m not sure what her feelings are on luxury cars, though of course she referenced the commercial on reputation (jag-you-ars.) You can watch them here, but be forewarned--you may feel weak in the knees by the end. You may also be triggered by seeing a human interacting with a big cat (I can’t be the only one who feels scarred by Tiger King...)

After this, I watched the ME! video again and saw one reference to Tom after another.

The living room scenes remind me of a Gucci ad campaign Tom in...fall of 2016. Oh. Seems significant.

1. Why those shoes. 2. How does he not have dog hair on his suit. 3. This very ad hung on my fridge for a month. 4. The color scheme and mod feel of this photo shoot feel very similar to the ME! living room. Taylor even included her own two animals (who are somewhat similar in color to these glamorous pooches.

Here’s another image from the Gucci campaign:

The suit Brendon wears while watching out the window, to me, mimics the suit Tom is wearing above. Not incidentally, the jaguar statue is at Brendon’s elbow. And you’ll notice that the pinkish pillow behind Tom’s right shoulder is basically the same color and texture as the sofas in the ME! living room.

Let me also note that all of the rooms above featured shades of green associated with Loki.

Well, that was fun. Let’s do some more.

The hallway Grace Kelly Taylor walks through at the beginning of the video always puzzled me. It was one of those things that stuck out but I couldn’t say why. Well, I wondered if it represented a place TS had been. I guess so because here is an interior shot of part of the Vatican Museums in Rome:

I saw this and just about fainted. Taylor and Tom visited the Vatican while in Rome in summer 2016. They were heavily papped, unfortunately. I can’t imagine how miserable that would have been, but they also did look very happy together. I get little heart eyes and then cry for Taylor (and Tom), praying for her happiness while listening to New Year’s Day. I might also mention she wore blue kitten heels, remarkably like the pink ones in this portion of the video. 

Now this is a find I’m truly proud of...here’s an interesting tie Tom wore many moons ago. And I really mean many moons ago because there are only these sad tiny photos you get when someone cropped a VHS recording they took of that time your were on TV in 2010.

First, what a great tie, and can I get a sundress made out of it too because I just really love floral prints. But besides that, I mean, I’m just getting some deja vu...

And the color scheme shows pretty well (along with the silky texture) in Brendon’s most excellent costume at the Billboard awards (which I would also like a dress of):

And there’s that whole Mary Poppins reference with Brendon teetering down from the sky on an umbrella. I couldn’t help but be reminded of this odd but somewhat talked-about short film “Leading Lady Parts” that Tom had a role in. The basis of the plot being that he wins all the leading female roles in movies because other women can’t live up to Hollywood’s (or whatever the British equivalent of Hollywood is) standards. So at the end of the film, a character walks past a series of posters where Tom has been photoshopped into famous female roles, including...

Something you’ll never unsee, I know. 

Okay, the next part needs its own whole SECTION.

Thor Ragnarok References

So partway through Taylor and Tom’s midsummer’s night dream, Tom started filming for Thor Ragnarok, one of Marvel’s greatest gifts to mankind, in Australia. The finished film came out on Nov. 3, 2017, just seven days before reputation.

To start with, the color of Loki’s costume shows up quite a bit:

Beyond this, Thor: Ragnarok takes place on two alien planets: Asgard (Thor and Loki’s home) and Sakaar (a bizarre planet where intergalactic trash is dumped and Jeff Goldblum holds gladiator-style games.)

Sakaar looks a little like this:

An odd pastel palette splashed on a sea of grays. Detritus and occasionally people (notably, Thor) fall from holes in the sky. Also, notice the sky has a strange refracted nature to it that is seen in the ME! video. 

So we have another scene of people falling from nowhere down to a sea of pastels and gray with a pink refracted sky.

The sky behind His Lordship Jeff Goldblum in Ragnarok is the best pic I can find of Sakaar’s sky.

Let’s move on to a more exciting one:

One of the movie’s main characters, Valkyrie, rides a gray pegasus (unfortunately not a pegacorn)

The pegacorn Taylor sits on has a rather peculiar eye that evokes Thor’s when he’s in lightning mode:

Valkyrie also has a totally dope cape (so do a lot of characters, but we’ll focus on her):

Which reminds me of Taylor’s cape in the marching band scene:

And the rainbow leading up to the kaleidoscope where Taylor and To--er, Brendon dance? If you’ve watched any Thor movie, you probably remember the long almost-translucent rainbow bridge that stretches from the bifrost to Asgard. 

So as you see above, the bifrost leads to a room where Idris Elba controls the bifrost bridge. It look a bit like the kaleidoscope room Taylor and Brendon end up in:

To top things off, Taylor and Brendon’s suits really evoke that old school country feel that stars like, I don’t know....Hank Williams would wear (rest in peace.) 

Finally, the hotel lobby resembles the interior of the Asgard palace, but I can’t find good pictures and this has taken me hours. 

In conclusion, Taylor is brilliant, love is cruel, ME! is a fantasy fever dream, and Tom is worth the fight. Hopes, thoughts, prayers.

[sparklyjojos]

random Maijo meta / wild theory musings for ID:INVADED. it’s very rambly, you have been warned

[spoilers! for Id:Invaded, Disco Wednesdayyy, Tsukumojuku and JDC]

--  the initial title was Alien Thursdayyy, which references Disco Wednesdayyy. In the latter book, the protagonist’s surname is connected to Odin (because Wednesday = Odin’s Day) and to Mercury/Hermes. If so, the protag of Alien Thursdayyy could be connected to Thor, especially since we know there was supposed to be a Jupiter Z involved (Jupiter = Zeus, also a god of thunder). It’s possible that things like Narihisago’s well being a giant thunderstorm or the lightning bolt pattern on Sakaido’s shoes were left over from that old version. [I didn’t figure this one out myself, Maijo twitter did.]

--  the new hot theory seems to be that Fukuda/Anaido came from *Miyavi’s dramatic voice* THE OTHER SIDE, however you interpret this. Which would sorta make him similar to Mercury C, who was also from “the other side”?

--  this one’s more obvious, but an entire sci-fi tech system working on (or at least being jumpstarted by) prolonged suffering of a girl is reminiscent of the Kozue Method. Which I guess gives a bit more relevance to the idea that John Walker, the source of Kiki’s suffering, is something similar to the Nail Peeler and/or the Black Bird Man. We’ll see. (Additional note: The fact that the interaction of a drive for love and a drive for violence, and especially mistaking one for the other, has been already investigated in the anime, makes me lean even more toward this theory--the Black Bird Men were born from hatred and anger as results of love. ...Cue episode 10 with Narihisago murdering not-quite-yet-killers to protect Kiki/his family and then John Walker appearing in his well.)

--   completely incidentally, Kozue’s new surname at the end of Disco was Inoue, literally meaning “over / on top of the well”, and Kikyou’s (the alter’s) name can be read as “Kiki”. (Also completely incidentally, we learn about the new surname right after Disco observes that random frog, so you can imagine my face when I was skimming through and suddenly saw the katakana for kaeru, lol.)

(-- speaking of Disco, it still fucks me up that Mitamura would fit the naming convention, since not only is his last name a sake brand from Fukui, but even his great detective persona can be seen as named after a dish containing alcohol (Runbaba = a rum baba). ...I’ll file this one under “fanfiction ideas for later”.)

-- there’s this one theory that was obviously disproven, but I still love the wordplay so much: “Momoki’s” well has a Kiki well in it. The first kanji of Momoki’s name means ”a hundred” and the “ki” can mean a “tree”. The name Kiki also has a “tree” in it. Cue Wakashika explaining Chesterton’s trick of hiding the tree in a forest. (It was a leaf in the actual quote but shhh)

-- do you know how long it took me to realize that the # in #BRAKE BROKEN is probably supposed to resemble the kanji for “well” (井)? too long. ARGH

-- this one has been talked about ever since the first episodes, but Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore (haven’t read that one) has Johnnie Walker as an antagonist, and knowing Maijo’s love for Murakami, the reference is intentional. People pointed out that episode 9 and 10′s arc of choosing between the real world and the fake one reminded them of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (...also haven’t read that one. I need to brush up on my bizarre Japanese novels). While this emotional arc is a call back to Tsukumojuku (it even spans episodes NINE and TEN, come on), Tsukumojuku itself was heavily referencing Hard-Boiled Wonderland and even name-dropped it once or twice. There’s an entire critical piece in Faust vol. 3 that compares the two books extensively.

-- since Tsukumojuku and Disco both had that “24 elders” symbolism, I’m going hmmm over Shirakoma Nishio’s first name being written 二四男, the kanji meaning “two”, ”four” and ”men”. (Doubt it will mean anything, but again, neat fanfic fodder.)

--  Maijo had a short story called 夜中に井戸がやってくる。in Faust vol. 4, and from what I’ve heard it’s about a female ghost emerging from a family’s well at night. I haven’t read it, so it’s possible I’m missing some references?

-- why is that one episode called Fallen. why does it not have -ed at the end like everything else. what is the meaning of this

-- [JDC spoilers, seriously] Narihisago’s ability to talk people into suicide seems to be lifted wholesale from Dokuson’s personal ability, and Anaido reminds me of Pyramid Mizuno, who also pretended to be hilariously inept at detective work while actually being the smartest one around. Hondomachi talking about feeling that intense hatred for serial killers reminded me of Nemu's similar hatred, which the narration brings up so often in the books I feel like it’s foreshadowing for... something very not good. Not sure if any of this is intentional.

[dmyear3]

Obituary

This performance is the second in a series, both extending my project beyond inanimate pieces and into the live and theatrical – forming a cyclic narrative of life and death in interaction between my body and art objects. My first performance was of myself being “born” from a hollow sculpture resembling a human or animal carcass and performing improvised and very physical actions with a set of clay “bones”, my body a writhing and automatic medium between bodily states of birth and remains. For the next performance I wanted to retain the hugely important aspects of physicality and ritual, but in a very different form that is more pared-down and action-based (while still implying essentially the same narrative). The first element I decided on was the costume. I wanted to wear something that would act as a blank canvas which would physically record the event as gestural paint strokes, while also transforming my appearance in the performance. This resulted in making a very rough kimono-like garment with long drapery on the sleeves that would both obscure the form of my body and provide a lot of surface area to easily paint onto. I sketched out a few different versions of what the purpose would actually entail – originally it was to appear quite sacrificial and religious, with the painted garment crucified and suspended above the space. This version would have been performed in from of the stained-glass windows of the life drawing room where I performed, to provide a church-like setting. These connotations would align my interest in rebirth with biblical imagery such as the Second Coming of Christ, bringing the act of ritual into the classical European rather than the eastern references that have continuously popped up in regards to my work. It was only after already having a rough plan set out that I decided to store the paint inside of clay sculptures. I sculpted these pieces to resemble the ambiguous remains of body parts, as amorphous organic forms resembling bones and organs and flesh. The lack of colour and earthy material suggests age, withering and mummification. I filled them with a red-brown liquid (heavily watered-down acrylic paint) – the specific colour and density was partially inspired by a news story from earlier this year, about a sarcophagus that had been dug up and was discovered to be filled with a similar red-brown “water” – which was in fact ancient human remains decomposed to the point of liquidation. This reference to ancient remains, both in the appearance of the sculptures and the liquid they contained, ended up being a more important focal point of this piece to me rather than any religious connotation. I instead began to see the performance as a mournful act of transferring ancient bodies between forms of decay and new life – the body being a liquid that I attempt to reincarnate in the birth of new forms and continue the natural cycle of generational reiteration. An aspect of memory comes into play here, as I grasp at the remains and transcribe their very material onto myself. This led to me titling the work Obituary. I ended up drawing indistinct human figures onto the surfaces of my garment, and in the performance I attempted to fill in their forms with the colours of the clay and the paint – the sort of “essence” of the body being literally transferred from vessel to vessel. It was only when I began to set up in the space that I decided to use the entire room rather than the area around the window, and to place the sculpture from my last performance in the centre of the room. This work was intended to act as a kind of contextual icon that referred back to the idea of a cycle: a bleached and withered mother figure giving birth to a pile of dusty bones as a depiction of simultaneous death and birthing. I decided to not practice any part of this performance. I didn’t know if the paint would try too soon, how visible the marks would be on my garment, how much of the sculptures would be left intact, how long it would take, whether the audience would be implicated or not, or how I would myself be acting in the moment. I wanted every aspect to be automatic and unpredictable, knowing how it would begin but now how it would end. This to me added a further sense of desperation and an organically raw physicality. 

Certain things that I hadn’t considered came about during the performance. Firstly the paint leaked from small cracks in the porous unfired clay, leaving puddles on the canvases beneath the pieces. This liquid also soaked into both the clay and the garment much more than I thought it would, meaning it didn’t go as far or lend itself to big gestural mark-making. The wet, slippery clay however was really great to work with in my hands and was able to itself be painted onto the fabric. My audience fully entered my performance space and wandered about it at their own paces as I continued my actions, either following me or looking closer at the other objects. I hadn’t really considered how immersive this piece had the potential to be, so this was very interesting to me. It was brought up that within a typical gallery space the audience would probably stay back, but that this immersive-ness added another layer to the work. As this was a group tutorial there was a lot of talking about the work, and everyone agreed that the performance would have more impact in silence, with the only sounds being those made by my actions. Sound is definitely an important consideration to me so I agree with this, and would have had the group speak after the performance was complete if I had much more time. It was also interesting listening to the group slowly understand the workings of the performance as they took the time to notice and contrast certain aspects: the clay pieces being like artefacts, the liquid coming from the inside, the linework on my garment being figures and these figures being deliberately filled in. I could sense a feeling of slight mystery in the way they observed my actions as the performance began to unfold. A narrative was definitely picked up on, and the sculpture in the centre of the space helped expand this contextually. The sculpture was read as something I was actually performing to, either as some kind of sacrificial offering or as a prior iteration of my “character” – a kind of previous life or ancestor. The latter reading was fascinating to me, and it felt like a huge success in breaking ground between my intentions and the viewer’s understanding of my work. In terms of this character, I was seen as not being at all myself but filling a theatrical role – this was aided by my complete silence and masked appearance, recalling old East Asian and European theatre traditions. It was suggested that I extend this idea further by fully obscuring my face with no sign of my real identity. I was considered sad or solemn as I carried out the performance, and my other body language was noticed too – a violence in the destruction of the clay, but a deliberate delicacy in the soft touches and caresses of my hands around the broken pieces. The emotional resonance embodied in my physicality itself was another success of this presentation (Anqi actually came up to me after the presentation and told me she nearly cried as she watched me break apart the clay – this has stuck with me). While still appearing ritualistic and having a sense of ancient history and tradition, the impression seemed to be that I wasn’t referencing any one culture. Instead the aesthetic and motifs were read as quite pancultural – but with a mix of influences including the kimono silhouette of the garment an element of European figurative art. The pieces left over from this performance are now works in themselves: the painted garment, a pile of small pieces of clay partially stained red and now resembling rubble, and the canvases beneath the full sculptures that now carry the traces from leaked paint and the destruction of the objects – clay and fine dust adhered to the fabric by dry paint as an organic memory of the event. I’m planning on suspending all of the fabric works (garment and canvases) as an installation work, with the clay pieces either as a pile beneath or sorted through and displayed individually like museum relics. The performance now is only the origin of another branch of my project, one chapter in the cyclic narrative which leads to another expansion, just as a performance and other works prior led to Obituary as one of multiple paths. The remains become the work and the body changes vessel once again. When performing again, I definitely need to consider further the implications of performing live. This includes planning how to document my work and what kind of context it needs to be performed in. I was meant to take my shoes off before getting into costume but I forgot, and by the time I was “in character” it was too late and so they became read as intentional and affected a small amount of discussion regarding ancient vs contemporary – small details like this need to be ironed out if I want my work to be as successful as possible. Working intuitively and unrehearsed however felt very organic to me and I would like to totally exaggerate this method somehow, potentially with more possibilities for automatic interaction between myself and objects/environment and fewer pre-planned prompts. The location itself could also change the reading of the work completely – it was brought up that this performance would seem almost frightening if seen outside of an art school/gallery context, and that quality of unexpectedness or more intense reaction from the viewer is very appealing to me. I also need to think about duration, as when I finished this presentation I hadn’t reached any sort of conclusion or climax. I like the idea of performing continuously as people come and go, especially in an immersive environment. My concepts and references seem to be getting through extremely well to the viewer, so now I need to focus on experimenting with presentation and impact within the live performance space.

[rockandrollportlandor]

HADRIAN KINDT - Snooze Bananamousse

Fire Nuns are one of the greatest rock bands in Portland, and my appreciation of them only seems to grow with time. They mix a whole survey of rock history into their sound--the paisley-printed art-psych of the 60’s, the ham-fisted glam theatrics of the early 70’s, the elastic crudity of late 70’s punk, the tautness and punch of 80’s post-punk, and the revisionism of the bands of the 90’s and 00’s who reconstituted all those older sounds collage-style through the ironic lens of a giddily culture-free age. To watch and hear them play is like seeing time defying its own gravity--the early Kinks are influenced by the not-yet-existent Stooges, Syd Barrett never left Pink Floyd, Sparks are properly credited as the inventors of new wave, Roxy Music is muscular enough that the Sex Pistols’ love of them actually makes sense. Lead singer and rhythm guitarist Hadrian Kindt is the brains of the operation. As far as I know, he pretty much writes all the songs and does all the communicating for the band. One always wonders, when such a creatively determining frontman goes solo, what exactly is going to be different, and the first thing a Fire Nuns fan will notice about Kindt’s EP Snooze Bananamousse is that it’s a lot wackier than Fire Nuns, and it heavily features keyboards/synths, which don’t really play into the live Fire Nuns act. Kindt’s most inventive Fire Nuns songs slap the listener silly with sharp turns and melodic gymnastics, and, liberated from the confines of a standard two-guitars-bass-and-drums format, he pushes that tendency to the limit. It’s fun and crazy in a way which few local bands go for, but which I would only expect from Hadrian Kindt. Honestly, when I referenced Sparks in the paragraph above, it felt like a stretch, but after listening to this EP it would almost shock me if Kindt had never heard of them. At any rate, he covers a lot of the same ground, displaying the vital links between prog, glam and new wave, but with a harder, less baroque, more butch edge echoing his band’s more straightforward garage-punk punch. The tension between Kindt’s psychedelic excesses and his commitment to wam-bam-thank-you-ma’am rawk give this music may be the source of the delirious yet clear-headed energy. This is a quarantine dream of a pre-Covid party in the music scene, a sweaty, chaotic basement vibrating its concrete that opens into an endless warehouse psych festival, a crowd in shadows lit by shifting colors, as you wander, maybe just looking for the bathroom or the door outside to smoke, ecstatically fucked up on drugs that don’t actually exist, saying hi to people you’ve never met, running into people who don’t actually live in town or maybe are dead, all of them wearing absurd costumes with sequins and feathers, bell bottoms, animal masks and platform shoes, all of them speaking some impossible language that you somehow also know how to speak but still can’t understand. And then you wake up and it’s still 2020, but you’re pretty sure you had a better time--or was it a worse time?--in that dream than you ever had at an actual show. Really these songs are each an EP unto themselves, densely and carefully textured, festooned with ear candy, wandering (if not rampaging) through themselves in a manner more befitting circus music than your standard rock show. The lyrics are all over the place--I have no clue what he’s talking about but I also have no clue what I’m hearing so that’s perfect. Kindt plays everything and does all the vocals, demonstrating his formidable skill as an arranger and instrumentalist. He plays drums like a drummer, bass like a bassist, etc. etc. Overall, it’s a trip worth taking, and I’d very much like to see him put together a band to play this stuff live.

[samplesize9]

Old Kanye

In the beginning of 2000 Kanye created a sound that would shape the landscape of Hip-Hop. His work with Jay-Z started with the song “This Can’t Be Life” on Jay-Z’s ‘The Dynasty: Roc La Familia’. Kanye then worked on Jay-Z’s ‘The Blueprint’ shortly after in 2001. His use of soulful samples in his early work created the “blueprint” for how Kanye created music. He relied heavily on samples and eventually created new techniques in sampling that would then push the genre to the next level. Kanye began to treat samples, voices and loops in a way you would use an instrument. he simply saw them all as sounds that would then be built up, in some cases, somewhat like an orchestra. 

This ability to use samples at such a high level was showcased in 2007 on the release of the highly anticipated album ’Graduation.’ Kanye was pulling influence from multiple different genres and created timeless classic. This album was also the first album where Kanye put the work of contemporary artists on the spotlight with his album cover artwork. Takashi Murakami beautifully illustrated a now iconic Ye Bear flying through the sky. This was paired with an animated music video for the intro song ‘Good Morning’ where the Ye Bear was seen struggling to get to his college graduation on time. It was safe to say Kanye had made it, graduated as a Hip-Hop Artist and his next challenge was to continue his multi-discipline creativity in footwear. 

I say all this to show that Kanye entered the footwear industry with the same mindset. Don’t get it twisted, Kanye has always had a high level understanding of the sneaker culture. There is a long history of Kanye in Jordan’s over the year, in part to the fact that he was from Chicago.  He even goes as far to say he was the reason Jordans are till relevant today. 

“People hadn’t felt that feeling since the Jordans. And by the way. the Jordan’s are only popular at this point because of two people: me and Don C.”

He had his first taste in the footwear game while working with Bape on his highly coveted Bapesta Dropout Bear. This is probably to his influence at the time coming out of Japan. He then followed this up with his collection with LV. Where you can clearly see this Japanese influence as he referenced the shoe from Ato Matsumoto. He was designing footwear the way he would sample music. It was so interesting. 

However, Kanye’s footwear design vision wasn’t solidified until the Air Yeezy 1 dropped. This shoe took influences from so many different parts of the industry. Kanye wanted to use the Tooling (Bottom Half of a shoe) from the Jordan 3. The elephant print was then replaced with his “Y” print that covered panels on the shoe. He also was pulling from his LV collection with this big straps. He then made the outsole glow in the dark to commemorate his “Glow-in-the-dark Tour”. It was as if Kanye was using Nike DNA and mixed it with his own. 

No disrespect to the full range of footwear work he has produced since, but i feel the Air Yeezy 1 was a perfect example of how Kanye’s mind worked at that point in time. To me, this shoe is the “Graduation” of his work. It  would probably be fun to pair his models to his albums and find similarities. 

This goes to show that there is no structured way of finding influence when designing footwear. Follow your gut, its your greatest tool as a designer.

[portraitofadumbassonfire]

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Longest Tag: 138 characters

#it's actually impossible to find a christian that doesn't respond to you telling them you're not religious by still trying to convince you

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOOOOOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOOOOOUL I'M TELLING EVERY BODY EVERYBODYYYYY EVERYBODY EVERYBODYYYYY I'M TAKING MY NEWWWW SALVATION BUILDING MY OWWWWN FOUNDATIOOON

See the full post

988 notes - Posted June 21, 2022

#4

Antoinette outside hearing Louis & Lestat fucking:

994 notes - Posted October 30, 2022

#3

See the full post

1,237 notes - Posted January 3, 2022

#2

Thots On NOPE (SPOILERS)

I get why this is divisive, but, Jordan Peele has constantly described the themes of the film as dealing with Spectacle. He is 1000% right, but I personally think that the themes have even moreso to do with exploitation.

When it comes to Ricky or "Jupe" I've seen so many reviewers saying that subplot had nothing to do with the film as whole, but it did in a VERY haunting way.

When Ricky is talking about the SNL skit that parodied a traumatic time in his life, he recalls it like a well executed comedy sketch. Then it cuts back to him hiding under the table.

I've seen so many videos online that have some sort of attention-grabbing title, regardless if it's accurate to what you will actually see, but the OP is aware of what makes people click on what's to be supposedly promised in the title or the thumbnail. They know what will attract a crowd. Not to be too graphic, but even porn videos will do the same thing, anything to get clicks & clout.

When Ricky starts the show promising a spectacle, he's used to the reaction he gets, hence why he always does the show showing off the "aliens" at 8:00 PM. Or at least practices the show at night, but the reason he does probably has to do with the "aliens" showing up at that specific time, hence why it's the first time we see activity from the supposed "aliens". (When we see the lights from the show when the sun is down in the first few scenes of the film. We don't know if it's rehearsal or just another show of his.)

He's willing to risk the possibility of an attack from a wild animal like the supposed UFO because he dealt with the attack from Gordy. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. (like the shoe standing upright, which could be the "bad miracle" OJ refers to) He truly thought he could handle the intensity of the "alien ship" since he survived the attack and lived to tell the tale. He developed some kind of God complex that he could work around the danger of a "trained animal". His wife even said "Even trained animals can be unpredictable."

The people on set with Lucky are a great example. Who the hell stands behind a horse as an adult? Who's the genius who had different chimpanzees for a T.V. show with 0 wranglers? There are still people whom are dumb enough to go to the zoo and go over safety barriers, taunt the animals, or even hold their children close from any danger.

It's ironic how people are very obsessed with the concept of aliens, but if too many people can't handle creatures from earth, what makes us think we can handle the ones not from here?

The stars of the SNL skit straight up mocked a heavily disturbing moment in his childhood, yet he's still profiting off of the moment where this kids dress up as aliens to scare his neighbors as a joke and an intimidation tactic. (notice how their alien costumes look also like ape costumes)

Plus he said he was getting paid by people to sleep in a memorabilia room referencing multiple violent deaths on a TV set. Even with Oprah herself, when she interviewed the woman who was attacked by a chimpanzee and got her face ripped off, people in the comments criticize her for exploiting the woman instead of talking about how she moved on from the spectacle of a tragedy.

For the Haywoods, they're trying to uphold a legacy, they're the only black-owned horse trainers and their great great great-grandfather is someone whom had not been credited for their work as the first motion picture captured. For Emerald to be the one who captured a picture of alien proof as the descendant is SOOOO symbolic.

The cinematographer, Antlers, a white man played perfectly by Michael Wincott, didn't like the lighting in the shot he took so he took the risk to get a perfect shot. The TMZ biker had a whole helmet that reflected everything around him because who else would be obsessed with getting all of the chaos around them than TMZ? (The same publication that somehow managed to know that Beyoncé was filming the music video for "XO" & announces celebrity deaths before the family even gets a chance to.)

I've seen videos of so many disturbing events before, during, or after the fact that I can see what Mr. Peele was going for in commentating on. There's an infamous tiktok showcasing someone in the middle of a near plane crash I've seen reposted on Twitter, there's footage of a bear and a cougar in a circus attacking their supposed "trainers", talk show footage of a lion going after a toddler & almost biting the poor child it was sitting next to, the frozen and preserved bodies of those who've tried do climb Mt. Everest, and I've even seen a man who documented himself after getting graphically attacked by two grizzly bears. Yet the views on those videos reach the millions.

There's so many times a fucked up or upsetting moment in time has been exploitated to the point where it can be made a joke, a traumatic scene, or a topic of discussion, and that for me is what NOPE was commentating on. Some will not catch on with one viewing, but I recommend a second, or even third watch to fully get what's being told.

Films like that, that have a longer shelf life are what inspire me. It's a rarity that a filmmaker chooses to give their audience a challenge.

1,705 notes - Posted July 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Lexi: *unsubtly mocks Nate's internalized homophobia in a play acted out to the entire public*

Maddy, Rue, Kat, and Jules in the audience:

6,395 notes - Posted February 20, 2022

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