Half-Sketch Sunday
So! I missed a few Sketch Sundays in the chaos that happened. I wanted to make these up, but doing a few rapid-fire drawings didn't seem good enough and doing a multitude of Sketch Sundays in one week didn't seem feasible.
So I thought it'd be fun to do something like a comic, but as I started experimenting with ideas I ended up with something that was a combination comic and dialogue-based story.
It contains some heavy spoilers for the plot of Model Citizens, which is why it's under the read-more, but I think it's a kind of fun and funky mix of visual and verbal storytelling.
I hope you all enjoy!!
(For clarity, I'm leaving one character's dialogue in bold, and the others unbolded)
"Do you remember when you first became a hero?"
"That's nice, but not what I meant."
She turns, and looks at me. Her eyes are dark but they catch on the lamplight that illuminates the stone walkways weaving through the city park like veins. A steady stream of people, the greenery's bloodcells, normally flows through here. But so late at night? The park is quiet. The bench we sit on is quiet.
"What do you mean, then?"
She's never been good with words. Actions, yes. Her actions always make it clear what she thinks and wants. That's part of why I've always enjoyed her company. I don't need words to know what she feels, and she doesn't require me to speak to say what I need. Which is a relief, really. I don't... like talking. Not because I'm not good with words in her way, the blunt way, the way that doesn't stick around long enough to see how deep the lashes her whiplike tongue has left. I've just never... liked talking. I get anxious. I worry my words aren't the right ones.
"I feel like I never hear you talk about your life before-- what made you want to become a hero anyway?"
"I... like helping people?"
"Yeah, ok, but there are ways to do that that don't involve life or death scenarios. You could've been a social worker, a therapist, a surgeon--"
"Surgeons can still deal with life or death scenarios"
"You know what I mean."
I crack a smile, and lean forward on my knees with my hands locked between my legs. The night air is cold. It isn't winter-cold yet, so I can't see my breath puff out from my lips and there's no icy tingle at my exposed fingertips. The cold is still gentle enough that it doesn't break through the cotton on my arms. It just presses against me, like a hug.
"... it depends on the type of surgeon, anyway."
Where I lean forward she leans back, receding against the bench. Her leather jacket bunches where her elbows cross. Neither of us are good with words, so sitting and talking like this, even if we know each other so well, is still a little awkward. You'd think after so many years we'd learn how to speak to one another. You'd think I would know what my best friend is asking me. I feel like I should, too... and yet.
"What do you mean, then? Before I became a hero?"
"Are you serious?"
"What?"
"I mean before you became a hero! I really don't know how to be clearer than that."
"Okay-- okay! I'm sorry... but, like, what about before?"
"I dunno! God, do I have to spell it out for you? What was your life like? What pushed you to start? What made you come here?"
When we first met I would wince at the harshness of her tone. Now I just laugh in the face of her irritation. Which, granted, doesn't help her look any less irritated.
"Okay, okay. Nosy... Well, as for what 'pushed me to start'..."
...
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"You ok?"
"Huh?"
"You went silent."
"Oh, did I? I didn't notice."
"... okay. You sure you're okay?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. Why?"
"I dunno. Your face just went, like, blank?"
"Well, geez, thanks. I was thinking."
"Yeah, uh, for a concerning amount of time."
"Oh... was I quiet for that long?"
"A bit."
"Oh."
"You're saying that a lot."
"Oh-- uh-- wait."
"Hey. You're not feeling bad, are you? You looked like you were about to collapse for a moment there."
"No, no, I'm fine. Just... blanked for a second. Got hard to think. What was your question?"
"I asked what made you become a hero."
It's like shaking an old television until the static stops. I don't even notice when I start thinking again-- don't notice when I stopped. The only thing I can compare it to is falling asleep, how you don't know you're asleep until you wake up again. Here I am, waking up again in the dead of night. Thinking again. I don't know how to describe it. I'm not good with words.
What made me become a hero?
"Woah!"
"Hey, you ok? You almost fell off the bench there."
"... Erin? Hey, Erin. Look at me."
"Look alive, buddy-- come on,"
"Hey, there you are. You ok?"
"Can you speak? Did you have a fucking-- did you have a stroke or something?"
"Ugh, no, I didn't--"
"There she is. You ok? What the hell happened?"
"Sorry..."
"You're... not looking so good. Come on, I think we need to get you back. Here, just... lean on me, okay? Let's get you back home."
I'm not sure what to say. I'm not even really sure what happened. My mind is fuzzy and dulled, like I drank too much-- but I haven't drunk anything. Her hand is solid against the base of my spine, and steadies me as I stand. The more I walk, the more awake I feel, the more it all just fades behind me. Left on the park bench.
We follow the vein out onto the city streets. We leave the park empty, bled dry of its people. Quiet.
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I low-key love the fact that sci-fi has so conditioned us to expect to be hanging out with a bunch of cool space aliens, that legitimate, actual scientists keep proposing the most bizarre, three-blunts-into-the-rotation "theories" to explain the fact we're not.
Some of my favourites include:
Zoo Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they're not talking to us because of the Prime Directive from Star Trek? (Or because they're doing experiments on us???)
Dark Forest Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they all hate us and each other so they're all just waiting with a shotgun pointed at the door, ready to open fire on anything that moves?
Planetarium Theory: What if there's at least one alien with mastery over light and matter that's just making it seem to us that the universe is empty to us as, like, a joke?
Berserker Theory: What if there were loads of aliens, but one of them made infinite killer robots that murdered everyone and are coming for us next?!!
Like, the universe is at least 13,700,000,000 years old and 46,000,000,000 light years big. We have had the ability to transmit and receive signals for, what, 100 years, and our signals have so far travelled 200 light years?
The fact is biological life almost certainly has, does, or will develop elsewhere in the universe, and it's not impossible that a tiny amount of it has, does, or will develop in a way that we would understand as "intelligent". But, like, we're realistically never going to know because of the scale of the things involved.
So I'm proposing my own hypothesis. I call it the "Fool in a Field" hypothesis. It goes like this:
Humanity is a guy standing in the middle of a field at midnight. It's pitch black, he can't move, and he's been standing there for ages. He's just had the thought to swing his arms. He swings one of his arms, once, and does not hit another person. "Oh no!" He says. "Robots have killed them all!"
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One of the most memorable interactions was Saturday. Into our booth strolls a small family, tempted by free samples of freshly brewed tea. We chatter and give them the spiel, that the tea is character merch and we’re a cozy health-based app called Forage Friends.
The young girl zeroes in on our pride pins.
“They have my pin!” She says excitedly. “They have my flag!”
The dad blinks. He is surprised, but also calm and positive when he sees it’s the lesbian flag. “Oh. That’s… different from what you told me.”
“That was months ago, dad.” And she rolls her eyes. Definitely a teenager.
I turn to him and say, “Yeah, dad.” And we share a little laugh about it.
He says, “No, it’s great. That’s amazing, honey. It was just news to me.”
“Well, I guess I just decided to stop lying to myself. About liking guys. Like right now.”
A little lesbian just came out to her dad and he was super cool about it.
I’m standing there in my tie-dye mask and my cheery blue apron pouring tea and making small talk and I’m trying really hard not to cry or compare it to my experience, the fire & brimstone, the disgust, the conditional acceptance as long as I never bring it up.
So as this beautiful bonding is going on, the girl’s even younger brother turns his gaze around. He’s in a snorlax hoodie and bored and wants to go look at the swords across the hall. But on the other side of our booth….
“WHY DO PEOPLE DRAW THAT?” He asks loudly, and we all turn to our neighboring booth.
Our neighbors were extremely lovely people. Every time we had a break we would talk, and we became good friends over the weekend. They kept apologizing that their booth was next to ours and we kept repeating that it was totally fine. Their booth was great. I even bought their merchandise.
The thing that was so contentious, that they felt the need to apologize for, was that they were selling explicit titty hentai stickers of popular characters. They were censored with little yellow R18 labels but the content was very clear.
So back to the family: I freeze and immediately go somewhere else to let dad handle this question. With adult customers I’ve been loud and positive about our neighbors. (“Man, how has it been boothing next to them?” It’s been great! They bring a lot of foot traffic and they’re kind and wonderful professional neighbors. If anything it’s a fun juxtaposition. We believe in artistic freedom. I bought a sticker too!)
But this is a kid, it’s not my place to explain anything…. But I was extremely curious about what this chill dad would say.
“Well,” dad says with a long measured silence between each word. “Sometimes people are horny.”
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