#i wish i could be 1965 again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hooked-on-elvis · 4 months

Text

What is your favorite part of the '68 Special?

Pictures: Singer Presents ... Elvis, commonly referred to as the '68 Comeback Special. 1968.

For me, undoubtedly I say my favorite part of the '68 Special is the sit-down concerts, specially the reunion between Elvis and the remaining members of Elvis' former band, the Blue Moon Boys, Scotty Moore and DJ Fontana.

I wonder if the fans, not the specialized critic such as musicians and general people in the business but specially the fans, back then, while watching this TV special for the first time, understood or merely felt the significance of this moment. I wonder if they were surprised in seeing Elvis not only back onstage after a while but back onstage with Scotty and DJ Fontana by his side. Man, that was special! To me, the most special portion of the '68 Comeback. ♥

Bill Black, bassist, unfortunately passed away in 1965, while Elvis was still full time engaged with his Hollywood career. Fans only wish Bill could have been there with Scotty and DJ. He had that irreverent performance that fascinates me, surely he would've been a great asset to the show. I only feel sorry Elvis, neither Scotty or DJ, ever mentioned Bill on the '68 Special, but its understandable the reason why. It wasn't about the Blue Moon Boys more than it was about Elvis returning to the stage. Even so, had Bill made it to this moment, man! That would've been something else. Even more meaningful than it already was.

Scotty Moore: His memories on the '68 Comeback Special and 'behind the scenes': Elvis and The Blue Moon Boys performing in Europe?

Source: Excerpt of the documentary "Elvis: The Birth of Rock n' Roll" (2004)

Scotty reveals Elvis asked him and DJ Fontana if they would agree to go on the road with him again, this time performing overseas, in Europe. Curious enough, to that question, Scotty says Elvis called him and DJ Fontana to another room in his home, so they could talk in private - which was something unusual for him because "usually anything he had to say, he'd say no matter who was around".

For the longest time, performing around the world was something Presley aimed. Ever since he had been stationed in Germany with the US Army during his service time, a period he did paused his career therefore he didn't perform while in Europe between 1958 to 1960, reporters asked him if and when that moment would come when Elvis would go back to Europe but this time for live concerts, to the thrill of his passionate fans overseas who followed him career from afar, many since the 50s. Unfortunately touring outside US (other than few performances in Canada in 1957) never seemed the get the right time.

Once Elvis begin performing live again in 1969, after he was out of the movie contracts, Elvis' manager, Colonel Tom Parker, would always have excuses on the tip of his tongue for why an European tour, or world tour for that matter, would not be a such good idea. When Elvis received some death threats coming his way through letters sent to his crew occasionally, starting from 1969 on, those incident perfectly fit to Colonel Parker's intentions for his gold boy. Parker would use the incidents to manipulate Elvis to believe they couldn't do his security properly out of the US. Colonel would tell Presley how it would be too dangerous for him, besides they could make just as much money performing home as they have been doing so far.

Elvis never had this one dream of performing overseas coming true in his life, as much as another reunion between him and the Blue Moon Boys never came to be after the '68 Comeback Special. Scotty says that private conversation in Elvis' home (in 1968) was the last time he was together with Elvis like that, which makes this moment in history one of a kind.

youtube

During the '68 Special (sit-down concert), Scotty submits a special request to Elvis for them to play "Lawdy Miss Clawdy" together.

The song was recorded by them on February 3, 1956, at RCA studios in New York. It was released as B-side to the EP "Elvis Presley", out in September 1956. The cover shows Elvis, Scotty Moore and Bill Black performing together.

Later, the song would be featured on the LP "For Elvis Fans Only" released in 1959. Elvis would frequently include "Lawdy Miss Clawdy" to his main setlists from 1970 to 1975, occasionally performing it in 1976 and 1977.

No wonder Scotty picked this song. Maybe a subtle way of honoring late Bill Black. ♥

About their performance of this tune during the '68 Comeback Special:

As they jam together, Scotty gives a cue and Elvis tears into “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” with a raw assault of mixed emotion. His performance is so intense that it almost—in the best way—scratches the ears. Vocal cords that, so far, have proved their owner’s mastery with smooth singing are pushed to the point of fraying at the edges. As Greil Marcus noticed, when Elvis lurches into the number, what he experiences is a feeling that is both joshing and liberated. At one point, as the musicians jam together, it’s possible to hear Charlie Hodge getting carried away with laughter, as if bobbing in the fray of a heady, almost oceanic moment. In his underrated 2004 pocket volume The Rough Guide to Elvis, Paul Simpson describes “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” as “Elvis’s answer to Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.” Taking on this old staple in the Comeback, what the singer delivers is lusty, passionate, and commanding, yet also desperate, angry, and sad. He conjures with immense powers. — Mark Duffett (Counting Down Elvis - His 100 Finest Songs, 2018)

youtube

Again, what is your favorite part of the '68 Special?

#68 comeback special #elvis presley #elvis #elvis the king #elvis fans #elvis music #elvis fandom #elvis history #60s elvis #NBC #60s tv shows #60s tv #scotty moore #the blue moon boys #DJ fontana #Bill Black #rock and roll history #Youtube

95 notes · View notes

dukeofriven · 7 months

Text

To Ravel-Out The Weaved-Up Follies: The Decline and Fall of Homestuck^2

[I first started this essay a few months ago during a strange, brief resurgence of Homestuck^2 discussion that vanished almost as quickly as it began. Because my brain is A Wretchedly Uncooperative Thing this essay has stayed in draft form, being picked at, until—naturally—Homestuck^2 surprised us all by relaunching with a completely new team at its head. I’ve decided to push myself to publish this anyway, because I still think the core of my thesis is correct. So, keeping in mind that this leaves the starting gate slightly later than I would have wished (not knowing I was in a race), let us commence.]

___________________________________________________

“A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. -Frank Herbert, Dune, 1965 “Once upon a time there was a Boojum——" the Professor began, but stopped suddenly. "I forget the rest of the Fable," he said. "And there was a lesson to be learned from it. I'm afraid I forget that, too." -Lewis Carroll, Sylvie and Bruno Concluded, 1893

Several posts about Homestuck^2 have started to crop-up… adjacent to my dash. I'm not attaching myself to those posts because it seems rude, but their points are largely an attempt at revisionism of the fate of Homestuck^2. Understand I'm not using the term ‘revisionist’ pejoratively: it is common, even sensible for artists to look back at failed projects and try to pick up the pieces and derive some value from them. I’ve done it myself, many times. Nobody likes to say "I entirely wasted my time, my passion, and my creative energy for [X] days, months, years.” It is important to look at a failure and see what you did right, treasure the parts that were worth treasuring.

But equally I don't want to go too far in rehabilitating what was, undeniably, a failure. There's a lot of critical theory being brought-up, a lot of talk of Homestuck^2 from a standpoint of post-modernism, or post-post-modernism, trying to engage with what Homestuck^2 was as a platform for ideas. A habitus, if you’ll forgive the jargon, what Bourdieu famously called (in a Hussie-like masterwork of language) “the structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures.”

I get it. I get what the Homestuck^2 team was trying to do intellectually: where their minds were at, the hostility they faced, the vitriol they were harmed by. I get it.

But that's not why Homestuck^2 failed. Homestuck^2 did not fail because it dreamed too big, or was too intellectual. It did not fail because its themes were not worth exploring, or because its lens was too meta: for most of its original run, after all, Homestuck is nothing but an interrogation of Homestuck. Its brains were not why Homestuck^2 failed. The problem was its execution. The problem was its heart.

There's a lot to be said about not giving fans what they think they want. The internet drowns in coffee shop AUs where everything interesting about a franchise's characters has been vulgarly ripped from the text, leaving a drama-less, tension-less pablum where everything is stagnant and unchanging, everyone gets along, all the romances are cute and smooth, and you can burrow in the comforting ooze of artistic and narrative death. Give fans exactly what they want and frequently nothing creatively meaningful will result. Fandoms famously resisted both The Empire Strikes Back and The Wrath of Khan when they first released because they pushed characters to change, and yet they grew to be beloved as fans realized that what they thought they wanted and what it turned out they could enjoy were not as alike s they assumed. There's nothing wrong with showing fans that there can be more to a story that just doing the same thing over again, retrenching into the pablum wastelands of growth-free comfort fics.

But when asking whether Homestuck^2 did or did not gave fans what they wanted or needed, we must first raise an important establishing question: which fans? That is to say: who was its intended audience? Who was Homestuck^2 written for?

At its peak, Homestuck Classic had millions of readers and a million page-hits a day. There was a whole contingent of fandom who came only for the trolls (in some baffling cases actually skipping the first four acts of the story to jump right to into Act 5). There was another contingent who loved the video game parody, there were Problem Sleuth junkies, and in the early acts there were the suggestion box obsessives: all of these were readers who were fans of parts of the story but largely stopped reading Homestuck as the story got more concerned with the complex nature of stories and narrative itself. Homestuck^2 is clearly not for them—as indeed Homestuck Classic itself had not 'been' for them for much of its run. Homestuck^2 is also not for new readers: if you haven't read the Homestuck Epilogues through at least twice, if you don't remember all its major plot points and the plot points of Homestuck Classic, it makes no attempt to onboard you and is, probably in-arguably, outright impenetrable to those not already in the know. It’s not impossible—there were SBaHJ fans who onboarded with the first context-free SBaHJ and went ‘yeah, I can vibe with this’ and never knew or cared that it was a reference work for something else— but it doesn’t seem likely that many people ‘jumped on’ the Homestuck train with Homestuck^2. I think Homestuck^2’s writers would agree that Homestuck^2 expected you to know the lay of the land. So: nobody new was likely going to read Homestuck^2, and (given its density of Homestuck call-backs) neither was it for more casual Homestuck fans. Homestuck^2 was not even for the truly otiose Andrew Hussie diehards: Hussie was only tangentially involved in the project, they weren't writing it, and there's seemingly no references at all to Barty's Brew-Ha-Ha or Inappropriate Time for Ham, so that's a full seventeen readers it also likely turned off (sorry, comrades. One day…)

So who, then, was Homestuck^2 for? Its intended readers seemed to be those who read the Epilogues and loved them. This is a complicated issue: for those who weren’t there, the Epilogues were… controversial. I defended them at the time: I liked them, even admired them, partially because I believed with the fervor of a zealot that there was still something else to come. I called this final entry ‘Pumpkin.’ Homestuck, a story that always rejected binaries, surely was not meant to conclude with over-the-top Candy and/or grim, dour Meat. I knew in my heart that Pumpkin was coming, where John rejected both of these dark and crazy futures and found a third way in which his friends grew up and matured without losing themselves and their friendship: not a story without conflict, but surely the prime timeline as existed in general fandom imagination could not accept Dirk’s grotesque, manipulative suicide, breastfeeding Gamzee, brutal civil wars, and Dirk and Jane becoming so cruel and hateful. Surely that was set-up to pay-off a better future later: after all, like its author, Homestuck abhorred a binary.

But Pumpkin never came, and now I look at the Epilogues and I find lot in it (for lack of a better term) ‘edge lord showboating.’ It feels like reading 90s comics all over again, including the bits with cannibalism. A lot of bleak and miserable things happen in the narrative, and I find myself asking ‘do they happen because they should, or just because they could?’ (And how many times can one franchise treat Jade Harley like absolutely garbage?)

But if the Epilogues had a true and golden virtue, it was their framing as intrinsically being fan-fiction: Meat or Candy, this was not the 'true' continuation of the franchise (as much as that means anything), this was speculative futures, not much different from Doc Scratch’s story of the Vriska/Noir battle. A one-shot, in other terms, an elseworlds: not a definitive statement about What Homestuck Was From Now On, but an experiment in tone and structure. How far can you push Homestuck before it doesn’t feel like Homestuck any more? (Turns out not nearly as far as you might think.) A lot of people didn’t notice, however, or perhaps simply didn’t care: the Epilogues ripped the Homestuck fandom apart. Homestuck Classic often did things in bad-taste as part of its odd charm: Gamzee’s codpiece, Jack playing dress-up after slaughtering a nice couple on a date, Caliborn’s cartoonish misogyny. Some bits land, some don’t, but for fans—I think for many, if not most—the Epilogues crossed a line that they were not comfortable with.

In some quarters the Epilogues are reviled, and I honestly can not fault people who found them off-putting. They are: intentionally so, provocatively so, and it should be okay for people to be put off by them without insisting that the haters ‘just didn’t get it.’ Often they did: they ‘got it,’ they just didn’t like it. It ‘squiked them out’ as we used to say, and the writers had to have known it would: discomfort is the nature and partial purpose of provocative art.

(Sidebar: Epilogue writers, you wrote a plot-line in which 16-year old Homestuck Act 6 protagonist Jane Crocker grows-up to become a racist dictator who has a cuckolding sexual relationship with Gamzee Makarra that involves kin-play involving public breastfeeding.

Sorry Andres Serranos acolytes, that’s not going to go down super-well with the majority of people, not because they are uptight suburban prudes but because they liked Jane Crocker and felt this outcome was not grounded well in the character they knew: only the obtuse would act shocked and try and argue it was due to a lack of sophistication. You took a gamble, you took a risk, you faced the outcome. You fucked around with ICP Hitler breastfeeding cuckoldry and you found out.)

So: who was Homestuck^2 for? It was for people who had read Homestuck multiple times, had read the Epilogues multiple times, and wanted a sequel that involved those Epilogues.

That is… a small audience. A very small audience. I counted myself among them, but had no illusions that its reach was ever going to be very large. Homestuck^2 was never going to be the Second Coming of Homestuck as a sui generis cultural phenomenon: seemingly by design, it was deliberately written for an insular audience who liked a controversial and difficult interpretation of a famous story and wanted more of that interpretation. So the Homestuck^2 team wrote for them: they came to the table with big dreams and big ideas. They came to the table with lots of critical theory under their belts: they knew their Barthes and Baudrillard, they could reference queer theory and the legacy of post-structuralism, they were the sort of people who knew how to situate Homestuck in post-post-modernism and what that meant for the nature of its exploration of stories.

They had an audience, and they had a plan. They were going to give the fans what they wanted.

So after much hype and fanfare, after interviews and the Tumblr equivalent of a press-junket—which saw the new team saying how excited they were to tackle Homestuck’s legacy, how many great ideas they had, how much having a diverse team was going to see Homestuck ‘done right’—Homestuck^2 first published on the 25th of October, 2019, releasing 32 pages.

We start in the glittering majesty of space. The camera swoops in among the stars, barrelling towards a rushing spacecraft (every frame of Homestuck^2 looks great, the visual arts team's work is its unquestioned highlight). We aim at a viewport in the spacecraft’s hull and slowly the Muti-Narratively-Dimensional Ubervillian Dirk Strider comes into view. Fresh from his triumph in the Epilogues, continuing his wicked schemes, he looks right at the camera, and—speaking directly to the audience—he voices the first line of dialogue in Homestuck^2:

"Surprise, bitch."

…

There is…

…

… there is no coming from back that.

There is no saving it.

It is the 25th of October, 2019, and Homestuck^2 launches with its own death-rattle. It stumbles out of the gate like a beautiful racing pony catching its delicate hoof on the sharp, treacherous edge of an unwieldy analogy and tumbling into the indifferent soil of hard reality, shattering all four legs and immediately marking itself for teary euthanasia at the hand of the devastated young girl with the violet eyes who raised it from a foal and dreamed of making Nationals.

We have established that Homestuck^2’s potential audience was small. The people who were most likely to like it were already an insular, distinctive group who had bought-in to what much or all the Epilogues had to offer. Homestuck^2’s opening-day crowd did not need to be sold on the word of the Lord—they already believe it: they came to see their first glimpse of the promised land.

And in its very first conversation with that audience, in its very first words, Homestuck^2 makes the most spectacular miscalculation of tone since 2013's DmC: Devil May Cry—or for those of us of who remember the 90s: ‘Dirk Strider’s about to make you his bitch.’

There's nothing wrong with starting a story with a villain, there's nothing wrong with a villain being a contemptible heel to its audience, but Homestuck^2 spends its opening 32 entries—which, at over 7600 words are longer than the prologue to the Homestuck Epilogues—jumping between Dirk’s smarmy conversations with fellow characters and a monologue to the audience, pages infused with an arrogance and condescension that is downright enervating. The text is frequently dense, so dense it feels like chewing your way through a plank of wood. It is actively tiring to read: I bailed on my first attempt at reading Homestuck^2 when it originally dropped because I just did not have the energy to squint at my screen and read that much orange-on-off-white text.

It is, to be clear, contemptuous. Dirk did much the same in the Epilogues, but the locus has changed. In the Epilogues Dirk taunts the reader with the changes he is making to the story: he knows they object to his manipulations, and he preens as good villains do. But in Homestuck^2, Dirk speaks not of his changes but of the very existence of Homestuck^2 itself. He treats his audience as inherently hostile to the entire existence of the work they have just shown-up to read (or even support via a Patreon), a hostility that culminates when he ‘opens’ a suggestion box and receives the suggestion ‘Dirk: Stop Making Homestuck,’—which he at-once rejects and goes on to monologue some more.

Dirk is talking to an audience who isn’t there. He is speaking to everyone who didn’t like the Epilogues and objects to Homestuck’s 'sequel' directly following them: but that audience isn’t reading Homestuck^2. They bailed in advance, and any who did try and keep an open mind likely jumped ship the moment the comic started by calling them a bitch and implying they’re idiots. The only people likely to read past the fifth page are those who already bought-in to Homestuck^2’s plan: and they are greeted with some 32 pages and 7600 words of the comic’s villain re-litigating and justifying that plan over and over and over again to people who nominally already agreed with him.

It is draining. It is annoying. It is boring to read.

There’s so much you could critique about Homestuck^2’s choices: from Rose cheating on Kanaya to impregnate Jade to Jane Crocker going full Trump and keeping kids in cages. Equally there’s arguments to be made that Homestuck^2’s very premature cancellation inhibits any ability to judge the story fairly: like any serialized narrative stopped mid-way, we have no way of knowing what narrative payoffs were supposed to be. Decisions that seemed baffling on page 8 might prove brilliant and bold by page 8000. But we never got to page 8000, because Homestuck^2 made one crucial error:

It started by telling its audience they were fools for not being smart enough to appreciate how brilliant Homestuck^2 was going to be, and then spent a majority of some 7600 words repeating itself like the worst self-pitying incel you’ve ever had the misfortune to be trapped with at a party. If only the ungrateful could realize how smart, handsome, and well-educated I—Homestuck^2—am, the love I deserve will come flowing in. I’ll show them all.

Homestuck^2 never recovered from that first, fatal error. The rest of its choices, good and bad, are almost irrelevant in the face of that opening broadside, that hostility, that tedium. Homestuck Classic earned its walls of text and at least knew how to space them: Hometuck^2 took its audience forbearance as a given and opens with a lecture on its principles and quality like an unusually snide abstract on a sociology paper. Homestuck^2 essentially began by telling its audience to leave unless they were willing to give it carte blanche, to roll over for its brilliance from the first, to accept in advance that its intelligence and virtue were first rate. So the audience did leave and it never came back and eventually the whole thing collapsed via artist infighting that was so rancorous and possibly subsumed by NDAs that to this day no one has ever halfway adequately explained what happened at the end.

But that ending was preordained from the beginning, for the balance was hopelessly incorrect.

So to anyone trying to write a revisionist history of Homestuck^2 in which its downfall was the fault of readers who simply didn’t ‘give it a chance,’ who didn’t appreciate its themes, who couldn’t grasp (or didn’t care to grasp) its intellectual bonafides (not to mention its extraordinary self-assurance that it was going to be queer Homestuck ‘done right,’ which is a whole essay about a priori reasoning in and of itself)... in other words, a history in which Homestuck^2' downfall happened because people just didn’t ‘get it,’ I’d like to sum up my counter-argument succinctly:

People didn’t like Homestuck^2 because you wrote it bad.

[Afterwards:

There is something bitingly funny about the ‘return’ of Homestuck^2 with the announcement that, from what I can gather, seemingly every person involved with the original project was fired (or, as they’d probably insist, refused to come back). Dirk’s preening, overwhelming arrogance, that ‘Dirk: Stop Making Homestuck’ prompt, will forever haunt the original team’s unwieldy vision. “I’d bet you just looove for us not to make Homestuck anymore” the team said, with all the confidence of an entrepreneur dismissing safety regulations before climbing into his homemade submarine, and boy were lessons learned. My problem with the return, however, is that I don’t know who genuinely wants to see the story of Homestuck^2 finished: the remaining cadre of die-hard patrons who still have enough goodwill to want the promise of the story’s finale fulfilled is microscopic. I’d argue there’s more people waiting for the conclusion of Wizardy Herbert, and I’m the only person I know who has ever read it. What I mean is: as a choice to revive a struggling franchise it doesn’t make much sense, and further—if it is not clear—I don’t think this is a story worth finishing. What is to be salvaged? Jane-the-Dictator, Rose’s cheating, Obnoxious BabyVriska, Dirk Strider the monster? The problem with Homestuck^2 is that Pesterquest happened, and those who played it went ‘this—this is the kind of story we were hoping for, not your edge lord showboating.’ And we only got one Pesterquest and Homestuck^2 limped on for another year reviled, ignored, and eventually forgotten. When it died, most people didn’t have any idea, because the drama never crossed their screens: nobody was talking about it any more. As my best friend noted, give us more Paradox Space. Give us more stories with joy and some sense of fun, something not written by people who often felt like they had an ‘End of Evangelion’ style hatred of Homestuck, or at the very least took the old joke that Hussie was ‘trolling’ his audience at face value. (Writing a good story with twists, set-backs, and tragic moments is not trolling, it is just writing a good story.) Homestuck^2 never felt like it understood that: it was rude and iconoclastic for no more compelling reason than it thought that was meaningful. But then I think the legacy of Epilogues has been extremely toxic—part of the positivity towards Pesterquest was that it let the Epilogues go, featuring a triumphant moment where YoungDirk confronts his Epilogues self and goes ‘I don’t have to be a huge wanker, actually, I can stay a character people can stand and even love again.’

Do that, new team. Pesterquest is named-dropped on the new site more than once, and my dream is that its cast arrives and overthrows the corrosive toxicity of the Epilogues, banishes it to the far realm of underbaked elsewhere ‘what-ifs’ along with every DC cannibalism story and that time Peter Parker’s radioactive semen gave MJ cancer.

The Epilogues and Homestuck^2 are, at this point, not worth salvaging—but I’d happily see them formally buried.]

#homestuck #Homestuck 2 #Homestuck^2 #homestuck beyond canon #andrew hussie #dirk strider #pesterquest #homestuck team #james roach #jane crocker #rose lalonde #kanaya maryam #homestuck epilogues #Wizardy Herbert #Vriska Serket #Jade Harley #daikatana #john romero

112 notes · View notes

dresden-syndrome · 7 months

Text

8/VII-1965. EESU State Security department.

Today there was unusually cold outside - Radim could tell that by drops of rain banging on every window and the little breezes sending shivers down his skin. He was serving another punishment, sitting on the cold hallway floor, strapped to a pipe by a short chain. To him it was a lighter one, an easy one - Radim was almost thankful to get this instead of anything worse.

Two hours ago Erhardt grabbed his arm too forcefully near the office door, clenching his fingers right on the spot of a really painful bruise. Radim wasn't ready for it - the tugging pain on his wrist along with being pulled around like a rag doll was too much to handle. He twitched his arm, pushed himself to get away, struggled to free himself from the grip, making Erhardt pin him down to the floor with even more force.

It took a few minutes for comrade Gunther to hold Radim down until he stopped fighting. A few minutes of delight to watch his pet squirm under his hands. Angry, rebellious, disobedient, defiant, powerless. Hissing in a futile attempt to turn around, glaring at him from below while Erhardt didn't even make a move.

"I know, kitten. I know you don't like being held like that," - he started in a condescending tone, "Shh, calm down. You know it's all for nothing".

When Radim finally stopped struggling, his owner freed his hands, grabbed him by the collar and dragged across the hall. Then Radim was roughly pushed into the corner, a chain got attached to his collar and locked around the pipe.

"You remember what I've told you about fighting. Now sit there and think about your behavior. We'll have to talk about it once more when I come back."

As Radím sat on the cold dirty floor, hugging his knees to keep himself warm, he wondered, where would he better be? Where did he rather want to be? Shivering from the chill wind reaching the corner, he hugged himself tighter, wishing for a blanket, a cup of tea, a ray of sun for a brief moment of warmth. Dozens of officers have walked through the room, throwing condescending looks on him, "the Comrade Minister's pet" as they said about him, some stopped to stroke his face, touch his old leather collar or just stand there straight, enjoying the sight of a "people's enemy" left to freeze down in the corner. That's what Radím was - a people's enemy, even in the uniform, trained for simple department work. It's the law: once a traitor, forever a traitor. Traitors don't get blankets or hot tea. Nobody's here to risk getting scolded by the boss for messing up his pet's punishment.

The cold was getting worse, the discomfort turned into pain Radím restlessly tried to soothe by moving his aching legs side to side. He couldn't stand up or turn around - the chain attached to his collar was way too short for it. He pushed his neck one time. Another. The chain didn't move. Desperate to move away from the corner, even a bit, Radim leaned to the wall, his hands now reached the collar in an attrmpt to tear it down. No, no way. It hurts. His neck hurts, his hands hurt. The collar is too strong to break. He starts to fight, again. And stops, again. It's all for nothing.

Day 8 of Whumptober

Prompt: "It's all for nothing"

Art taglist: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump

#whumptober2023 #no.8 #it's all for nothing #oc #art #writing #collar #chained #historical whump #military whump #pet whump #whump art #whump community #whumpblr #whump oc #whump ideas #whumpee #captive whumpee #defiant whumpee

52 notes · View notes

omegalomania · 2 years

Text

highlights from the virtual signing joe did back before his book tour, cause i havent seen anyone talk about it yet:

ppl who participated in the signing got to do a sweepstakes for a merch package and when the spokesperson was showing it off joe was like "and it's got a LOCKPICK and a GARROTE and a BALACLAVA so just DO WHATEVER DAMAGE YOU LIKE"

he introduced black flag, his favorite band, to his daughter and she thought it sounded terrible lkdfjldjfkd

when fob went to induct green day at the hall of fame joe mentions smoking weed with joan jett and miley cyrus. icon.

he regrets not having better tools to deal with his anxiety about touring and worrying about how every time he got in the van he'd be leaving home. "...and i wish i had, instead of looking out the back window, looked toward the front of the van and realized i was with four or five of my best friends and that i was in safe company."

re: the rest of the band, "they are like brothers, at the end of the day. it's a brotherly relationship."

his 8 year old begs him to watch horror movies and r-rated movies with him and he tells her she can watch them when she's 30

"let's talk about music. nothing better than talking about music. don't listen to it. just talk about it."

when asked about his proudest accomplishment: "i love all my children equally. but here's the reality. i am SO proud of fall out boy because it's a gigantic band that i started as a teenager. we just did stadium shows supporting GREEN DAY."

he's also super proud of the damned things and how honored he was that scott ian from anthrax, one of his personal heroes, trusted him to do so much writing

the interviewer goes, "all right here's a softball" and joe goes, "SOFT ME. uh, what?"

his favorite guitar is his 1965 reverse-body gibson firebird

his favorite transformer is grimlock

this question was supposed to be a lightning round but when asked "nintendo or sega" he says nintendo and then spends about 3 minutes talking abt punchout and then rattling off obscure sonic trivia. i love him.

his favorite video game is final fantasy 7. he says he "nearly flunked" out of middle school because of it.

he has a hard time picking a favorite horror movie since he loves horror but he picks "texas chainsaw massacre" as the one that affected him the most. he also recommends "anything for jackson" because it will "give you nightmares, if you are interested in having nightmares"

his favorite star wars character is yoda because his wisdom applies to real life very frequently

a fan-submitted question talked about with knives and how much the fan liked his vocals and both the interviewer and joe smiled REALLY big!!!!

sadly he doesn't like singing that much cause he doesn't like his voice. also he says fall out boy has a really good singer already. but he won't rule out doing some solo venture and recording super distorted vocals someday

re: what he wants to be remembered for the most - "having a sick bod, man."

"no, genuinely, i want my children to remember me as a good father. that's like the truth. and for having a sick bod."

he really doesn't hold any grudges about the hazing he got in the early days of touring because it was an initiation ritual and it weathered him quickly to touring life. he doesn't think people could get away with it now though.

"if you're gonna punch somebody though, do it when they're not looking"

re: favorite song to play live - "i don't care" because it "Just Rocks." and it's really fun!

his bluetooth in his car started playing "of all the gin joints in the world" and he texted patrick about how good of a song it was and how it'd be nice to play it live again

"as the kids maybe used to say, it SLAPS." brief discussion regarding the difference between a bop and a slap.

currently most of his musical ambitions lie in whatever fall out boy will do next

he tried scoring and composing for commercials and the like and he found that he really does not like it that much

he apologizes for not getting a haircut before the livestream. "this is just how i am, sloppy and unpresentable." (note: he was doing this livestream after a 13-hour flight from rock in rio in brazil)

#fall out boy #joe trohman #*making poasts #i felt like doing this tonight because certain Subsections of bandom are being very irritating and id like some good vibes #plus this was a really lovely little q&a #of all the gin joints!!! he would love to play it live again!!!!!

357 notes · View notes

ilovemesomevincentprice · 10 months

Text

Okay, so the other night I fell down a rabbit hole of sorts. I found some post cards that Vincent had written to his daughter and his (ex) wife Mary. I just think they're so sweet. So I'm sharing them here. These do NOT belong to me. So I do NOT take credit. I just think they're awesome. I'll also do my best to translate in case anyone has any problem reading his writing.

This is a postcard he send to his daughter, Victoria in 1965. Look at the hearts he drew at the top!!!! Whyyyy is this so damn precious?! Moving on... It reads:

Dearest Toria - I love my Easter present - your pictures are beautiful but they make me homesick to see you. It won't be long now and we will have lots of fun when we are together again - I'll make you popovers and meat sticks in the fire and will plant a tree on your birthday and have a big cake! My movie is finally going pretty well but I wish I was doing it at home. Thanks Myrna for the letter. All my love, Daddy

This post card was sent to his ex-wife Mary in the mid 70s. By this time, he was married to Coral Browne, but remained close friends with Mary. According to their daughter, there was an inside joke to this postcard (which I never understood - but maybe it's not for me to understand :) ) it reads:

Of course I never saw it - who has? The trip to Hong Kong was endless and I've been working my tail off doing publicity, etc. But still find Hong Kong fascinating even tho it's twice as big and as crowded as before - I overlook the bay to the peninsula now nestled unhappily in a forest of skyscrapers but I hear still good. All my love, Vincent *SIGH*

This post card was sent to his daughter, Victoria and his ex wife Mary Price in February of 1975. Again, he was married to Coral Browne but remained close friends with his ex wife Mary. His daughter once said, "I was lucky that my parents remained friends after the divorce. They wanted what's best for each other and for me, which wasn't always easy because of my stepmother." Which, I could understand her stepmother's point of view, there. But still, it's insanely sweet that they remained good friends.

It reads: Dearest Tor. This is one of the fun things in the great modern museum here in Buffalo. The tour goes well but the weathers terrible. I was 8 hours late getting here but didn't miss the lecture. Love to you both, Dad.

This letter was sent to his daughter, Victoria in 1976. It reads: Dearest Torsie. On my way to Ohio to rehearse Oliver - had a nice talk with your mama who says you're having a ball - I'd love to hear from you and so am sending a couple of cards to write on- do send them in the next week or so as I'll be here until the 20th - but so will you! All love to you! Dad.

This post card was sent to his ex wife, Mary and his daughter Victoria in 1979. It reads:

Dearest M + V (Mary and Victoria) Well it slipped into town and seems to be doing very well though it's very strange management but quite legitimate - a lovely theater and set and nice people but NY audiences are not as vociferous as Denver, etc. still it's nice to be here and I love living in Gramercy park. I walk to work but taxi home. I've decided to do only a few head one nighters as it's too difficult to check everything and play it too. Still love doing it however - All Love Dad

49 notes · View notes

ikroah · 2 years

Photo

Wherever I have gone, wherever I've been and gone, wherever I have gone, the blues are all the same —“Blues Run the Game,” Jackson C. Frank (1965)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #23 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding II

«« First | « Previous || Next » | Last »»

Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

Let’s talk about two things.

The first thing is burnout. It’s hilarious in retrospect that the notes on the previous issue open with an apology that it’s been three months since the preceding issue, which given that this current hiatus lasted six months, lmao. As I’ve mentioned before and elsewhere, shortly after completing the previous issue of IKROAH, the toll of working on it and other projects so industrially for two years finally caught up with me, and by May I basically had a kind of flip turn where suddenly, I could not stand my own art. More than that, I was repulsed by the very act of drawing, of making. Too many self-imposed deadlines, too many long nights churning comics out in as few sessions of work as possible, too many other things that I wasn’t giving myself enough time for. Something had to give, and when it did, I could barely hold a pencil for months without just getting really angry. I wish that I could say that there was something specific that I did to overcome this feeling, but there wasn’t: I can only attribute wanting to draw again to spending a long time not drawing at all, a time in which I tried to basically forget through disuse all of the bad habits that I’d ingrained about making myself make art. Art is an important hobby and creative outlet to me, but sometimes, you really just need to step away from something for a relatively long time so that you can come back to it with a much healthier mindset. And that’s what I’ve done. Thank you all for being so patient with me during IKROAH’s first real hiatus. There have been “hiatuses” in the past but, for example, one thing that I definitely had to strip out of myself was the anxiety and the guilt that I would feel when IKROAH would go on “hiatus” because more than three weeks or so passed between issues. I had myself on an absolutely insane production schedule for no reason except believing that getting every issue out as fast as possible was paramount. When I first began this comic with issue #1, I thought I could do one issue every two weeks. This was colossally stupid and going in as naive as I did with this mindset was like ingesting a slow-acting poison. IKROAH issues come out whenever they come out and that’s that from now on, and I feel silly because no reader of the comic has ever acted entitled to anything but that anyway.

The second thing I want to talk about is my art itself. My burnout had a point, especially with IKROAH, which is that there are some things about my art that is very frustrating. Did you know that the reason that IKROAH pages are the size that they are (1080 x 1678 px) is because I draw them two-per-sheet-of-paper at 13cm x 21cm each, and 1080 pixels is twice the width of the (possibly outdated) maximum display width of an inline image on the dashboard, and a height of 1678 pixels matches the aspect ratio of the best way that I could digitize my images at the time, which was by taking a picture of my art the best that I could with my phone in good lighting? This was the standard that I set for myself in summer of 2020 and for some reason I decided that it was etched in stone. I made some small improvements over time, such as finally buying a scanner sometime around IKROAH #12, and then changing IKROAH’s dialogue font and switching to digital paneling in #22, but this is going to be the final issue that abides by that old, absurdly small page size. I have finally reached my breaking point in this issue with how it completely prevents me from drawing fine or distant detail, so this is the final issue that is going to be at this size. Were it not for the fact that pre-burnout I hadn’t already drawn the first two pages of this issue and had formatted the paneling and lettering already for this specific size, I probably would have gone bigger already!

IKROAH has been, for the most part, an artistic playground where I’ve honed my skills and experimented with the comic book form gleefully. Compare the art from the first few issues with the more recent ones to see that development in action. But for all of this development and experimentation, why have I felt like page size is unassailable? I can’t tell you for sure what the “new” page size is going to be, because while I have a larger size in mind, it’s another experiment, not a promise of consistency. I used to think that it was easier and faster to work small because smaller art meant less art, but I’m finally sure that it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Now, I’m extremely excited for what a much larger canvas will mean for the look of the comic, and for the rest of Volume 2, I’m sure that you’ll be able to see me experimenting artistically in some way with every issue.

Original Pencils

Unfortunately, due to the way in which this issue was inked, I don’t have the complete original pencils to share with you! I would draw and ink panels one-by-one instead of penciling the whole page first. This is because I my burnout was actually triggered, essentially, by fucking up the inks on the first page after penciling it and feeling sure that I would have to redraw it, and that making me so mad that I couldn’t bear to reapproach my art at all. I didn’t want to make that mistake again, so I went through the rest of the pages with a lot more caution. Still, I can show you some scans.

One major thing that made working on all but the first two pages was finally investing in real non-copy blue pencils instead of blue colored pencils. Real non-copy blue pencils lack the waxiness of colored pencils, making them draw much lighter, erase much cleaner, and generally behave much more like regular pencils that just happen to be blue. It’s been a godsend for my ability to ink more expressively, and I’m experimenting with inking and coloring styles are going to be my favorite part of the rest of Volume 2, because I think that that is something that I want to overhaul the most.

Also, one funny thing: if there was a significant reason why I made Benny’s suite number 1007, I have forgotten it. Just like how I must have forgotten in the writing and penciling of this issue that Benny’s suite is canonically on the thirteenth floor. Oops! Well, not in this canon it’s not.

I do have one complete pencil sketch to show you: IKROAH’s first ever two-page spread! Bang!

Transcript

EXT. THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS. The Tops’ signature sign shines brightly outside the entrance, brightly even for Vegas.

INT. THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS. Casino guests hustle and bustle around the main floor, checking in, heading to and from the cashier on the second floor, and mingling. Leaning against a rail overlooking the slightly sunken gaming area is AGNES SANDS. She stares intently and furiously toward the back of the room, where an older man is laughing with a younger man. The younger man is drinking a martini, wears a black-and-white checked suit jacket, and is oblivious to her presence.

AGNES thinks to herself as she watches him.

Hello, Benny.

Her eye narrows.

You’d think that getting shot in the head would be the worst thing to ever happen to somebody, but at this point in my life, I’m genuinely not sure.

On the casino floor, a RED-HAIRED WOMAN seems to accidentally bump into BENNY from behind, knocking his drink out of his hand. It shatters on the ground, and he turns angrily to face her.

When I was six years old, my father died from a bad fall. He was a caravaneer, so they never shipped his body home.

ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY stands in front of Benny, clutching a nearly empty glass of whiskey. She raises her hand up to her faced, shocked and embarrassed. BENNY is just as surprised, and even more so when CASS takes his face in one hand and suggests that he come with her to refill her glass.

My mom was our town’s doctor, so after that, she decided to apprentice me as her nurse. I was still just a kid.

She was right to do it. It takes a long time to learn medicine, and it’s a useful skill. She knew it’d do me good.

CASS hurriedly leads BENNY by the hand toward the casino bar. As the pair brush past AGNES, she pickpockets BENNY’s key, and holds it up to glean the room number from its tag: 1007. Satisfied, she drops the key on the ground, and heads for the elevators. Just behind her, CASS points out that BENNY seems to have dropped his keys, and he reacts with relief.

But she was hard, as a teacher. Maybe even more so as a mother. Maybe she had to be.

AGNES’ elevator slowly ascends. First floor to the tenth.

Maybe I wouldn’t have started messing around with locks if I didn’t get it in my head to act so damn rebellious later on. I broke in somewhere I shouldn’t have. Found something I shouldn’t have. I was thirteen.

I had to put my own face back together right there on the concrete floor. Held it in place with duct tape, and two-hundred year old bandages. Pre-war.*

*As depicted in IKROAH #7 and the IKROAH Vol. 1 Special Delivery companion story, “Scar Tissue.”

Ding! The elevator arrives and the door opens.

I still can’t even shave without getting a cold sweat.

Back on the casino floor, CASS and BENNY have it it off. They’re smiling and laughing at the bar, several drinks deep.

Meanwhile, AGNES stalks toward Room 1007.

My mom was happy I was alive, but didn’t care whether I was okay, if that makes sense. She was always like that.

It’s why we fought when she found out about...me, when the changes from the hormones I’d been sneaking got...unignorable.

The lock is easy to pick for practiced hands. It opens with a CLICK. The door swings open and AGNES stands in the doorway, assessing the area.

I wonder what your mother would think of this. What she must have been like. Whether she’s even alive now. I wonder if she loved you, her baby boy, a killer in cold blood.

Eventually, we fought. Physically, I mean. It was a long time coming. I hit her hard, once, and that was it. It was over.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget what that felt like. Maybe I’m not one to talk.

Time passes.

BENNY returns to his suite and puts his keys in the lock.

I ran away to the NCR after that. I was an adult now, and had to start over. And I needed skills that my mom couldn’t have taught me. I thought I’d be a combat medic, out in the field. But no. No, no. Of course not.

BENNY opens his door, looking exhausted and covered in kiss marks. Looks like somebody really wore him out. He shuffles over to his bedroom.

They shipped me to some do-nothing recon station way up north in California, near Gecko. And from the minute I set foot there, my C.O. fucking hated me.

He abused me, berated me, blamed me, because I took his old friend’s position or something. Stupid petty bullshit like that.

I think that he was sabotaging my medical supplies. Messing with my work, trying to get me discharged.

There’s no other way he could have found my estrogen from home.

BENNY undresses in his bedroom, and then flops onto his bed.

Just another thing for him to scream at me about. Or it would have been.

AGNES enters the bedroom.

Never got any military police after me when I attacked him with a scalpel that night and ran.

Maybe he couldn’t cover up his own bullshit well enough, so he just kept his mouth shut. Doesn’t matter. Lucky me.

AGNES rifles through BENNY’s jacket, which he hung on a coatrack near the door.

I ran to New Reno. I’d deserted. The only job I could get was at a charity clinic run by one of the crime families there, and it was dismal. I couldn’t afford to live.

So I started picking locks again. Pockets, too. Got real good at it, too. You’d know.

AGNES’ eyes fixate on something. She’s pulled it out of his coat.

I was stealing to survive. Same dance, different song. Nevermind my hormones, I needed food and shelter. I’d never felt lower.

The Platium Chip.

I was casing one of the casinos there when I saw a man get glassed. I was still a doctor. Still had that oath. So I went to work, and saved the man’s life right there. His name was Yancy Bishop and he made my life a living hell for six long years.*

*IKROAH #12.

Until I killed him.

Something else catches AGNES’ attention in BENNY’s bedroom. Something on his nightstand. A gun.

He came to me helpless in surgery and I ripped him apart from the inside out, thrilled, exhilarated, terrified of myself.

AGNES approaches the nightstand. She picks up the gun.

And after that...I ran away again. Ran until I got to the Mojave. Ran until I fumbled into being a courier. Making deliveries, always running, but not a doctor anymore, not stealing to survive, just some stability in my life for once. For once. And then:

It’s the same gun that BENNY shot her with.

She turns to face BENNY.

You.

AGNES removes the 9mm bullet that she has been wearing around her neck since she left Goodsprings; a bullet made partly from the lead that was fished out of her own skull.

You are not special.

She loads the gun. As quietly as she can.

I’ve been dealing with people like you my entire life. My mother. My C.O. The Bishops...

...your Khans, McLafferty, the Van Graffs...have I killed more people in the last week than you have in your whole...

AGNES approaches BENNY’s bed. She gets one shot.

...was I the only one, Benny? And you couldn’t even do it right. I clawed out. An ugly life, too ugly to kill, even with a gun to my head. Your gun. This gun.

She raises the gun. She aims with both hands. Bodies are easier to hit than bottles.

Rigged from the start—is that what you’d said? You piece of shit. You look like you have everything, have been given everything. So you just had to rub it in, that night. Didn’t you.

AGNES scowls. Her brow furrows with rage.

Always been too big of a target. Too tall, too wide, too mannish. Never been beautiful. Never even got to be handsome, like you. Then you shoot my eye out, butcher me even more—and all for what? A mail-order tchotchke!?

The gun gleams in the sparse light.

I’m going to fucking kill you.

AGNES’ expression shifts.

I’ve killed so many people to get to you.

Her hands start to shake. The gun is heavy in them.

And...and now I’m going to kill you.

Sweat is beading on her face.

Because of what you did to me. Because I can’t sleep at night. Because of you. I don’t sleep, most nights, because of you.

AGNES grimaces as her whole body trembles.

So I’ll kill you, with the fucking gun you killed me with, then I won’t be so...

The gun. The gun. The gun--

I’ll...I’m—

Her eye is wide with terror.

Oh God.

AGNES stands alone in the dark in the bedroom of the man that she has planned to kill. The gun is in her hands. Tears stream down her face, frozen in grief. The gun is in her hands.

BENNY is awake. He has been awake. He is sitting up in his bed. He is staring at her staring at him.

The gun is in her hands.

AGNES fires the gun.

SFX: BANG

#fallout #fallout new vegas #courier six #benny gecko #rose of sharon cassidy #the tops #new vegas #ikroah archive #volume 02 #23

273 notes · View notes

thewritersofdeceased · 8 months

Text

ཧᜰ꙰ꦿ➢𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄..༒

MAINLY ROBIN AND FINNEY.

OTHER GHOSTS ARE MENTIONED AS SIDE CHARACTERS

"REMEMBER ME." A voice softly sang, leaning against the wall of this cold dark basement. Robin Arellano. Thhirteen years old, born February 2nd, 1965. Missing since November 9th, 1978. The boy had no bandana on, which was his fathers right before he went to war. And he wore it. Everyday. Mainly after his dad didn't come home from it. He took a shaky breath, his eyes closed. Before he felt someone push his shoulder. Blue eyes stared down into Robin's dark brown ones, an annoyed expression plastered across the blonde's face. Vance Hopper. Born August 10th, 1964. Missing since September 23rd, 1977. The blonde stared down at Robin, his arms crossed before he spoke. "Make the final call, Arellano. He'll listen to you. Rather than he'd listen to any of us."

There were three others. They stood facing Robin. Two were standing close to each other, and the third was quiet, seeming to be picking at his nails. There was Bruce Yamada. Born June 12th, 1965. Missing since July 12th, 1978. The golden boy of Denver. Alongside that, there was Billy Showalter. Born December 12th, 1964. Missing between March and April 1977. And Lastly, the first Victim, Griffin Stagg. Born September 8th, 1965. Missing in 1977. Five victims. And they all knew this new boy, Finney, Blake may be the sixth.

"He's your best friend... He'll listen to you better than he listened to me." Billy grumbled, seeming annoyed that Finney didn't listen to him. "Don't go upstairs" just meant nothing to Finney. Clearly. The second victim leaned against the wall, annoyance held all over his face and even how he stood. Of course he was annoyed. Finney had gone upstairs, gotten out, and then dragged right back down here. The same thing that he had done. It was annoying how Finney didn't listen to him once, even with the warning that The Grabber was waiting upstairs with that stupid belt. He took a breath in, looking between himself and the other four victims.

Robin looked between them all, his brows furrowed slightly as he took a breath in himself, and letting it out only seconds after. "Okay. I'll call him." He mumbled aloud, fixing his hair, even if it looked to be a tangled mess. That should've been expected. You're kidnapped for about a week, your hair was bound to be a mess. He took a step towards the phone, looking around the room for his best friend. Finney was leaned against a wall, just by the former panel that used to keep him separated from the freezer that contained meat. Into the storage room.

Tears fell out the closed eyes of Finney, his head down. But it slowly rose when he had begun to hear that annoying phone ringing off the wall. He stood to his feet with a slight stumble, his eyes red from tears. He took a step or two towards the phone, hesitant to take it off the ringer. Before he did. Holding it up to his ear, he seemed confused to that stupid phone. He spoke with an almost blank tone, his voice hoarse from crying. "What?" He asked, his eyes widening after he heard the voice of someone all too familiar. "Hey Finn. What's happening?" The voice of Robin Arellano, his best friend.

Finney stood with his eyes widened, before they narrowed slightly as he spoke up again. "Robin?" He spoke, hesitation clear in his voice as he tried to figure out everything. "Hey buddy. Don't cry." Robin spoke, shaking his head. Even though Finney couldn't see him, Robin had a slight smile on his face. Talking to his best friend that he cared about. Finney shook his head, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. "I'm not." He lied, having not known Robin could see him. He grew quiet for a couple seconds, sniffling slightly.

"Yes, you are. I can see you." Robin spoke, leaning against the wall as he remained on the phone with his closest friend. Who he wished he never left. "You can?" Finn asked as he turned on his heel, facing the basement door. Just like he had with Billy. Except he wasn't going upstairs. Robin took a breath in, hesitance in his voice. A shaky breath almost. "I'm with you. I've been with you this whole time." He explained, looking back to the others ghosts, who only stood and stared at Robin as he tried talking with Finney.

"You have?" Another question. Finney raised a brow, trying to figure out if what Robin was saying was the full hard covered truth. Taking a breath in, yet another shaky one that seemed to be more hesitant than any, Robin spoke. "A man never leaves a friend behind. My dad didn't leave his buddies behind when he went to 'Nam." He started, fixing his outfit before speaking out again. "That's why he didn't come home. And I'm not coming home, either." He explained, looking down after speaking. A small tired chuckle had escaped Finney, who was now leaning against the wall. "We'll be together soon."

This caught Robin's attention as his eyes widened. His eyes narrowed right after, his determined tone beginning to pierce through the air. "Fuck that's you ain't gonna go like I did." He spoke, his voice going from determined to stern in the span of a second. Finney stared straight, trying to figure out what to say. "I've tried everything. Nothing's worked-" He went to speak, being cut off. "Yet." Robin cut him off, taking a step away from the phone. "Robin..." Finney muttered aloud. Shaking his head, Rohin's stern voice returned. "Remember what I told you?" He asked.

It took Finney a couple seconds to respond. "That I needed to see Texas Chainsaw Massacre?" He asked, gaining a slight laugh from Robin. "Before that." He explained right after. Finney realized just what Rob n now was beginning to mean. "That someday I have to stand up for myself." He mumbled, running a hand through his hair and continuing to try and keep himself calm and relaxed. But in his case, that was rather difficult.

"Someday is today, Finn." Robin spoke, the amount of determination and the feeling of being proud went through his head. "Today's the day you stop taking shit from anybody." He continued, a small smile appearing. Griffin sat, staring at Robin with a confused look. He couldn't talk. His vocal cords were messed up. After having his neck slit, you'd think so. Along with that, he couldn't walk. Both his ankles were broken. So without crutches, it was almost impossible to walk.

Vance only stood, staring at the situation with his arms crossed. It was like he was jealous. He should've been the one to escape. Not this bastard. He thought for a couple seconds, his angry demeanor showing up back on his face. But it was whatever. He had run ins with the law plenty of time. Maybe he deserved all of this. He took a breath in, glaring daggers at Finney from where he was. Leaning against the wall, a foot prompted up against it, and himself leaning on it.

Billy was quiet as he too flared daggers straight at Finney. He was still annoyed that the brunette didn't listen to him. Don't go upstairs. What's the kid do? Go upstairs. That was the stupidest shit that Billy could remember. He looked between everyone at first, but his dagger glare never left Finney..

Griffin and Bruce were looking to Finney with almost pleading eyes. Bruce knew he was popular enough in Denver to not be forgotten for a long time, but Griffin wasn't. He only hoped people remembered his name. But he didn't think it would be for being missing.

With Robin... He listened to Finney speak, his eyes narrowed. "I'm not a fighter like you, Robin. You couldn't even take him." Now that was true. Robin couldn't fight the Grabber, but he sure as hell tried. Taking a breath in, Robin began to speak. "You've always been a fighter, Fin. That's what we have in common, why we're friends." He started to talk, leaning his head back against the cold basement walls he'd been confined it for weeks. "You were always afraid to throw a punch, but you always knew how to take one. And you always got back up every time." He finished.

"I'm not strong enough." Finney muttered, closing his eyes as he tried to process what Robin was saying. He wasn't a fighter. He was just a kid going through so much bullshit right now. Robin shook his head as he listened. "You have to be. You're getting out of here." He spoke, shaking his head. "If you can't do it for you, do it for me." He continued, now standing to Finney's left, the phone no longer in his hand, but rather hanging from the ringer on the ghosts side.

Finney stared blankly ahead of him. "What does it matter?" That question made Robin let out a sigh. "Because I don't want to die for nothing! I want to have at least died for a friend. And because I can't kill that hijo de puta, you have to do it for me." He grumbled out, staring at Finn with a look of almost desperation. But it wasn't. With a look of confusion, Finn looked down at the floor. "How?" He asked, confused now. What weapon?

"You're gonna use a weapon." Robin explained, looking at the phone that now dangled from the ringer. "What weapon?" Finn then asked, looking around the basement. Sure, there was the cable from Billy, and the lid that he used to try and get into the freezer and out to the storage room.. "The one in your hand." Robin then replied, calmly. The ghosts looked at him in confusion as he spoke.

"The phone..?" Finney muttered, looking at the phone in his hand from an almost side eye view. Robin nodded, knowing he wasn't able to be seen. "Fill the receiver with dirt. Pack it in tight. Give it some heft." He began to instruct, explaining what to do. Finney stared with confusion as he listened to Robin's instructions, not following on them yet. "Then what?" He asked.

Robin smirked at this. "Then you practice. Over. And over." He explained, acting as if he was doing the motions. "You raise the phone, take a fast step back. Step forward, step back and swing. Try it." He spoke to Finney. Who just remained confused for a couple seconds. "Now?" The brunette replied. "Yes." And so the training began. After a while, Robin spoke again.

"You got it. Now fill the phone with dirt like I told you." He instructed, turning to face the phone. He picked the dangling phone up, holding it his ear as he listened to Finney's question. "Will I still be able to talk with you?" That shattered Robin's heart to hear. He paused in his movements before taking a sharp breath in. "This was the last call, Finn. It's all you from here on out." He explained, feeling guilty for having to admit they wouldn't be able to talk again.

"I miss you, Robin."

"Then get out for me. Use what we gave you."

"I will."

"Bye Finn.”

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄..

"Bye Robin.."

Remember me. Don't let it make you cry.

And with silence overtaking, Robin put the phone back on the receiver. His shoulders slumped as he wiped his eyes. No. He wasn't supposed to cry. Bruce at this point had stood to his feet, placing a gentle hand on Robin's shoulder. "We know you'll miss him. You gave him good advice, man." He explained, trying to give a warm smile, but he felt weak, like he was going to disappear and fade away from anything going on. Griffin tried to speak in agreement, but again. He got sliced in the neck. He didn't really get to talk. He stumbled to stand, Billy quickly going to his side to help him up.

Griffin signed something, but Robin couldn't tell what it is. Billy had to translate. "Since he can't talk, he's trying to say you did your best." He explained, staring at Finney for a couple seconds. "He definitely cares about you." He mumbled aloud. He looked to Vance, who only rolled his eyes. As if he had anything nice to say at the situation. When the time came, each boy stood with their eyes focused on Finney.

Bruce and Billy's advice was taken, a hole in the ground and the cable being used as a tripwire. Robin's fighting helped too. Robin stood in front of every boy. After seeing the Grabber's ankle snap, Griffin made a noise of joy. Robin helped Billy bring him over to the phone, before it began to ring on the other side. On Finney's side. With an annoyed tone, he spoke. "It's for you."

Vance was the first to grab it. "Welcome to the nightmare end of your pathetic little life!" Next was Griffin. With a very little laughter, the youngest victim spoke slightly. “You don't have much time!" Then it was Vance again. "Today's the day, motherfucker!" He shouted, Robin taking the phone next with a smirk. "I can't kill you, you hijo de puta! So Finn is gonna do it for me!" Then Bruce was last. "Finn's arm is mint!"

And with that, the sound of a neck snapping echoed throughout the basement. Robin was cheering, having a large smirk on his face. Vance pushed himself away from the phone, looking at the door. If they went outside, what would happen?

When Finney went outside, as did the ghosts. Gwen, who was across the street, had ran across to her brother, engulfing him in a hug. Before she spoke up. "I found you! Finney, I found you! Oh! In one of my dreams.. Robin directed something to me." She spoke, taking something out of her pocket. The blue bandana. His fathers blue bandana. "And he's here. They all are, Finney..." She explained. "You just can't see them. I can."

Finney felt a shiver go down his spine as Gwen laughed. "Robin's hugging you. Vance and Griffin are over there," She pointed to one spot, more near the driveway. "Then Bruce and Billy are near the street." She pointed another way. Finney could feel himself tearing up. Before a song echoed through his mind. Through his ears.

"Remember me. Though I have to say goodbye, remember me. Don't let it make you cry. For even if I'm far away, I hold you in my heart. I sing a secret song to you each time we are apart."

"Remember me."

#rinney #Robin x finney #Finney Blake #Robin Arellano #the black phone imagine

20 notes · View notes

anxious-witch · 6 months

Text

Inertia 4

Summary: Newton's first law expresses the principle of inertia: the natural behavior of a body is to move in a straight line at constant speed. In the absence of outside influences, a body's motion preserves the status quo.

Jan choose a direction of his life the moment he walked out of his parents house and cut all contact with them. He didn't want anything to do with them, or God anymore. Even his soulmark he wished he could leave behind. But when Nace Jordan joins the band, with a mark matching his own, can Jan keep going the same way he did? Or will the force make him change a direction?

Pairings: Jan Peteh/Nace Jordan

Warnings: TW for a character taking sleeping pills and slight descriptions of dissociation, character implied to have an eating disorder, mentions of Nace's pictures of before he lost weight, mentions of past abusive parents

If I forgot something please feel free to let me know

Notes: AO3 link

Alright, so. Jan is being gently nudged in the right direction here, but not quite ready to take a leap yet. Also we get a glimpse of some of Nace's own insecurities, so if you have any triggers regarding eating disorders, I recommend checking additional warnings

God said:

GOD MADE YOU. GOD DOES NOT CARE IF YOU ARE "GUILTY" OR NOT.

I said:

I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!

God was silent.

Everything was SILENT.

I lay back down in the snow.

Frank Bidart, Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016

There was a low music playing from the speakers. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Jan was too tired to listen closely enough to identify from where. For once, he was the one that arrived early. Warm cup of coffee warmed his hands from a cold November weather, as he waited for Matej.

It all felt surreal. Jan cheated slightly the previous day and took a sleeping pill. He didn't take them often, partially due to the fact he didn't want to have to rely on them to sleep every night and partially because they made him feel drowsy the next day.

Like it did now. He felt like he was still dreaming, moving through molasses to get anywhere in a dream. He blinked and suddenly, his brother was sitting across from him.

"Hey," he greeted quietly, trying to stifle a yawn.

"Hey."

They sat in silence until Matej ordered coffee. He sighed when the waiter left. Jan traced the handle of his cup with his finger. His nail polish chipped slightly on the thumb. He really needed to fix that.

"Jan...please talk to me? I can't just give you contact information for something like this without knowing anything."

Jan felt very slow today. Not in the same way as he did when he was sleep deprived, no. He wasn't annoyed or irritable, more like...he was under a thick blanket that was see through. He could see the world behind it, but it felt far away.

"Why not?"

"Because you are asking me to help you arrange a very dangerous procedure! Do you even know what this could do to you if anything goes even a bit wrong?!"

He looked up, meeting his brother's furious eyes and felt nothing at all. The pain felt glazed over now. Buried under a thick blanket of indifference.

Matej's eyes scanned over his face and then his anger melted into worry.

"Jan...have you been taking sleeping pills again?"

Jan rubbed at his eyes. They just refused to stay open for long, despite the coffee. Matej knew his habits, both good and bad. Some things didn’t change, despite his best efforts.

"Only yesterday, after we talked. I didn't sleep very well in...well. Weeks. Otherwise I wouldn't have taken them."

Matej went silent. Jan could see him mulling things over. Considering him.

"And you not sleeping...is it because of the soulmate guy?"

He started peeling off the nail polish from his thumb more. He didn't want to talk about Nace.

"Kind of. Not really solely his fault, but he isn't making it better, either."

Matej reached out and grasp his hands, putting a stop to his nervous tic. Jan looked up again. Matej always made him feel small, in one way or another.

Not because of their actual sizes, but because he always held such a mature presence Jan could only hope to imitate to a degree. He could never quite measure up.

"Does he...is he hurting you in any way? Is he treating you badly? Tell me what's going on."

Jan stared at him in confusion then began shaking his head.

"It's not-it's not about him. I mean, it kind of is but-" he took a deep breath, trying to arrange his thoughts in a way that made sense, "I don't want the cursed soul bond. I never did. You know that."

Matej pursed his lips. He always did it when he was unhappy with something Jan did. Like that time he attempted to climb a three at age five and fell off, breaking his arm.

"I know that you said that to mom and dad, but I didn't think you were serious! This isn't a religious thing Jan, for fuck's sake! I can understand rebelling against everything else they said but this-this is insane!"

Jan pulled his hands from Matej's grasp and crossed them over his chest. His hair was up today, and the slight breeze caressed his burning soulmark.

"That's not your decision to make. I am not a child."

"Then don't act like one!"

In that moment, everything stopped. Jan felt like he stopped breathing even.

"When you stop acting like a child, we'll stop treating you like one. Why can't you be more like your brother and sister?"

Jan felt very, very cold all of a sudden. Like the chill overtook him from inside out. Matej's words echoed in tandem with his father's.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Just-please think this through. Give it six months. If you still want to do it after, I'll give you the contact you need."

"Six months? Are you insane?"

He scowled? Six months? It had barely been a month since Nace joined them and it had already been torture. He had to endure it for six more months? No.

Matej didn't shrink under his sharp gaze.

"It's half a year. I am not letting you ruin your life because you were sleep deprived. You can think it through properly. And besides, if you win-and I do think you will-you will have Eurovision to go to anyway."

Jan had an urge to scream, to yell at him. That it wasn't fair and that he was prolonging his misery the same way mom and dad did. But he was scared if he said that, Matej might withdraw the offer completely.

"Fine. But you will give me the contact of the doctor who does it if I still want this in six months?"

Matej's jaw was clenched, but he didn't look away.

"Yes."

He took his coffee and drain it in two gulps. Matej really hated when he did that. Then he put the money on the table and got up.

"Right. Thanks, for that I guess. See you around."

Matej's hand shot out and he grabbed his wrist before Jan could escape. He looked like he was bracing himself for something.

"I love you, you know that, right? I don't think I say it enough. I know we aren't that close and that mom and dad only made it worse but...you are my brother and I love you no matter what. Alright?"

There was a lump in Jan's throat. He tried to swallow past it but he just couldn't.

"I-“ he paused, those two following words stuck in his throat, choking him, “you too."

Why couldn't he say it? If Matej got out of that house and learned how to say it, why couldn't Jan?

Matej smiled at him and squeezed his wrist gently before letting go.

"Alright then. Go make some trouble. But also get some sleep, please."

Jan nodded numbly before he turned and finally left. He drove on autopilot and only halfway through realized he wasn't driving to his apartment. He drove to Kris'.

He sat in the car for awhile, simply parked in front of it. There was no way he'll tell Kris about getting rid of the soulmark. But maybe...he could still talk to him?

He did his best to go up two flights if stairs without overthinking it and turning right back around. He and Kris knew each other for years. Kris was there to pick up the pieces after Jan cut contact with his family. He wouldn't turn him away over him being irritable.

Jan rang the doorbell and waited. He thought he heard two voices before the doors opened, and once they did, his suspicion was confirmed. Both Kris and Bojan stood at the door.

"Jan?"

Shit. This was a bad decision.

"Um. Sorry, I didn't realize you'd be busy. I'll just go."

"Don't be ridiculous. You drove all the way to here, come in."

But the cold was still wrapped around him like a cloak. With his hair up, he felt too exposed to risk anyone but Kris’ company. Conversation with Matej left him raw and vulnerable. He didn’t want to risk anyone else seeing that. Even if it was just Bojan.

He shook his head sadly and watched as Bojan’s face fell and Kris grew worried.

“Sorry. We can-I’ll talk to you guys soon, yeah?

He stepped back, putting more distance between them. Alone was safer. And while Jan knew he couldn’t solve his issues alone, he wasn’t ready to ask for help. Not just zet.

At first, Jan went right back to ignoring Nace as much as he could. Interacted with him only in a group and never directly unless he asked him a question.

Then, slowly, something started to shift. His brother's words chipped on him. Not that he was really going to give Nace a chance. That thought made all the alarm sounds in his head blare at maximum volume.

But he was going to cut the connection between them in a few months anyway. So surely, there was no harm in letting him get just a bit closer. Talking to him on occasion, for a start.

The first time it happened, it was just an ordinary Tuesday. They had a break during practice and Bojan had helpfully supplied them with chips, cookies and some other snacks Jan didn't care enough to check. He preferred salty snacks anyway.

Jan got to the table last, but instead of taking his usual position next to Jure, he sat next to Nace, at the end of the table. He saw Nace's eyes go wide for a second and he went very, very still.

Instead of addressing it and making everything feel more awkward, he nudged him.

"Can you pass me that chips?"

Nace stared at him for a moment, as if not comprehending his request.

"Sure."

"Not the tasteless salty ones! The paprika ones!"

Nace chuckled and handed him the correct bowl this time. Jan took a handful and stuffed his mouth. He saw Kris roll his eyes as he delicately took one chips at the time.

What a diva.

What he also noticed was that Nace didn't take any. He furrowed his brows, trying to remember if chips had gluten in them or not.

"Do chips have gluten?" He asked, after swallowing the chips.

The last thing he wanted was for Kris to snap at him to not talk with his mouth full. Nace once again, looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Some do, but not very often, I don't think."

"So why aren't you taking any?"

Nace chewed on his lip. Now he was the one avoiding Jan's gaze.

"Don't like them."

Oh, bullshit. Jan could see the way Nace eyed the chips before turning away. Was this some sort of diet thing? Or just Nace eating healthy in general?

"What about the rest? I am sure Bojan got some gluten free cookies too, he is usually careful-"

"I really don't want to eat anything right now," Nace snapped.

Well, alright then. He clearly struck a nerve there. Nace pursed his lips, and Jan saw the cogs in his brain turning.

For once, it wasn't Jan who was a rude one.

"Why are you suddenly talking to me, anyway?"

Jan raised his eyebrow and gave Nace a little smirk.

"What? I can't change my mind and want to befriend a bandmate?"

Nace eyed him suspiciously, but then Kris asked him a question and their conversation essentially ended.

It made Jan begin to pay more attention, though. How Nace was very careful about what he ate, and not just about gluten related things. How he was the only one that could keep up with Bojan's talk about going to the gym.

He might have went on a deep dive himself and found old pictures of Nace. Of when he was fat. Jan felt like he swallowed stones. This was something he deleted for a reason and Jan still went looking for it.

He closed all the tabs and leaned back in his chair, trying not to feel guilty.

For fuck's sake, he couldn't stand the man! And it wasn't like he didn't just dig around publicly available information!

Except, it felt icky. It wasn't that Nace looked bad before just-he clearly didn't want anyone else to see that. Was it also why he was so careful about what he ate?

Goddamn. Was this why he found Jan attractive in the first place? Because his self esteem was still so low he was content with someone being an asshole as long as they found him attractive?

Jan groaned and rubbed at his eyes. This wasn't healthy. He should just drop it. Get to know Nace like a normal person.

The issue was that he was never good at dropping the issue. Once he began digging, he needed to know. Most people would get frustrated when they couldn't solve an equation.

Jan, though? That only made him want to solve it more.

It was similar with people, although it didn't happen nearly as often. Jan usually wasn't very fond of people. The last time he research someone thoroughly was Kris.

Which was something Jan would never, in a million years admit to him. But sometimes, Jan simply wanted to rearrange something to see how it worked.

He wanted to rearrange Nace and understand what made him tick.

Matej did say to give him a chance. So, Jan would. Research was part of giving him a chance. He couldn't exactly give him a chance without finding stuff about him first though, could he?

So, he sent a simple text to Jure.

Me: Do you want to come over tomorrow after practice? I have sweets. And a cat

Jure: Why does it feel like I am getting bribed? 😸

Me: Is that a no?

He waited impatiently as Jure typed, drumming his fingers against his knee.

Jure: Obviously it's a yes. I am just wondering what I need to do to get those 😹

Nothing much. Just give him all the information he had on Nace. That wasn't asking too much, was it?

Me: I just have some questions about Nace. Nothing major

His message stayed on seen for an awfully long time. Jan started to think Jure would say no. But then finally, a message came forward.

Jure: Alright.

Jan put the phone down with a satisfied grin. Usually, finding enough stuff about things would get him to stop obsessing over it. Once he learned all he could, he could move on.

Which was how he ended up with Jure on his couch, chewing on the chocolate cookies he liked. Even Igor decided to cooperate for once and was contently purring while curled in Jure's lap.

"So," Jure said after swallowing the last bite, "what exactly did you want to ask me about Nace? I wasn't even aware you guys were close."

Jan had to play this carefully. Jure could be very perceptive if he put his mind to it. Thankfully for him, he often wasn't, his attention easily shifting from one thing to another. So as long as Jan kept him preoccupied with something else...it should be fine.

"We aren't. I just...felt bad about ignoring him. But I don't really know how to go around talking to him, so I figured it would be easier to already know things about him so I know which topics to go for and which to avoid."

Jure hummed thoughtfully, taking another cookie. Igor meow loudly, annoyed at sudden the lack of attention. He settled as Jure began petting him again.

"I'd avoid religion and food, for one. The two of you will definitely not have a fun time talking about that. You can ask him about his dog, Ollie, he loves talking about him. Music is also obvious answer. Oh! He also mentioned he is considering doing some pottery classes? Something about his sister taking them and him wanting to try? You can ask him about that."

He didn't notice the way Jan froze with a cup of tea halfway to his mouth. Religion? Food, he guessed why was a sensitive topic. But he found nothing about religious aspect from his research.

"Religion? I wasn't aware he was religious."

Jure dangled a piece of cloth in front of Igor, making him reach out and attempt to catch it with his pawns. Jan discreetly took a sip of his tea.

"Well, perhaps religious is generous. I don't think he goes to church, but he is...what's the word? Spiritual? He definitely believes in God."

Of course. Of course, Jan's cursed soulmate had to believe in God. Destiny had always been a noose tied around his neck. Why would it stop now?

"I see."

Jure huffed and gently put Igor to the ground.

"Don't be like that. Nace is really nice, okay? And he doesn't push his beliefs on others."

Jan did his best nit to roll his eyes. Maybe he didn't push it towards just anyone, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it if he ever found out about their connection. Not that he could tell Jure that.

Igor hopped over to his lap, clearly annoyed by Jure's contact movement. Jan scratched him behind the ear, earning himself a satisfied purr.

"Noted,” Jan paused, considering a most neutral topic, “Anyway, anything new with you?”

Jure's eyes lit up, and even before he spoke, Jan knew he was going to mention his soulmate. Their connection was by far the strangest one Jan had witnessed.

He met her, of course. Nika often showed up to their concerts. She was a small redhead with bright blue eyes and a smile that matched Jure's sunshine energy.

When they were together, it was like seeing the purest connection. They had the ability to communicate without saying a word, but that wasn’t even the most fascinating part.

It was like they moved differently when they were around each other. Like magnets, pushing and pulling against an invisible field only the two of them could feel.

It scared Jan half to death when he thought about it for too long. Not being himself when he was around someone else to a point even the way he carried himself changed.

"Oh, I met up with Nika recently. She is doing good. A bit overwhelmed with all the exams at uni, but yeah. She is smart, she'll do great."

Ah, yes. University. Jan hadn't been to his in ages. Technically, he had an exemption and could just show up for exams in February, but still. That was something he should consider doing after things calm down a bit.

"That sounds good," Jan hesitated, biting his lip, "Actually, can I ask you something?"

Jure lazily stretched. Like a cat, without a care on the world. Jan's stomach was turning.

"Yeah, shoot."

"Do you ever wish she wasn't your soulmate?"

Jure opened his eyes abruptly, staring at him in shock. Jan winced at the way he blurted it out.

"I mean...do you ever wish she was just a friend and your soulmate was someone else? Or that you were like Kris and didn't have to worry about it at all?"

Jan turned his attention to Igor, suddenly very interested in the black and white patterns on his fur. He waited for Jure's answer patiently.

"I wouldn't say Kris doesn't worry about that at all. But to answer your question, no. Nika is special to me. She will always be special and there is probably no other person in the world that will understand me as much as she does. But that doesn't stop me from loving other people romantically."

Jure was fidgeting with his hands, as if searching for the right words to explain himself.

"I know our connection isn't conventional, but I don't need it to be, y'know? And I think that, in most cases our soulmates are exactly the people we need to help us grow."

He met Jan's eyes suddenly, blue eyes pinning him in place. Jan flayed open, as if Jure could see right into his soul, or what was left of it.

"You don't usually ask personal questions. You like that neither of us talk about our families or soulmates much. Something is different."

Jan swallowed. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, but no words came out. Then, finally:

"Can you ignore it? The connection, I mean. Can you...carry on, as if there is nothing."

Jure sighed.

"This is not a hypothetical discussion, is it?"

Jan went very, very still. Was he truly that obvious? How could have Jure even began to figure it out?

"Can we pretend it is?"

Jure stared at him silently for a moment. Then he popped another cookie and he chewed it almost aggressively while glaring at the wall.

"In short, no. I don't think you can ignore it. Maybe if you have an incredible amount of self control, which you do not by the way, then yeah, maybe. But I don't think it's healthy. Especially not when you are around them all the time."

Jure stood up suddenly and Igor, spooked by the sudden movement, jumped out of Jan's lap and hid behind the couch. Jan slowly rose from his seat, too.

"I appreciate the cookies and Igor. But if you'll excuse me, I will now go on a walk and try and forget we had this conversation. For the record, though, as much as I love you I think you are being incredibly unfair."

Jan flinched at that. That stung, especially from Jure. Jure was mostly carefree and rarely judged anyone. So for him to throw something like this in his face was unusual to say the least.

He walked to the hallway and began putting on his shoes. Jan walked after him, his heart heavy.

"I thought at least you'd understand," Jan said desperately, trying to get him to understand his side, "With the dynamic you and Nika have..."

"We talked about it. Multiple times over the years. You don't-you can't build anything by keeping it to yourself."

Jure rubbed his hand over his face. Then he grabbed his coat. He hesitated at the door, though.

"I won't tell Nace, but I think you should. There is a lot more to him than you think."

"Like what?"

Jure stared back, his eyes narrowing.

"That's something you'll need to find out for yourself. Until then, I'd prefer to pretend we didn't have this conversation."

Before Jan could even begin to think on how to respond to that, Jure was out of the door and rushed down the flight of stairs. Jan stared at the empty space that he occupied only moments before for a moment and then gently closed the door.

Something about the manner Jure spoke rattled him much more than any of the other interactions. Kris, Matej,...they all had reasons to oppose him. Kris, because he wanted what Jan had, Matej, because he was afraid of Jan regretting his choices.

But Jure? Other than having sympathy for Nace's position as a newest addition to the band, what reason did he have to oppose him?

Was there something more he was missing? Or was he truly in the wrong here?

As he thought about it, he went to run his hand through his hair and he froze. His hair was still up in a bun from earlier. And with the way Jure was sitting, he’d have a good view of his soulmark from the side. Since Nace’ was always on display, and with Jan’s unsubtle question, it wouldn’t take Jure much to come to the right realization. Fuck.

Jan flopped down on the couch and buried his face in it. He'd consider talking to Nace. Tomorrow.

#jance #my writing #joker out #nace jordan #jan peteh #inertia

14 notes · View notes

clove-pinks · 6 months

Text

Tired and drained, but I'm reading Charles Carrington again and having weird nostalgia feelings about it since it's been 20 years since my first First World War phase. Back in the day I read Soldier from the Wars Returning (1965), and also Carrington's 1929 memoir A Subaltern's War. My memories are intertwined with thoughts of the charming library in my home town (and Rhode Island's superior public library system); and I wish I could remember who wrote the interesting book about Vimy Ridge.

I was reading Carrington in pre-YouTube days, and it's wild to find television interviews with him. He lived until 1990! I love his "voice" in his books, and his actual speaking voice is also out there. I didn't quite appreciate this before, but Carrington is pretty much the Opposite of the sad gay poets with complicated feelings about nationalism, as WWI veterans go, and his memoir is one endless pacifists DNI, The Boche DNI, historians who don't like Douglas Haig DNI,

#shaun talks #charles carrington #great war #wwi #also thinking about how carrington and marryat are both patriotic british veterans #who would never argue for pacifism #but they use the word 'murder' to describe war

11 notes · View notes

undergroundrockpress · 3 months

Text

The Kinks, Paris 1965.

#rock photography #The Kinks #1965 #i wish it could be 1965 again

159 notes · View notes

asoulwithadream · 10 months

Text

I have a few things I would like to discuss about the new season of Good Omens. I'll unfortunately have to excuse any spelling errors or uncontrollable and un-intelligible babbling, my hands are shaking out of fear shock and adrenaline is going to be the end of me.

We'll have to begin with the elephant in the room. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK FUCKS NO WAHOOS FROM ME THAT WAS NOT TICKETY BOO AT ALL. NEIL GAIMAN I DEMAN CONPENSATION FROM THE IMMENSE PAIN I HAVE HAD TO ENDURE IN THE PAST MINUTE OF JUST PURE SELF REFLECTION????????????????? HELP ME IM GOING TO START CRYING AGAIN AS IF I'M NOT DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

This was supposed to be a comedy. This was supposed to be the funniest Armagenope and the even funnier sequel. This was supposed to be quiet, gentle and romantic. WHY. AM. I. CRYING

Doctor Who is canon in this universe you know why? When he was selling the 1965 draft there were very clear TARDIS noises in the background....... I think the Doctor might have gotten the coordinates wrong. Must have been freaked out seeing a ginger version of himself through the window with Michael fucking Sheen.

HOW DID WE GET INEFFABLE BUREAUCRACY SO FUCKING EASY???? I SWEAR IT WAS A JOKE SHIP HOW DID IT HAPPEN BUT THEY PULLED THIS FUCKING SHIT AFTERWARDS LIKE NOT EVEN TWO FUCKING MINUTES AFTER. IF FUCKING GABRIEL AND BEELZEBUB CAN FUCKING DOING IT, GIVE US OUR QUIET GENTLE AND ROMANTIC ENDING FUCKWADS.

"I forgive you." That's it. That's number 5. I hate the number 5 now.

Every day it's a-gettin' closer, I want to sit underneath a bulldozer. I don't think I'll be managing to live henceforth I quite think I will die now. Give me coffee or give me death you say? I pick the latter.

You can NOT say that Crowley isn't fucking Raphael now. YOU CAN'T. "For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happen twice makes it look like there is some kind of institutional issue." CROWLEY COULD ALSO ACCESS THE FILE- DUDE HE IS RAPHAEL HE WAS AN ARCHANGEL YOU CAN'T YOU ACTUALLY CAN'T YOU CAN NOT

Speaking of Crowley as an angel that opening scene I swear I was actually going to cry that was so sweet and oh my god if he had just KNOWN he is RIGHT I stand for CROWLEY. He deserves his rights, however I don't think he really wants to go back to Heaven now WWAAAAAH WHY DID I REMINDS MYSELF OF THAT.

Michael Sheen and David fucking Tennant. Hah. Well DONE. APPLAUSE. HAH. HAHHHHHHAHHAHAHAHH.

EVEN THE FUCKING KISS WAS SAD AND HOW AZIRAPHALE REACTED IM JUST I WAS ACTUALLY CRYING. I WAS PHYSICALLY SCREAMING THE ENTIRE TIME "GO AFTER HIM LIKE THOSE AIRPORT THINGS CATCH HIM BEFORE HE LEAVES GO GO GO GO GO SAY NO SAY NO PLEEEEAASSSEEEEE"

If Crowley says being smitten by Gabriel is a bad thing, he wishes he would have had Gabriel instead of Gaiman as his punisher.

All in all, I very much loved the season beside the incredibly unbearingly heavy angst that fingers at my eyeballs, scratches at my neck and burns my intestines. Can't wait for season 3!!!!!

#good omens 2 #good omens spoilers #david tennant #michael sheen #excuse my little rant i just had to get it all out before i exploded #aziraphale #crowley #every day it's a getting closer #now its here and i don't want it anymore #im dead unfortunately

17 notes · View notes

themissfits · 6 months

Text

Closure

I have just finished watching Gadis Kretek (Cigarette Girl) series on Netflix.

Boy, it was really emotional bending.

The series is about a girl named Dasiyah who fell in love with a stranger named Soeraja. The narrative begins in the present, where Soeraja finds himself on his deathbed, suddenly longing for Jeng Yah, a name that refers to Dasiyah. This leads one of his sons, Lebas to embark on a quest to find her.

This romantic series intricately weaves its plot with the historical context of tobacco industries back in the 1960s as well as the 1965 political PKI incident. I enjoyed watching the series as it’s not cringe, or hopeless romantic. Instead, it presents a beautifully crafted story that is both touching and profound.

I will not talk much into detail, but the rest of this post contains a little bit of spoiler.

So, Soeraja was supposed to marry Dasiyah. However, just days before their wedding, Dasiyah and her father were taken hostage by the paramilitary. Tragically, her father died in captivity, while Dasiyah went missing for two years. One day, Dasiyah was released. I thought Dasiyah would finally reunite with Soeraja, but he had already become engaged with another girl. Dasiyah came to their wedding and asked Soeraja about his feelings one more time, but he did not respond. Dasiyah then found comfort from Seno, the one who has been helping her family since the 1965 incident.

Dasiyah and Soeraja never met again until one day, when Soeraja saw her walking on the station platform from the train window. They agreed to start all over again and planned to meet at the station one week later. Soeraja came to the station as planned, but Dasiyah never showed up, no matter how long he waited. On the day when they were supposed to meet, Dasiyah fell ill and died the following week.

In the present time, Soeraja finally met Arum, Dasiyah’s daughter from her marriage to Seno. Arum and Lebas recounted Dasiyah’s story to Soeraja, giving him some closure about his long-lost love.

I wish everyone could find such closure as well.

I wish we could have such closure.

9 notes · View notes

faggotadeux · 2 years

Text

i wish people put in more '60s accurate details in their fanfictions so i present some things from the '60s the characters in the outsiders would have seen/used/experienced.

school lunches

this is what the gang most likely would have had at school lunch. people don't really talk about school lunch in their fanfics but i really think they should. could you imagine the romance of eating "weiner wraps" with ponyboy?

these honestly sound disgusting no wonder dallas dropped out.

rip johnny cade you would have loved high school cheezy breadsticks.

EDIT: it said in the book that the greasers didn't go to the cafeteria for lunch!

halloween costumes

this one required two pictures because i wanted to show the true demon from hell itself that is the beatles mask halloween costumes. i wanna see someone write a fanfic about bob sheldon jumping johnny cade but dressed up as paul mccartney. now that would haunt my dreams.

'60s halloween costumes were honestly so scary even when they weren't trying to be.

could you imagine like a little baby four year old ponyboy going trick or treating and seeing those eyeball things? no wonder the kid has anxiety and ptsd.

60s fashion

i could make a whole post about clothing (dresses, housewear, school clothes, bathing suits, fuck even underwear) but for now i just wanted to highlight some of this stuff. if you're going for 1965, these looks are a bit more socy but cute! i wanna see cherry pop off in that orange dress.

if you're writing a few years after the main plots of the book (after 1966) that fashion could probably be seen with a lot of the characters! i could see ponyboy popping off with that sweater on the bottom left.

EDIT: fashion also depends on region! what people were wearing in Tulsa was different from what people were wearing in Miami, and vice versa.

semi-unrelated but we should acknowledge that mrs. curtis was a housewife in the 50s and for sure would have worn those pretty housewife dresses. she's so cool. we should talk about her more. EDIT: it's unlikely that she would have because of their financial status.

toys

i know that the characters are a bit old to be playing with toys- but they might still mention them in conversation. and these toys are perfect for any baby fanfics!

i know cherry would have SO played with those barbies. i would read a whole fic about cherry's barbie dreamhouse. could you imagine marcia and cherry playing barbies together? so cute. i could die.

if you're looking for toys the gang would have played with, i would look at toys from the 50s, especially for older characters like tim shepard and darry curtis.

EDIT: they most likely wouldn't have had that many toys! maybe only one or two.

christmas decorations

christmas in the '60s was so cute! i could so see cherry with one of those aluminum christmas trees in her house.

the second picture does a good job of showing what some kids might have gotten for christmas, along with what their tvs and other items looked like.

again, this is pretty soc-centered, but it can give y'all some good ideas for a nice '60s christmas fanfic with the gang.

conclusion

to start, a lot of the things here are revolve around the socs, and that's because they're rich. people idealize and remember the things that the rich had over the poor. even if the gang wouldn't have had these things, they still would have seen them around!

if you really want to go deep: look at boomer meme accounts. i know it sounds stupid, but trust me. you'll see tons of things like "no kids these days know what this means" and they think they're better than younger generations because technology has advanced. it's a great way to learn about some of the small things people had to do everyday that won't get talked about.

there were some parts of the '60s that were really cute. obviously, other parts of the decade weren't so i advise you all to be careful with how you write decade-accurate pieces. racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, and many other issues were rampant at this time. (general psa: you can write gay characters in 60s fanfictions! gay people did exist in the 60s.)

i do this thing in my fanfiction i like to call "vintage touches" where in would incorporate things from the original text/60s like drive in theaters, music, record players, fashion, etc. but, i would still have the fanfiction take place in the modern day.

this was a very fun post to make and i hope y'all like it! if anybody wants anything they want to see, please shoot me an ask! this is just scratching the surface.

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #cherry valance #bob sheldon #60s #1960s

112 notes · View notes

laurasimonsdaughter · 2 years

Note

Do you know of modern versions of deal with the devil fairytales/folktales?

Hmm, if you mean modern media inspired by those type of folktales, I’m afraid not. My interest lies with the folktales much more than modern fantasy! But if you mean “modern folktales”… Possibly my favourite fairy tale about a deal with the devil is a literary fairy tale written in 1965 by Dutch writer Godfried Bomans. I’ll try to do it justice in a retelling, it’s called The Stolen Heart:

There once was a fisherman who was rich in family but lacking in almost everything else. He and his wife lived in a little house by the sea. They had six children and one more on the way, but the fisherman barely caught enough fish to feed them all.

Since he loved them all very much it hurt him terribly to see them hungry. And one evening when he had caught even less than usual, he sighed: “If only I was able to catch more.”

“That can be arranged,” a voice behind him spoke, and the fisherman saw the voice belonged to a richly dressed nobleman who was blowing on his hands as if he was freezing cold. “Sell your soul to me and you will be rich beyond belief. All you have to do is breathe into my mouth.”

The fisherman considered this and while he did so a chill wind touched his face. “Then you are the devil,” he replied.

The nobleman stopped smiling. “Sell me your soul and you will be rich beyond belief.”

“Alright,” the fisherman relented and he did as the nobleman instructed and exhaled his breath into the mouth of the stranger. The very moment he did so he felt a coldness in his chest where his heart ought to beat. “What have you done with my heart?” he asked, frightened.

The stranger smiled. His cheeks were no longer pale. “In ten years you may see me again if you wish it, but you won’t wish it. I thank you.” And with that he jumped on his horse and rode off.

The fisherman could do nothing but roll up his nets and go home. But the net that had been empty before, now hid an oyster within the mesh, and in that oyster a giant pearl. The fisherman hurried home, but when his wife embraced him she startled because he felt cold as ice. The fisherman did not mind her, however, and told her to fetch the mayor.

He traded the pearl for a piece of land. It was a miserable little plot, but the first time the fisherman dug into the ground he found a chest full of treasure. This treasure he brought to the king and it bought him three ships, each with a crew one hundred strong. They set off in a merchant’s fleet, but tragedy struck. The fleet was destroyed in a terrible storm. Only the fisherman’s ships returned with their cargo of grain.

Now there was famine in the country, because the fleet had been lost, and the fisherman sold his cargo at ten times the price. Now he was truly rich beyond belief. He bought the royal palace to live in, because even the king had grown poor, and he sat on the sunny balcony listening to the starving people begging below. But he would give them nothing, because they could not pay.

This became too much for the King and he told the fisherman the people would die if nothing was done.

“What do I care?” the fisherman spoke. “I want for nothing.”

For the first time in his life the old king grew angry and he cried out: “You know what is wrong with you? You are heartless.”

The fisherman grew pale. “How do you know that?”

“Even a child can see it!” the king replied. “You laugh while the people starve in the street. It’s as if you’ve sold your soul to the devil.”

Now the fisherman grew as white as a sheet. “How do you know that?” he repeated.

The king startled. “You do not mean to say you truly sold your soul?”

“Yes,” the fisherman replied. “That is why I sit in the sun all day. I am cold.” And he took the king’s hand and placed it on his chest.

The king hastily drew back. It was like touching ice. The king, shaken to his core, ordered the fisherman to leave. He made a proclamation that the man who sold his soul was not to be harmed and that his leftover grain would be divided amongst the hungry.

Now everyone knew what the fisherman had done. He wandered from place to place, but everywhere the people fled from him. And no matter how much gold he offered, no one would give him bread or board. At last he remembered his wife and children and returned to his little house by the sea. Not because he loved them, but because he was hungry.

When he arrived he found his wife bent over the cradle, because their seventh child had just been born. But when she embraced him in greeting he pushed her away and when she placed her cheek against his chest she shrank back, because she felt the cold against her skin.

“So it is true,” she whispered. “And I have never believed it.”

“It is true,” the fisherman confirmed and he explained to his wife that they would never again have to worry about money and that once the people had gotten used to him, they would get whatever they wanted.

“That may be so,” his wife said. “But you no longer love me. And whatever you get, it won’t make you happy.” And she held up his newborn child to him, but all he could do was look at them both with cold eyes.

“You’re right,” he said. “That was the price.”

And so the fisherman lived with his wife and seven children, whom he no longer cared for. The youngest of them grew up strong and merry in spite of his father. When he was almost ten years old, he heard from his siblings what had happened to his father and why he was always cold and quiet. The boy grew to pity his father, so one day he went to him and said:

“Father, is it true you no longer have a heart?”

“That is true,” his father answered. “That was the price.”

“Do you not long to have it back?” the boy asked. “Do you want me to fetch it for you?”

“I don’t want anything,” his father replied. “How could I?”

“The ten years have almost passed,” his son said. “You could see him again, if you wished it.”

“How could I want or wish for anything? I have no heart for longing with.”

So the boy turned away from his father and prepared for a journey he did not know the length of. Then he hugged his siblings and kissed his mother and went to speak to his father one last time. But his father would not shake his hand or wish him well, so the boy set off to go to the devil.

He walked and walked, until he reached a place where the people told him there was a nobleman living nearby who had changed so suddenly almost ten years ago. He had always been cold and silent, but suddenly he had become cheerful and talkative. He had grown fond of children, though he had none. And of fishing, though he never worked a day in his life.

“Then he must have my father’s heart,” the boy thought and he set off towards the nobleman’s house.

On the way there he met an old woman, who greeted him kindly and asked where he was off to.

“I am going to the devil,” the boy replied.

“Is that so?” the old woman hummed. “Well, you may do so. He has no power over the innocent. But you must hurry, because tomorrow he is to set off on a journey.”

When he heard that, the boy’s own heart glowed, because tomorrow was the day he was born. The day his father lost his heart. So that had to mean that his father had wished to see the devil again after all, no matter how faintly, and that strengthened his resolve.

He reached the nobleman’s house at dawn and the devil himself opened the door when he knocked.

“Come in,” he said. “You are just in time, for I was about to go visit someone. You look quite like him.”

He led the boy into a large room filled with a rushing sound as if a hundred clocks were ticking all together. But when the boy looked around he saw rows and rows of glass cases lining the walls, each holding a heart that still beat.

“A hobby of mine,” he said carelessly. “Sit down, boy, and tell me, what can I do for you.”

But the boy did not sit. “You are the devil,” he said.

Now the devil sat down, because he knew he had met his adversary. “How do you know that?” he said softly.

“I know,” the boy said. “And I wish to know more. Who do these hearts belong to?”

Never in a million moons would the devil have answered such a question, but suddenly he felt quite weak. The father’s heart beat in his chest and he could not deny the boy.

“Ask something else,” he said.

“No. I ask this.”

The devil could not fight this strange feeling that he had never felt before. He was powerless to stop it. “Fine,” he said. “They are the hearts of the people who sold their soul to me. Now go, because you know too much already.”

“And why do you visit them again after ten years?”

“Ask something else,” he said.

“No. I ask this.”

Again the devil could not resist him. “I have to,” he replied. “After ten years they can get their hearts back, but most of them do not wish it. They have grown too used to me. Now go, because you know too much already.”

But the boy did not go and suddenly said: “Then give me my father’s heart.”

The devil grew pale. “Ask something else,” he whispered.

“No. I ask this.”

The devil looked at him in desperation. That strange, irrepressible feeling grew stronger and stronger and he could not deny this boy anything he asked for. But suddenly he had an inspiration. He reached into his chest, pulled out the father’s heart and placed it onto the table. At once he breathed a breath of relief, because the child’s hold over him had been broken. He looked at him with cold eyes and answered: “No.”

But the boy had already darted forward and snatched the heart off the table. He ran, and he ran as if he had the devil at his heels. Only he didn’t, because the devil didn’t have the heart to go after him.

So all the way home ran the boy, clutching his father’s heart, and he arrived there at nightfall.

“Father! Father!” he cried, running into the house. “I have stolen your heart!” And he placed the heart, that he had carried all the way, back into his father’s chest.

And no sooner had he done this, or the fisherman rose from his feet and wrapped his arms around his son. For the first time in ten years he looked around and saw his wife and children. Tears washed down his cheeks.

“How much you have all grown!” he wept. “And how much I love you all!”

Suddenly he felt the warmth of the flames in the hearth and he smelled the kettle boiling above it. He heard the wind whistle in the chimney and the rain ticking against the windows. Everything was new to him and everything was a delight.

He kissed his wife and he hugged his children and he took his place among them at the table and he could not stop telling them how much he loved them all.

But they do say he loved the youngest most of all. Because he had truly stolen his heart.

[Freely translated from “Het Gestolen Hart”, as published in Godfriend Bomans Groot Sprookjesboek, 1975]

#laura retells #godfried bomans #fairy tale #ask #anon

131 notes · View notes