#the lasso tool and I made peace with one another for this one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlestarofthewest · 4 years

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Title: Meeting Miss Morgan | Word Count: 2300 | Rating (for entire fic): 18+!!!

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female OC | Chapter: 02 of 08 | Link to Masterlist

It’s been six weeks since Arthur started working on the Henderson farm, and life begins to feel like a strange dream. Arthur has all these memories, of days spend thieving and killing, people by his side with dark pasts and questionable futures. They slowly fade away now, his priorities shifting.

Every day, Arthur wakes up with a new purpose. Digging a well, building a fence, moving around food for the animals. It's beautifully mundane, and yet so important. For all of it, Arthur's never wearing his gun belt, his stride strangely light without the added weight around his hips. If anything, he's only wearing tools these days.

Today, Arthur's up on the roof of the main house, looking to fix some leaks. The sun is warm on his skin, but for now, it's but a sweet caress. He should be done by the time it turns into scolding heat.

It's still early, and like every morning, Julie is the first to leave the house. Arthur has watched her many times as she made her way around the farm. Something is soothing about her, a quiet presence that can be felt all around.

One time, Arthur's been at the stables when Julie came in, talking to a mean-looking brute of a horse as if it was a sweet little kitten. And then there's her music. By now, Arthur longs to hear it, and days when she doesn't play aren't quite the same.

For a moment, Arthur is tempted to greet her, but she doesn't seem to see him, and he doesn't want to spook her. Instead, Arthur makes his way over the roof, trying to focus on his work. He makes good progress, daring to make use of his hammer now that he knows the people in the house are up.

Soon, a soft voice is shouting up to him. "Good morning, Arthur!"

Arthur looks down at Julie and tips his head. "Good morning, Miss Morgan."

"You have to stop calling me that," she sighs, before putting a hand on her hip, "or you leave me no choice but to bring this up with Mrs. Henderson."

Mrs. Henderson is a kind woman, but she has a set of very particular rules, and she knows a million different ways to enforce them. She already scolded Arthur for not calling her Martha, there's no telling what lecture he might hear if she finds out that he has offended Julie in the same way.

"You wouldn't be so cruel," Arthur says, bringing a smile to Julie's face that she tries to hide.

"Well, don't force my hand then," Julie says, the authority in her voice not convincing.

She walks inside without another word, but Arthur's not worried. Julie is way too kind to get him in trouble on purpose. They've had a few brief conversations, usually after dinner, before Arthur heads back to his cabin. She reminds him a little of Tilly or Mary-Beth, soft-spoken and too sweet for this world, like a drop of honey in bitter medicine.

While working on the roof, Julie keeps dancing around in Arthur's mind, and he soon hums the song she's been playing the night before. The hours go by, and Arthur is determined to finish this before taking a break when he spots something else that's been haunting his thoughts.

On the other end of the farm is a long stretch of open grassland, frequented by wild horses. Most of them aren't much to look at, but Arthur keeps seeing a beautiful Mustang. He tried to approach it a few times, if only to draw it, but it gets spooked easily and takes off like the wind whenever Arthur comes near.

Without thinking, Arthur makes his way down the roof and quickly heads for the stables to fetch the horse Mr. Henderson allows him to use. Equipped with a lasso, Arthur rides out, determined to meet the wild Mustang.

Arthur doesn't try a direct approach knowing that his horse won't be able to keep up. He opens up a small enclosure that Mr. Henderson sometimes uses if he needs to keep one of the horses on its own. With any luck, he might be able to trap the Mustang in there. Arthur circles it, giving it a chance to move closer to the fences and away from open land where it would have the advantage.

At first, it looks like Arthur might have pulled one over on the Mustang, but all of a sudden, it changes direction and jumps one of the fences. Arthur should probably let it go, but instead of fleeing in the opposite direction, the Mustang makes the mistake of coming Arthur's way. Without thinking, Arthur throws the lasso, trying to get the animal to stop.

He might as well have thrown the rope over a steam engine. Despite holding on with all his strength, Arthur has no chance of keeping the horse in check. There's a pull on the rope that threatens to tear his arms out, and the sudden burst drags Arthur out of his saddle. The air gets knocked out of him when he hits the ground, but he's too determined or maybe too stupid to give up.

Holding on to the rope, Arthur gets dragged along by the Mustang, but lucky for Arthur, his horse gets in motion as well, blocking the way. The Mustang rears, not quite sure where to go, and Arthur has the presence of mind to quickly get on his feet. Dodging the Mustang's hooves, he dives to his horse and binds the rope to the saddle, hoping to get enough leverage.

The Mustang is anything but happy, but at least it doesn't try to run. "That's it, boah. You aren't such a mean one, are you? Just calm down, and we can have a nice little talk."

With Arthur's soothing voice in its ear and the other horse's presence, the Mustang slowly quiets down. Arthur takes his time, not approaching it before it seems calm enough that it won't bolt right away. Sneaking closer in slow motion, Arthur keeps talking, trying his best to stay calm although the midday heat is getting to him.

After a while, the Mustang appears friendly enough that Arthur stretches out his arm to pat the horse's neck. It huffs a little but stays quiet, and Arthur pulls out a small apple, holding it out to the Mustang. "See this? Doesn't that look like a nice treat, huh? I bet you'd like that."

The Mustang takes the offer, carefully picking the apple out of Arthur's hand. While it's busy with chewing, Arthur gets on his own horse, setting it in motion. He tries not to pull too much on the lasso, letting the Mustang come along on its own instead.

They still take it slow, but Arthur has a feeling that they'll make it back without trouble. When they reach the stable, Julie comes rushing out, quickly opening up one of the paddocks to let Arthur and the horses in. He gets the lasso off the Mustang's neck and takes off the saddle of his horse to let them roam free.

After a few steps, he has to stop, though, a sharp pain shooting through his side. He manages to put the saddle over the fence before he has to lean against it.

"Arthur!" Julie shouts, and seconds later, she's by his side, worry on her face. "Are you alright?"

"It's nothing," Arthur says, but it comes out muffled through his gritted teeth when another jolt of pain rushes through him.

Julie's expression turns to anger. "It didn't look like nothing when that monster dragged you off your horse."

Arthur tries to reassure her that he's fine, but Julie is already running her hands down his shoulders and arms. Before he can stop her, Julie unbuttons his shirt and pushes the fabric aside to check him for injuries.

"I guess it's just a bruise," she says then, her voice a bit calmer. "I hope for you, you didn't break anything."

Arthur knows he should still be in pain, but Julie's fingers are trailing carefully over his skin, and instead of the sharp pain, all that remains is a soft tickle that fills his chest with warmth.

"It's fine," he manages to say, his voice so rough that he has to clear his throat.

Julie jumps a little at the sound and takes her hands away, a blush creeping onto her face. "You should still check in with the doctor. Mr. Henderson and I are driving to town anyway. You should come along."

Arthur buttons his shirt, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach. It's been a while since someone's been so concerned for him, and he's not sure what to say. "I still have to finish the roof."

Julie shakes her head. "I don't think so."

-------

Mr. Henderson is a man who gives credit where credit is due. He's mighty impressed by Arthur's catch, and while Arthur would be fine with just handing the Mustang over, he insists on buying the horse from Arthur for a decent sum.

Arthur makes his peace with that. After all, he can always use a little money. He also might have gotten away with his fall, but Julie isn't above telling on him, and Arthur finds that Mr. Henderson is also a man who cares about his workers.

That's how Arthur ends up sprawled out in the back of the wagon, driving into town with Julie and Mr. Henderson. Upon arrival, Mr. Henderson excuses himself, having to take care of urgent business. According to Julie, that business is a local fence, and there's a good chance Mr. Henderson is looking for some jewelry for Mrs. Henderson's birthday.

Arthur keeps himself from asking about the fence, remembering that he has no more use for this kind of contact. Instead, Julie drags him to the local doctor. Lucky for him, the man has seen way worse in his time, and since he declares that Arthur is going to be just fine, Julie stops checking on him every two seconds.

They head back to the wagon, and Julie gives Arthur directions to drive to the grocery store. While Julie goes through a long list of things they need with the shop owner, Arthur takes a look around. With a little money to his name, he decides that he could buy a new shirt. The one he's wearing looks even worse now that it's been dragged over the dirty ground.

Arthur picks a simple shirt with a small standing collar, leaving the top unbuttoned. Looking into the small mirror in the corner of the shop, he almost feels like a different person. He's about to change back when Julie rounds the corner. "Arthur, are you-?"

She stops in her tracks, her eyes wandering over Arthur's chest. Under her scrutiny, he's reminded that he's still who he is, with the same past. Putting on another shirt won't change that.

"I thought I put my money to good use," Arthur says, feeling the need to explain himself.

Julie nods, her eyes finally reaching Arthur's face. "Of course. I'll be outside."

Arthur nods, and Julie quickly heads outside. For a moment, Arthur is tempted to leave the shirt, but the sight of his old one makes him change his mind. He walks over to the shop owner when his eyes fall on a display next to the register. There are some journals, and while Arthur is still set with the one he's writing in now, he's reminded of something else.

Over the last two weeks, he's seen Julie drawing in a journal once in a while. He couldn't see what she was drawing, but she used small stubs of pencils each time. It's a mystery to Arthur how she can do anything at all with them, so he buys a few new ones. After she's been so caring with him today, he wants to give something back.

Outside, Julie is already waiting on the wagon. She throws a quick look at the small package in Arthur's hand but doesn't comment on it. "I know where that fence is," she says instead. "I say we drive over there and pick up Mr. Henderson."

"Sure," Arthur says, and Julie steers the wagon into the middle of the road.

It's a short drive to a farmhouse a little outside of town. They stop there to wait, and when the quiet between them begins to feel uncomfortable, Arthur decides that it's as good a time as any to give Julie his gift.

"I got something for you," he says, handing Julie the package.

"For me?" Julie asks, looking back and forth between Arthur and the package before finally opening it.

Her face lights up when she uncovers the pencils. "Oh, Arthur, that's so nice."

"I noticed the ones you were drawing with, and they didn't seem to last much longer."

Julie smiles at Arthur with shining eyes. "Well, I don't like spending money on them with what I draw. It's really nothing special."

"If you manage to draw anything with those little stubs, then I'm sure your work is much better than you give yourself credit for."

Arthur didn't mean to get anything in return, but Julie suddenly leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "Thank you, Arthur. That's really sweet."

Lucky for Arthur, Mr. Henderson leaves the farmhouse then. To make room, Arthur escapes to the back of the wagon, his cheek still burning by the time they're back on the road. Julie is carefully rewrapping the pencils, and the sight of her happy face makes Arthur's heart skip a beat. Usually, Arthur's good at tricking himself, but this time he has to admit right away that he's in big trouble.

#my writing

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quillforge-library · 4 years

Text

May 2nd: Rope

The bounty hunter Morgan Goode stalked her quarry through the gulch as the sun beat down on the Montanna mid-afternoon. The stetson she wore covered her eyes in shadow with its wide brim, whilst she watched a tumbleweed gently meander across the mouth of the dried up river bed. A pair of spurs jangled slightly from her custom made leather boots with each step her horse took. Three days outside of Georgetown, Morgan had only one thought on her mind: finding the location of a hidden stash from the bandit Moira Byrne. They were heading east, thankfully, which placed the sun behind Morgan should anyone look her way.

It had all begun a few nights before at a saloon in Georgetown. The whisky flowed like water through the gills of fish, and many a game of Faro was enjoyed that night by the gambling sorts. The whores, both male and female, did a roaring trade. It was by all accounts a successful night in the old West. Morgan had been in town a couple of days, restocking on supplies and handing in a bounty to the sheriff's office. It was a tough old life being a bounty hunter. Every step could be your last, but that was just the way Morgan liked it. She wasn’t much suited for softer work.

On this particular evening she had situated herself in the corner, drinking sparsely from a bottle of the old firewater herself. Half of the job of a good bounty hunter was being an excellent eavesdropper. Morgan was able to listen to a room full of people talking and keep three or four separate conversations straight in her head as she listened, whilst looking inconspicuous to her own impoliteness. The doors to the saloon swung open and in came Moira. She carried with her a heavy revolver strapped to her right hip, and an enormous Cheshire cat grin as she sauntered to the bar and demanded the best whisky in the house. Two hours later and everyone in the place knew that she had just split from the gang she was running with, that she had a bounty on her head, but more importantly that she had stashed her share of the profits from a recent train robbery.

Morgan supposed that Moira had thought that she was safe mouthing off in the town. Everyone was in awe of the red hand gang, the group that Moira had just split from. In order to get in you had to be a pretty rough and ready character, or so the stories went. Plus they had pulled off that train robbery, which almost always ended in disaster. There was a slim chance that anyone would be gunning for Moira after that story. Save for the steel eyed bounty hunter following her trail.

Mopping her brow slightly, Morgan pushed her fringe out of her eyes. Though her chestnut hair was closely cropped, it still dangled down at the front when left to its own devices. The back of her quarry’s head was just visible at the edge of her vision, but the gulch was just about to end abruptly and make its way into a steep valley, so Morgan felt it was time to close the distance. Once she got into the valley, there would be no easy escape and there was plenty of privacy to be had.

Spurring the horse into a canter, Morgan checked her lasso knotwork. She was a Kentucky girl herself, which meant horse rearing. Inevitably that also meant that she was a dab hand with a length of rope, in more ways than one. Her family had owned a pony farm on the outskirts of a small town, but when bandits came and stole the whole flock her family had gone out of business real quick. Her daddy had already taken out a loan about as big as he was going to get, and his gambling habit didn't feed itself. Morgan pushed back these thoughts that came unbidden to the fore of her mind. Though the hatred of the lawless would steel her resolve, thinking about her family just made her feel depressed. As her calloused hands felt along the length of the knotwork, she found that it was impeccable as always. Nobody would be able to loosen that once it was pulled taut.

Stepping carefully out of the gulch, it was a small distance to enter the valley. The temperature was rising uncomfortably from the high position of the sun. At least in the valley there was the shelter of the pine trees lining both sheer slopes. The scent of the trees wafted from the pathway where a carpet of their leaves had fallen. Good, Morgan thought to herself, that will give me something to tie her to.

The showdown approached, with Moira still none the wiser to the fact she was being stalked by a rope toting cowgirl. This was part of Morgan’s tactics. She hated to shoot people, no matter how rotten. Everyone out here had someone, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. The list went on. It was far easier to make peace with the bounty hunter who brought your loved one back alive, even if they ended up swinging at the end of a sheriff's noose. And for those that went to jail? At least you could visit or write them. Sizing up the shape of the clearing and the distance between the trees, Morgan coiled the rope to the appropriate length for swinging in such conditions and she began to whirl the lasso over her head as quietly as she could.

The throw landed perfectly. Moira would have only a moment to notice the rope flying past her vision, before she was flying through the air to meet the ground. She cried out in surprise and shock at the sudden rude awakening from what had just moments before been a pleasant trot through some picturesque scenery. Now for the clever part. Morgan spurred her horse into action again, this time driving the mare into a gallop. The rope had caught Moiras hands down by her sides, but most folk worth their salt could still reach their gun from here. Timing it just right, Morgan galloped past like the wind. At the exact moment when Moira was taking her revolver out of the holster she took an almighty jolt from the rope dragging her along. Most people dropped their guns when this happened, and Moira proved to be no exception. The revolver slipped from her hands and bounced once on the pine carpet as she found herself dragged by the bounty hunter deeper into the valley.

Once the gun was dealt with, Morgan slowed her horse to a trot. She was still dragging Moira along, but at least she wasn't smashing her captive off every rock and root through this wild off-road track. Locating a large enough tree for her purposes, Morgan approached and climbed down. The lasso was secured to the horse bridle, and in turn she secured the horse to a nearby log.

“Good girl.” She praised, passively. Her eyes instead watched as Moira was trying to free herself from the bindings, but finding them too tight to do anything about. Her hands were jammed hard against her sides, and the knot was impossible to even reach, never mind undo. Morgan drew her pistol and approached.

“Moira.” She called out on the approach. Moira spun around quickly and upon seeing the gun trained on her she sagged her shoulders.

“Ah fuck.” She said despondently. It took Morgan by surprise slightly, having expected a lot more fire from this alleged firecracker, at least if her antics last night were anything to go by.

“Come with me up the hill to this tree, or I am going to be forced to shoot you..” As she spoke, Morgan busied herself getting behind Moira and marching her uphill. She complied without another word.

“Now sit with your back against the tree.” Morgan said, and again Moira complied. Morgan then untied the rope from her horse and walked it around the tree multiple times, looping the rope higher and higher up Moira’s torso until the rope sat just under her ample bosom. Morgan tied it off and admired her handiwork. It was a sturdy tie and wouldn't be coming loose any time soon.

“Who the hell are ya, anyway?” Moira hollered, as Morgan went to her saddlebags to get the rest of her equipment. She took out a coil of rope, a large wooden stake, a mallet and a bag. Once she had these items, she walked back in front of Moira, who by now was looking flustered.

“Name’s Morgan Goode, but I go by another name too. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of me?” She said, arranging her tools on the ground as Moira looked on in cautious curiosity.

“Well yer handy with those ropes, I know that much.” Moira muttered darkly as she squirmed to find some give in the bondage, only to find there was none. Morgan reached down and took hold of one of Moira's legs by the ankle. She tried to kick, but found that Morgan’s grip was too strong. Before Moira knew it she had lost both of her boots, leaving her feet shod in thin cotton socks. Her feet squirmed when introduced to their new predicament, one sole covering the other.

“Straighten your legs, please.” Morgan asked, taking a good hard look at Moira for what seemed like the first time. She was shorter than Morgan thought, standing almost six inches less than Morgan herself. She was also a hell of a lot cuter than Morgan was expecting, with auburn hair tied in braids, chocolate brown eyes that were surprisingly soft and a curvaceous figure. For a moment Morgan started to wonder if she had maybe caught the wrong gal.

“I ain't doing what ya say.” Moira spat back in an act of defiance, causing Morgan to sigh deeply.

“We can do this the hard way if you would prefer.” Morgan picked up the large wooden stake in one hand and mallet in the other. Moira’s eyes widened for a moment, but then turned to a look of curiosity when Morgan began to hammer the stake into the ground about four feet away from the tree. It took almost a minute to embed it fully, but once she was done Morgan knew that even her horse wouldn’t have been able to pull this out of the ground. Next she took the rope and coiled it in a complex way until she had made another lasso, though this one was much smaller.

“Last chance to do as I ask.”

“Or else what?”

“Or I embarrass you again, like this.” With slow and deliberate movements, Morgan picked the coiled rope up and reached out her other hand. Despite kicking and flailing as best she could, Moira couldn’t stop the other woman from seizing a firm grip on her ankle and pulling her leg taught, the joints and muscles straightening against her will.

“Get off me! Ya have no idea what trouble yer in!” Moira’s voice was getting shriller, higher pitched and with more of a panicked twinge to it. Morgan still hadn’t explained what was about to happen next. Kneeling across Moira’s shin, she reached out and took hold of her other leg and pulled it beside the first. Moira was probably referring to her affiliation with the Red Hand gang, but probably didn’t realise that Morgan was in the saloon last night and heard this little firecracker openly admit she wasn’t running with that gang anymore.

The trap closed over Moira’s ankles and she was forced to watch as Morgan pulled the ropes taut and bound it to the stake. Her knotwork was hypnotic and impeccable to the point where Moira didn’t even bother to struggle, she just glowered at Morgan, who by this point was starting to enjoy herself.

“Now.” She began, setting a small canvas bag down next to Moira’s bound and socked feet. “It’s time to talk, Moira.” As she spoke, Morgan took a number of items out of her bag and laid them out on the ground. A pair of soft looking eagle tail feathers, a horse grooming brush and a ball of twine.

“What… are ya gonna tickle me or something?” Moira said astutely. Morgan looked her right in the eye and allowed a tiny smile to creep into the corners of her lips. “Wait… I know ya.” Moira exclaimed, eyes going wide with horror at the realisation. “Yer the Kentucky Quill!” Morgan nodded once and tipped her hat in acknowledgement.

“That’s right. So you know what comes next, but you don’t know what I want, but I bet you can guess..” Picking up the plumes before regarding her captive’s socks, Morgan inspected the material. They were white cotton socks, or rather they were white once. A little dirty these days, with some holes in the toes and one or two around the sole. It wasn’t an uncommon sight by any means. It was a welcome sight for Morgan though, as she often liked to start with the socks on.

“I imagine ya want me to talk about my stash from the big train job, but ya must be outta yer mind if ya think I’m gonna spill my guts from a little ticklin'.”

“It always starts and ends the same way. Last chance before we get started.”

“Do yer worst!” Moira glowered.

“As you wish.” Morgan said, delighted that Moira was going to try to resist. She always loved it when they put up a fight, but every single person the Kentucky Quill had ever tied up had spilled the beans one way or another. “Say your prayers Moira, because you’ll need a higher power to resist.”

With that said, Morgan slipped an eagle feather into Moira's left sock through one of the holes in the toes. The bandit squirmed her ankle, trying to jerk her foot away, but Morgan simply took hold of the top of Moiras foot in the palm of her other hand to hold it still. Twisting the feather between her fingers, Morgan caused the implement to spin around in the sock, tickling Moira’s sole. The bandit twitched and struggled as best she could, trying not to laugh in a vain attempt to deprive Morgan of her fun. Little did Moira know, but this was exactly how Morgan liked it.

“Come on quit it!” Moira growled, more bravely than she probably felt by this point, “Yer not gonna break me with this kids stuff, I ain't never gonna tell ya where my stash is!”

The quill sawed up and down throughout the sock, finding all sorts of little places to get lost in for a few moments before gliding back upwards. Trapping the feather between the sock and the sole did diminish how ticklish it was, but it made it much harder to get away from, as Moira was quickly discovering. Since she couldn't make very dramatic movements with her foot, Moira found that the small movements she could make were actually contributing to tickling her foot. She began to titter in earnest.

“Quit it I said!” She yelled now, squirming in her bondage even more, knowing it would earn her only deepening rope marks.

“You are in control of your own tickling, Moira.” A shiver went down Morgan’s back when she said the word “Tickling”. She normally disliked saying or hearing the word because of how it made her feel, but in this context it was thrilling. There were things you could say to a bound captive that you could never say in polite conversation, and if you did manage to say them in that context it would never convey the same titillating feeling. “Just as soon as you cry for mercy and tell me where your stash is, I’ll stop tickling and we can set off to go dig it up.”

It was time to up the ante, Morgan felt, so she released her hold on Moira’s foot and then placed the other feather in her other sock, this time through the hole in the sole. Moira gave out a squeal at the contact and began squirming both feet back and forth. It didn't do her much good at this point though, Morgan was moving more or less in time with Moira to keep up the tickling sensations.

“Wait a second!” Cracks in Moira‘s armour were visibly forming as sweat beaded at her freckled forehead. Clearly she was growing frustrated at the insistent tickling and her own inability to quell it or escape it. “Give me a minute, would ya? I gotta remember where it is!”

Morgan knew full well that this was a stalling tactic to earn her feet a break, but she indulged it with amusement. Letting Moira have a modicum of control allowed Morgan to take it away as a punishment, which always led to some of her favourite scenarios when tickling a prisoner. Withdrawing the feathers she teased them down Moira‘s sock covered insteps, and even this was giving the bandit cause to squirm.

“Take all the time you want, dear. I‘ll still be here waiting to continue the second you decide that you can‘t recall, or when you've found your nerve again.”

“Ya dirty... grrr…”

“The only thing dirty around here are your socks. Speaking of which, since you‘re clearly stalling, I think it‘s time we took them off.”

Without waiting to listen to her complaints, Morgan stripped Moira of her socks. She took both at once in one single yank of the material gathered by the toes and tossed them over her shoulder. Moira wouldn't be needing socks for the foreseeable future as far as Morgan was concerned.

“Damn it! Ya can‘t do this to me!”

“Actually, I can and I am, and there isn‘t anything you can do to stop me. Plus, I know for a fact that this valley is used as a route infrequently, so we are unlikely to be discovered if you were hoping for rescue from your predicament. I don‘t mind if you give up now, in ten minutes, in an hour, or even tomorrow morning. All I know is that I am going to tickle your bare feet until you submit and talk.”

Without waiting for further discourse, Morgan swept the tips of the feathers from Moira‘s heels to the tips of her short toes. The bandit‘s feet were small and wide, forming almost an inverted triangle shape and with aforementioned short, round toes. It would be a challenge to get fingernails between them, but the feather fit just fine. Sawing it back and forth elicited shrieks of panic from Moira, but because she could still wiggle her feet back and forth a bit, Morgan struggled to keep the feather in that sweet spot that would make her squeal. Instead she began sweeping both feathers randomly up and down her flailing feet, which struggled from side to side like a metronome.

“Quit it! Quit it! I’ll never talk, ya pain in the ass!” Moira struggled to speak in between her squeaks, squeals and attempt to keep her lips together. She hadn’t out and out laughed yet, but Morgan was working up to it. Her feet were plenty ticklish though, pleasing the bounty hunter immeasurably. She anticipated that Moira would be begging around the time the brush got to her soles based on her experience of tickling bound feet.

“Then I’ll never give you another break. I bet you’ll need me to stop way before I need to stop. The only thing that gets you breaks is information.” Morgan retorted matter of factly. By now she had been feathering Moira for about a minute and a half and already she could see the resolve cracking on the bandit.

After that, Morgan just ignored every insult, threat and swear word that came out of Moira’s filthy mouth. The feather continued to stroke up and down time after time, teasing at the edges of her feet, sweeping under the toes, dominating the arch of the foot and tracking along each of the bandit’s adorable toes. As Morgan progressed with the tenacious tickling, Moira lost the ability to hold in her giggles, then she began to guffaw,

“Stop! Stop! I’ll tell ya where the money is!” Moira yelled through her laughter. Morgan didn’t stop right away though, every action she performed aimed at taking control away from Moira and illustrating just who was in charge. The feathers decreased in speed gradually, like a train approaching a station until the tips rested against the captive woman’s heels.

“Talk then.” Morgan said, knowing that she wouldn’t. Knowing this was just a ploy to make the tickling stop for a moment, and it took every ounce of self control to not smile knowing what her counter play to this move was ahead of time. From her experience what came next would either be an outright lie, stalling tactics, a conversation attempt, or in her favourite cases pleading. There was something just so satisfying about upping the ante on someone who was begging for mercy, yet unwilling to actually break properly.

“Wait a sec, wait- ahh!” Stalling it was, so Morgan stroked both feathers up Moira’s soles.

“Talk.” Morgan said gruffly, as if she were losing her patience, as opposed to having the time of her life.

“Fuck off!” Moira yelled with all the violent venom she could muster in between having her soles feathered. Well that tore it. Morgan wouldn’t stand for a foul mouth pointed in her direction. Wordlessly she placed the feathers down and picked up the twine.

“You asked for this.” She warned, taking a length of the course material and winding it around Moira’s big toes in a handcuff knot, before tying it off around the rope securing her ankles. It pulled both of Moira's feet together and then bent them back to force the soles taut. She could still wiggle all of her other toes, but her big toes were now restrained. The bound woman tried to spit at Morgan, tried to shout at her to get her attention, and tried to find a flaw in the bondage. Nothing was working, and now the lesson was to be implemented. She did this to herself.

Using the edges of the feathers, Morgan now inserted them into space beside her restrained big toes and moved them back and forth simultaneously, stimulating the soft flesh between her toes. The reaction was an instantaneous shriek and immediate remorse, manifested by a renewed bout of begging and promising to cooperate. She had earned this though, Morgan thought as she lazily sawed back and forth, putting minimal effort in to get uproarious results. She would continue to punish Moira for a good minute of non-stop sawing between her hypersensitive toes. When the bandit started growing hoarse from all the undignified screeching, Morgan ceased between the toes and began stroking her taut soles instead. The realisation that she was unable to move her feet away from the torment hardly at all brought out a renewed bout of helpless laughter from Moira. She tried to restrain it, tried to fight it, but Morgan knew her stomach muscles would be aching by now.

“Quit it!” She yelled between forced laughter. “Stop! I’ll tell ya, I mean it!” Morgan smirked to hear it and carried on regardless. She had just built up a rhythm of alternating strokes and was enjoying the laughter too much. She also wanted Moira to realise that the more she tried to resist and deceive the more devious her captor would be. Another thirty seconds or so and she again began to slow before resting the plumes against Moira’s toes, holding them hostage.

“Go on then. And don’t bother lying, because I’ll know.” Morgan punctuated her threat with a little reminder of the consequences. She twisted the feather between her thumb and forefinger, causing it to slightly brush against Moira’s tip toes. The bandit winced, but didn’t say anything at first, taking this moment to breathe deeply. When she did speak, her voice was as dark as a brooding storm.

“When I get loose, I’m gonna git ya, an’ I’m gonna tie ya up. Then I’m gonna take yer boots off an’ I’m gonna do the exact same thing to ya, see how ya like it!” That concept took Morgan back a bit. Nobody had ever threatened to tickle her before. Plenty had offered to kill her, skin her alive, tie her to train tracks, etcetera.

“So let me get this straight.” She said, taking the twine and forming a series of little loops. Each of these loops found their way around a toe and proceeded to pull back and tie each piece of twine to the ropes binding Moira’s ankles. “You want to tie me up so that I’m as helpless as you are now. Then you want to take my boots off, and then take my socks off, so that I’m as barefoot as you are now...” Morgan was getting a little too into this, which Moira was probably picking up on, but Morgan carried on anyway. It wasn’t every day she got to say these things to someone. “Then,” she continued, voice almost trembling now, “you want to tickle my poor defenceless bare soles until I cry uncle?”

Moira’s dark veneer melted like butter during the course of Morgan’s speech and she smirked. “Yer, that’s right. Only ya won’t be askin’ for uncle, will ya? Prob’ly just ask me to fuck ya instead.” This definitely hadn’t happened to Morgan before and she was a little taken aback by it. “So how's about it? Do ya want a turn to get tied up an’ tickled?”

A thrill ran through Morgan’s body hearing another woman offer to tie her up and tickle her, but her mind raced to quash the feeling. This was about getting the money, and about collecting the bounty for this vile excuse for a cowgirl.

“You’re going to want to keep your dirty talk to yourself.” Morgan said, discarding the feathers and gently rubbing Moira’s soles with her fingertips. “All I want from you is information, and if you keep talking dirty I’ll gag you with your dirty socks.” Without giving Moira a chance to backchat, Morgan skittered her manicured nails right over the arches of her captive’s feet. Moira screamed, much louder than Morgan had been anticipating, and immediately began begging and pleading and saying she was sorry.

Morgan had to find a way to calm down now though. She knew she was blushing deeply, as the scarlet in her cheeks caused them to radiate warmth. What did she plan to do with the money when all this was done? Well, she had planned to buy a ranch and try her hand at raising horses herself. Just her and the horses. It never occurred to her before now just how lonely a dream that seemed. With no more feet to tickle. No more bandits to interrogate in her own special way. No more “Please don’t tickle me!” No more “Not there! Anywhere but there!” No more “Anything but the feather!” She frowned at the small bare feet in front of her that tried every conceivable angle to squirm more than an inch in any direction.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Ahhhhhh! I can’t stand it!” Moira’’s laughter came in gales now, and her tone of voice was at the precipice of panic. In a blur of nails manicured to a point, scraping up every little bit of Moira’s flesh, the bandit’s resolve finally broke. Morgan ceased suddenly and looked up at Moira, slightly wild eyed as she returned to reality. Somehow Moira had managed to shake her hair out of the braids and her naturally curly hair was all over the place now, including matted to her forehead. She panted and sweated profusely, looking like she had been for a five mile run.

“Mercy…” She panted once more, shoulders drooped and leaning forwards as much as she could. “I’ll tell ya where the stash is.” Morgan had snapped out of it fully by now and was watching Moira carefully, nails poised to tickle again should they need to.

“I’m waiting.” Morgan said, impatiently. Again though, feeling anything but impatient with a captive as cute and as ticklish as Moira.

“I buried it under a stump, out by the red ridge. On the North side, near the creek. I… I’ll take ya there.” Moira said, dejectedly.

“Very good. Now apologise to me.”

Moira’s head snapped up. “Fer what!?”

“You said some very nasty things to me, and I want you to apologise properly.”

“Ya’v got to be kiddin’ me. I’m supposed to get tickled to high hell then apologise to ya ‘cause ya got hot under the collar? Uh-uh. I may have said I give, but I ain’t givin’ ya that satisfaction.”

“Wrong answer.” Morgan grinned, picking up the horse brush, whilst her heart skipped in joy that it was coming to this. The bristles on the brush were soft, but that only seemed to make things worse as the fibres scraped all along the bottoms of Moira’s feet. Morgan knew from experience that this was the most ticklish of the tools she had in her arsenal. Nobody withstood the brush for long, and Moira certainly wouldn’t be able to last on account of how ticklish she was.

“Please! Please! Am sorry! I’ll do it! I’ll say whatever ya want!” Moira pleaded, dispersed amongst hysterical laughter and attempts to draw breath deep enough to laugh back out. Morgan ignored her gleefully, the brush educating Moira in ways no prison cell ever would, and the way no gallows ever could.

“Now Moira, you’re gonna laugh it up some more, and then we are going to pack up and head up to Red Ridge, and you’re going to dig up your treasure for me. You’re going to be a good girl, and you’re going to do as your told, otherwise these pretty little feet of yours will get brush again. I get the feeling you don’t want the brush any more?”

“No! No! No! No more!” Moira squealed. “I’ll be good! I swears it! I’ll do whatever you want!”

Morgan pressed on regardless, pushing the brush up against the undersides of Moira’s toes, long since aware that this was the most ticklish part of her whole foot. “Good girl. Now, tell me who is your mistress.” Morgan said in a sweet and innocent voice, yet the continence of which was growing darker with every second of tickle torture that passed.

“Wait! Someone is coming! Wait! Stop! Behind you!” Moira screamed at the top of her lungs, coughing and struggling now as she battled the brush in a losing affair. Morgan thought it was a ploy to get her to stop tickling, so she carried on, but it was only a few more seconds before something bashed her right behind the ear and she fell forwards onto the ground with a low moan, face landing right next to the very feet she had been torturing for almost an hour now.

The last thing she saw before she passed out was a pair of cowboy boots stepping closer and a feminine voice speaking. “Well look at what we have here. It’s a good thing I overheard the location of your stash. Seems quite a ticklish situation all told.” The sound of the woman’s laughter resonated within the halls of Morgan’s mind as unconsciousness pulled her deeper into the dark.

#tickling story #tickling

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wazafam · 3 years

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In the DC Extended Universe, the gods have a lot to do with the powerful artifacts bequeathed to heroes and villains alike. Wonder Woman 1984 showcases such an object: a stone forged by an Old God that gets into the wrong hands. There are other such treasures and weapons scattered throughout the universe. From its inception, the DCEU has showcased a number of them throughout the movies.

Wonder Woman is in possession of a great many gifts from the gods, but she is not alone. The films have introduced a few magical objects that were actually made by gods in an effort to imbue their champions with strength and fortitude. Each item is born by someone worthy enough to use its powers for good. This is the purpose behind the creation of each piece of equipment. When such items get into the hands of a greedy or power-hungry individual, however, they can have devastating consequences.

Related: What The DCEU Can Do After Wonder Woman 1984's Divisive Release

The artifacts created by the gods are boons to the heroes of the Justice League and those who aid the cause of righteousness. The films explore the power these objects deliver to their owners and those who would take advantage of the gifts of the Old Gods. Here is a breakdown of the tools created by the hands and materials of the gods. (Note: It should be noted here that, as with many items and characters in comic books, the origins of these objects have been retconned numerous times.)

Forged from the girdle of the Earth goddess Gaea, the Lasso of Truth is a creation of Hephaestus, the god of fire, smithing, and metallurgy. It is a weapon made to be indestructible and immutable, withstanding any battle. It can alter in length depending on the wielder's purpose. It has many powers, including the power to cast hypnosis, dispel illusions, restore repressed memories, and shield those in its circle from supernatural attacks. Its main capability, due to being imbued by the fires of Hestia, is to compel anyone held in its grasp to utter only the truth. This power is volatile, as it forces one to face the truth of their violent deeds.

In the wrong hands, the Lasso is great and terrible. Under the control of the villain Genocide, the weapon was used to attack the souls of her victims, bringing even powerful opponents to their knees. The tool has frightening potential, and it is necessary that one pure of heart be in control of its force. The tool, also dubbed the Golden Perfect, the lasso is Wonder Woman's primary weapon, and with her strength and speed, it can be used as both a defensive and offensive weapon, which fits her pacifist yet powerful fighting style.

Worn by all the Amazons of Themyscira, the Bracelets of Submission are indestructible silver cuffs that symbolize years of bondage under the rule of the tyrannical Hercules. The bracelets protect against blasts, small missiles, and gunfire, serving as the main method of defense for every Amazon woman starting at age fifteen. When the Amazons reach that age, they pledge themselves in service to the goddess Aphrodite and are gifted the cuffs.

Related: Wonder Woman Becomes The DCEU's Superman AND Batman In 1984

Hephaestus modified the cuffs given to Diana, reinforcing them with Eighth Metal, a metal favored by the gods. The original cuffs were made from the metal of Athena's Olympian Aegis shield, not only protecting against bullets, but serving as a way to harness an Amazon's power, building up a massive strength boost when they are released.

The God Killer, a creation of Hephaestus, was first offered to Deathstroke in order to assassinate an enemy of the Olympians, a mad Titan named Lapetus. The sharp and durable blade has also been seen in the wrong hands, both in the clutches of Grail, daughter of the New God Darkseid, in an attempt to usurp the throne from Hippolyta, and in the possession of Cheetah, Wonder Woman's foe. It is a powerful weapon, one that Diana is not sure she wants to wield. She retrieves the weapon from a tower in Themyscira, believing it to be the only thing powerful enough to destroy Ares, the God of War. Diana utilizes the sword on the battlefield as well as to dispatch General Ludendorff when she believes him to be Ares.

Ultimately, the real Ares reveals to Diana that the sword itself is not the God Killer, but that Diana is. Ares destroys the sword before Diana defeats him. The sword's remains have not been mentioned again in the DCEU. In Justice League, Diana has a new sword: the Sword of Athena. The weapon was created and wielded by the Olympian goddess of wisdom, crafts, and strategy, and it is gained by Diana sometime after World War I. Like its predecessor, the sword is extremely sharp and durable, even managing to slice off Doomsday's right arm. Diana is worthy of wielding the artifact, which has inscribed on the blade in Greek, "Life is killing life all the time, and so the goddess kills herself in sacrifice of her own animal."

Also called the Talaria, the Sandals of Hermes are magical footwear that grants the wearer flight and enhanced speed. Though Wonder Woman has been in possession of these sandals on many occasions, she also gifts them to her allies in order to allow them access to those gifts. Wonder Woman has used the sandals to cross over the mystical field that separates Paradise Island from Man's World when she is needed or called upon. The Air of Chaos that acts as a barrier between the two realms is dangerous, but the sandals allow her to pass through it safely.

Related: Why Doesn't Wonder Woman Fly In BvS Or Justice League?

In different times through Wonder Woman's history, the sandals have been loaned out. During her time as Wonder Woman, Artemis wore the sandals. Diana's mother Hippolyta utilized them in her battle against Imperiex Probes. Teen Titan Cassandra Sandsmark used them for a short time after meeting Diana. An Amazon named Pythia stole them from Diana in an effort to find Harvard professor Julia Kapatelis. The sandals represent one of the many reasons that Wonder Woman is a worthy hero: she shares her power instead of hoarding it.

There are many stories of who created the Dreamstone, or Materioptikon. It is said to have been crafted by Dream of the Endless, also known as the Dream Ruby. Into the Dreamstone, Dream poured his essence, making it the most powerful of the twelve stones he created. In another version showcased in Wonder Woman 1984, the stone is created by an Old God named the Duke of Deception in order to incite chaos and misrule in the world. Touching the stone and speaking one's true wish would grant the deepest desires of humanity, but at a cost. Like the proverbial monkey's paw, the stone is not to be used lightly.

In the year 1984, the stone resurfaces at the Smithsonian Institute where Diana is working. It is being analyzed by geologist Barbara Minerva, but it is stolen by con artist Maxwell Lord, who has searched for the legendary stone for decades. He wishes to become the stone himself, gaining its wish-granting power as it drains him of health and energy. The Dreamstone wreaks havoc on the world, causing erratic, violent behavior in ordinary people, increasing murders and even plane crashes. As mayhem increases, Wonder Woman fears the power of wishing, and knows all the wishes must be undone. She forces Max to face the truth of his shortcomings, making him realize what truly matters to him and what his greed has done to the world.

It is not only tools and weapons created by the gods in an effort to aid their heroes, but entire places as well. Zeus created the isolated island in the Mediterranean Sea in order to protect his beloved creation the Amazons after their race was threatened by gods like Ares. The city-state is reminiscent of ancient Greece in architecture and climate, and it is protected by magical barriers that conceal it from the outside world.

Related: Wonder Woman 1984: Every Plot Hole Created By Steve Trevor's Return

For centuries after Zeus's creation of Paradise Island, the civilization of the Amazons flourished under the peaceful reign of Hippolyta, the mother of Diana. She knew that Ares would one day return, and so the warriors trained in the art of combat, surpassing the skills of men. The island remained undisturbed until 1918 when a pilot named Steve Trevor crash-landed off the coast and was rescued by Wonder Woman. Unfortunately, the German Navy was able to track Steve to Themyscira, bringing conflict and death to the immortal Amazons once more.

It's not only Wonder Woman who is gifted the power of the gods. Aquaman's DCEU movie finds the source of his power in the Trident of Atlan, the king who founded Atlantis. The trident was forged from the steel of Poseidon in the Kingdom of the Deserters, giving King Atlan mastery over the Seven Seas. The trident was used by Atlan for many purposes, including imprisoning the Karathen, a giant sea creature so powerful that even the king feared her. Atlan became too over-reaching with his use of the trident, and, during an experiment gone awry, the force of the trident released a great wave of energy that sunk Atlantis to the bottom of the ocean. Atlan felt palpable shame after the fall of Atlantis, exiling himself to the same abyss, the Hidden Sea, wherein he put the Karathen, admonishing her to protect the trident from all but the rightful heir to his throne.

When his mother's trident is destroyed, Arthur Curry makes a voyage to the Hidden Sea in order to retrieve the god's weapon and retake his rightful place as King of Atlantis. He proves himself worthy to the Karathen and the uses the trident to unite all creatures in the ocean. With the power of the Sacred Trident in his possession, Aquaman is able to defeat the armies of his enemies and become the hero of the waters both in the comics and in the DC Extended Universe.

More: Wonder Woman 1984 Theory: Asteria Is Also A Daughter Of The Gods

Wonder Woman: Everything Created By The Gods In The DCEU from https://ift.tt/3c2ozJp

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tnp4tbowm · 7 years

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THOTS & PRAYERS FOR THE BROTHERHOOD OF WHITE MEN

is what I’m gonna call this mess

since we’re the demo that does them best

if thots and prayers mean acting less

or voting against marginalized groups with minority stress… as if women at conference tables… and brown folks in dorms… need white guys subtracting more… and I know we use categories for making sense… and giving names to groups we haven’t met

but no

WHY DO YOU HATE WHITE MEN THAT’S LIKE ME SAYING I HATE FAGGOTS AND LATINAS

my brother

on the phone while I’m at an intersection

but what about flesh in the grass and women in ironworking and los trumpistas in southern california and pixie boys in kootenai county and ill-eagles fireworks on the skokomish reservation and mothers nursing children in rocking chairs at spokane international airport… and steer ropers staring in horses’ eyes… and words so strong they become actions like “guilty” and “I hereby pronounce you”

I want to say

it comes down to

while animals aim for physical victory bc they’re rewarded by evolutionary gain… my brother aims for high-volume sucker-punching bc… well same

no no no I reassure myself… I’ve prepared for this moment… covering my bedroom walls with butcher paper and definitions for agápē and wisdom and grace

the light turns green

in seattle where my boyfriend and I saw a band named “boyfriends”… consisting of three guys some with girlfriends maybe play-acting “gay”

not the faggot town I grew up in

did I say faggot town

flipped my thoughts

I live with faggots now

bc of course I moved away

from where I was raised… where ladies in subdivisions filled rusted bathtubs with dahlias… and re-arranged living room sectionals and side tables… and guys in trailer parks worked on TVs in their yards

I never smeared deer blood on my face after a kill… and neither did my brother

we never paintballed stop signs… or climbed trees to catch squirrels (the unofficial after-school workout of the wrestling team)… or nailed the bloody skins to the weight room wall… or chilled in the parking lot with the tenth-grade science teacher slash security guard

where I grew up

white trash was designated white as opposed to other dodgy colors

wonder if the cafeteria table at school still says derek smith is a fag… I see blocky letters behind my eyes… nirvana on the lawn… holding a stick next to a praying mantis… hoping she’ll crawl on

live in the same place long enough and the frogs will be gone

each year I bike a block further

find certainty in school

lay around and think about what's true

leave cleats books water bottles in the living room

train for x-country in july and august… dream of anthropology and art history in college… parents fill out FAFSA forms

unconscious

at the intersection of my privs

square jaw wide grip

I give in

I say to my brother

driving by the gaybucks

are you serious? I ask... you want to do this rn? you think I hate white men? you didn’t show much interest in my self-hatred when we were teens

we were raised to read widely on top of doing our homework for English class… stories about white men unable to find work or shelter… I stayed awake by reading one chapter in the basement of our three-story home and another chapter in the bath… and another chapter in the basement… and another in the bath

it was 1997 and everyone was wearing ck jeans and eternity cologne and disappearing into the wood paneling of their basements

not everyone wrote a 5-paragraph paper on why abortion was wrong

but I did

most people ate the pro-life sundaes at youth group

as the tin man in our high school production of “The Wizard of Oz”… I dreamed of a fabulous life in the emerald city… while listening to conservatives in the community complain about the presence of witches and pagan values in the play… a few token liberals described how the Wicked Witch’s green skin and Glinda’s button nose… equated virtue with appearance

I worked on a farm for $

hi-ho the derrrrrrrrry-o

faggot on the farm

flesh in the grass

telling stories and pulling weeds as I acknowledged “weed” was a human category… for life distinct from other forms of life… standing out in color and shape… budding out of place

when I got home I studied Zanie’s backwoods dialect in Zora Neale Hurston’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God”

four years later

ash-covered New Yorkers crossed the Brooklyn Bridge with their hands on their faces

I picked blueberries on Mount Rainier… asked if subalpine flowers should smell like dryer sheets… if lakes should be toilet tab blue

¾” threaded galvanized pipe two chain links eye bolts flag

supplies list from the guy at the rest-stop on the way home… old glory should stand up to a 96 mile trip up to 70 mph

I went to work folding taco wrappers into triangles like nothing had happened… and made food with beef that showed up in boxes marked “fit for human consumption”… staging mexi-fries under heat lamps in groups of two or three

while boy george (w.) signed the Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism act

after work I slept in self-inflicted poverty in a house full of guys who did backyard enemas and drank jars of pee and kept mushroom journals… and changed my opinion about property ownership… bc why bother storing up treasure when human possession is an illusion… and condoleeza rice has a chevron tanker named after her

we argued about earth history and theological precepts like pre-destination

but agreed

god’s complacent

should be more like the hippie guy in the volkswagen van… with Eden Before The Fall painted one side… and Eden After The Fall on the other… and a nice patch of grass growing on top

textbooks copied screens

fireplaces provided intimacy w/o heat

virtual experiences dominated references in speech

green-tongued goats on forest service roads licked antifreeze

we asked if the phone was real or surround sound prestige... did the spin instructor in the windowless gym want sixty percent on hills or ninety percent on streets… is the norway maple transplanted to the front lawn of the new house conveying a line of aristocratic family wealth

an old-growth tree

the entrepreneur in an education workshop talked about “products” metaphorically

a patriot/explorer on a mustang/bronco went on an expedition/excursion to the frontier/tundra… passing through the winnebago tribe saying

srry bout it

the kids on the makah reservation don’t want whale sandwiches

wal-mart got blue and target red

white wonder bread

happy meals

j. christ

c.e.o.

5 lb cereal

4 brown ghosts

the speaker at the commencement ceremony joked, “what’s the difference between Pullman and a cup of yogurt?”

the cup of yogurt has more culture

zuckerberg’s hoodie went from “disregard for convention” to “purity of intention”… for someone too focused to worry about clothes… monastic gray was helping folks

now we’re here

we’re here

at the mindfulness weight loss retreat… three raisins… six almonds… the right herbal tincture… twenty minutes in the redwoods

dragging

the past in front of us bc it happened

we’re at home eating pancakes with butter and syrup and powdered sugar… but the sugar is crushed-up hydroxycut

city buildings capture sun for the 20%

hey shadows

and data-mining companies have been adding my places of employment and the mesh shorts I almost bought… and the dreams I deferred and the shows I watch… to their digital dossier of me… and I guess the gazing goes one way but not the other… like church… where predictive analytics play upon thirsts… and hunt me down like unicorn shirts

what’s next

trees drop plastic fruits

domesticated deer eat out of troughs

stunt-double bears rent suits in parking lots

forest rangers lasso the last of the orioles and roll up the sky

we learn

the last time I had a long island iced was... the last time I had a long island iced tea

seeeeeeeeeeeeeee

bro

I’m doing better

you’re like me

except I’m a busybody

with no kids

wish: “pc lecture with moral authoritarian tone by urban elite who reflexively rejects critiques of globalization”… reads “fearless inventory in a world where ‘quinoa empanadas’ are a thing… and platters of deviled eggs watch the horizon”

so even as I call your baby’s bedroom view of the skyline from your island home

privilege bestowed

I call out myself

for lavender cookies and oatmeal soap

never noticing appropriation in cartoon indian smokes

white peace pipe under a red sun on a yellow box

database of ruin snapshots

you know how I spent those years teaching high school in gig harbor… what you don’t know is I had two Hispanic sisters… Maria and Paula… spend a quarter translating children’s books on sticky notes

they

smiled

yawned

bored

I was their teacher and offered “support”

(but if you need more… in 2009 I was plucking spraying spiking shaving shoving… like the guys on jersey shore… watched every episode and called it my reward… for getting through two president bushes)

the founding fathers designed our branches of government to withstand the likes of King George

(also: granted love to gather more of it, shirked a wrong but lorded over it)

psychologically spiraling… debating if I should share the video of the first lady in the blue dress staring at her feet during inaugural prayer… wondering if I’m feeling personal irritability or existential despair… if I have “compassion fatigue” from doing “emotional labor” in my newsfeed

why someone hasn’t invented a female-friendly pee trough between the knees… why menopausal sensuality gets teased… why testosterone means feeling confident about incorrect answers

have the decency to feel guilty

living off the massive retail workforce stocking big-box brick-and-mortar stores and online fulfillment centers

what did we expect

detaching personal accountability from global effects

what did you think

watching nature documentaries frame lions as villains… positing giraffes as victims… when we know aggression isn’t something “we get out of our systems”

but confessing rings wrong

I say to my brother

pulling up to my apartment home

ear hot from the phone

how’s the kid

peeing blood

good… he’s got a kitchen set with a stove and dishwasher… he cooks plastic things while he toot-toots… farts on command... he says

I hope he’s reading “Radical American Women A-Z” and “The Adventures of Toni the Tampon”… I say… and playing with the nine new ken dolls with ethnically ambiguous face-sculpts… developing new play patterns… bc brown kids asked to play with “the good doll” choose the white doll… and still grow up overly disciplined at school… by administrators analyzing “racial predictability and dis-proportionality in achievement categories”… without saying the word “racist”

I like body positive post-holiday ken his paunch

also our white immigrant ancestors got rich enslaving Blacks

(the rest of the starter kit for understanding institutional injustice can be found online @ www.google.com)

(intermediate: people of color fight against constructed realities… internally and externally… and the racial imaginary overlaps with the gay imaginary bc invisible people need some space to practice their fkn moves… but what about time and place… whose ear does the hearing… which mouth translates)

o say can I… being me… understand how corporate restructuring shows one face and sublimates others… contributes to oppression where double consciousness affects women and people of color

o say can I hear the oppressors’ voices renegotiate my thoughts decolonize space

where do I fit in? will there be room for me? how do I make room for others?

my brother suddenly has to go asks if you’ll be him on the phone

yes

it's complicated

but yes

(if you're not my brother and the request is nbd bc you've always heard the voices of white men… I invite you to continue… if you’d rather not… peace be with you… let’s hang soon… I love you)

and right there did you feel that [ [ [ [

in actual life we aren’t there yet… I hung up the phone after “faggots and Latinas”... bc my hands were shaking so hard I could barely steer

typical of you to back out of conversation before we say the hurtful things you say

before we say the hurtful things? before? I ask

1) well at least I finally have the upper hand with you thinking you can threaten broken bonds 2) I’ve never seen two belief systems more perfectly in line 3) I guess you stand for democratic values most of the time

we’ll never know what’s depraved and what's divine… I can’t read hearts and I can’t read minds

already I had escaped into the televised self-help seminar in my head… where I am the host rolling up my sleeves… ready to hear from household cleaner huffing sisters… and visualize problems worse than mine

after the commercial break I engage the girls in patient-therapist interactions... mixing hard-hitting realism and hypersensitive dialogue… as intolerable and inauthentic as my wife’s bouffant

basically I’m dr. phil… but also… if it’s okay with you… I’d love to try being the girls… who haven’t seen their father since they were two

and later during the re-tape… the visiting expert with a new self-help book… explains the “colorization of the soul”… saying “I think it makes sense to nurture the ‘daily me’ before skimming the news… look here… on the color rubric… reds before blues”

red apples picked by farm workers with multiple SSNs

blue mechanics in overalls twirling ballpoint pens

white eggshell enamel over pink or saccharine

symbols up for grabs… by anyone… bc that’s what I was told growing up and believed… I can be anyone I wanna be

hope the same for Muslim girls wearing spandex hijabs in P.E.

our country is not exempt… when campaign rallies look like nests… but I know I’m like… eighty-two percent spoon-fed/tone-deaf

tomorrow

is a child’s flying drone-wish… where native plants have extraordinary ability visas like the biebs… germinate round-up ready soft white wheat… and facial recognition software on my self-driving truck beeps… bc I’m not wearing guyliner… and lack ethereum cryptocurrency

so I walk into a bar and borrow liquid pencil

apply it in the mirror by the urinal

remembrance of things pabst

love comes in spurts

the worst

hasn’t

hap-

pened

be around

thanks

I’ll be a morel mushroom full of vitamin d in the dark

an emerald city queer in the shadow of Rainier where bark is bark

mist from the Nisqually River rolls above the fast part

torrent > P2P file sharing

a robot hands me a warm towel after yoga… scans my sweat for communicable diseases

construction workers buy baguettes out of a wheelbarrow… from my kids

paid in no-nuance knockoff dramatized black lady gifs

blood on their faces hunting feral pigs

allahu akbar… on the fortieth click… means more than the first search results about jihadist battle cries… jihad… means more than the first search results about holy wars

as-salaam aleikum… peace be unto you

saw-lahm

all-lay-koooooooom

while keeping an eye on the horizon

for crowd estimation software in weather balloons

across the un-crossable Puget Sound

not really

we live in western wash.

what I’m saying is… I’m not traveling down Tolkien’s path… climbing Silverstein’s precipice… crossing a toothpick pier… or boarding a balsa wood boat… for a “dialogue event”… when I see you across this metaphorical inlet

not everything overlaps… smoke + fog = smog… marionette + puppet = muppet… enchilada + burrito = enchurrito… intermingling > provinciality…but apple slices on guacamole is white people saying to Mexicans we want your food and want to “touch” it too

eww

I want the queer bar full of queers… and that’s true of any gathering place… the identity shifts with who’s there and who stays… for physical touch and feeling safe... and cultural intensification... we congregate

I could never hate feminist separatists reading sappho by lyre

agrarian nationalists and queer energy collectives disappear

cross the cascades… to north idaho… passport in hand to show agents at the skin of the bubble… preparing for my cousin the welder… who can’t get out of his trailer… and my dad who says seat belts and metric measurements are communist and has a legal pad with instructions for working the computer

the girl on the greyhound says she didn’t go to college for four years to sit on her ass and bake cookies

been awhile

a few days later I ride in the back of our uncle’s truck to the parade… where grandma reminds me to keep my beer tabs so kristy will get a party for her class… as we set up folding chairs on the sidewalk… to watch shriners on little cars… and wave at hooters girls on the make-a-wish float… the mayor… always pooping in other people’s pants… grandma says… as we find ourselves standing and clapping for the coeur d’alene tribe

after mayor and police go by

later help grandma make tater tot hot dish... wrap the pan in a bath towel she pulls from a cabinet full of towels stacked vertically like pizza boxes

small talk

fawn over the s’mores pie with graham cracker crumbs on bottom and top… especially the marshmallowy middle

oh oops

did I go there

pre-prayer

here’s the thing… the alliances we need to overcome the monster are never what we think they are… and seeing anti-american sentiment in the firmament… and indicator species’ temperaments… reminds us the world collects… and/or usurps the throne… the debt is more than we think we owe… there won’t be polite knocking or ceremonial drumming… by so-called “others” we didn’t see coming

solution… testing limits… and I don’t mean excusing myself to get the wings by the jumper cables in the trunk… walking back in and telling everyone angel gabriel is here… saying… oh I guess this isn’t… is this not the sexy jesus party with a crucifix selfie station?

omg that hoe over there

our arguments are basically light divisions… internal-only obstacles where I go back and forth debating

I know

this makes you wanna scream into the phone

well

here’s a semi-autobiographical lyric novella in the form of an epic poem

typical passive progressiveness… I can’t even talk to you face-to-face… when you wanna chill by the water tank… I communicate via popsicle stick messages in the gutter / everyone on tumblr

one thing’s for sure… we’re giving up some things... s’mores pie is on the table… but it’s not on the table… of sacrifices I’ll be making… bc I love s’mores pie

we don’t wanna give up anything but we have to try

our lives are characterized by conveniences with steep costs

like celery and bell peppers and onions already chopped

people with invisibility powers can’t be stopped

rowing outside San Diego and the Gulf

above cracked pipes and pvc

clouds of oil

grass and reeds

dragonflies and damselflies with heavy wings

on multi-generational round-trips without breaks to breathe in juniper trees

addition: we had a seed vault… a plan b food bank… to take care of us... in case a plague trapped in siberian ice destroyed our crops… but ten years went by without permafrost… and car-less urbanites with mileage plans... shrugged and said there was nothing they could do

a collapsed ice shelf is another place for cargo ships to pass through

our ecosystems depend on conversations among interlocking interdependent parts… more than mermaid toast or zombie shows… or mother nature wish-fulfillment fantasies… where we ask quail and cranes in the forest… to come out of the trees and lift us away by our shoulder pads

our second eye watches the ground… as we pace sidewalks disrupted by roots… thank inchworms for decompositions…. trace the paths of ants on the side… turn our ears like ferris wheels on the sly

inner vision attuned

wilderness survival guide

I do not have superior autobiographical memory like my faggot boyfriend does… brother… but if I remember right you beat up the guy who peed on my backpack in ninth grade… bc the next passing period… he apologized

I’m in bed rn… thinking about how I hate your muscular public practice… but needed it… srry for being confused

the word is not the thing

the menu is not the food

the plan

after I’ve figured out what I can give up

is to invite people to a park

grand theft auto fans

promote

slacktivist slash accent coach

mom in dallas… cashier cleric caregiver… competing for section 8 vouchers

developer counting kickbacks and calories... at a housing tax credit industry gathering

middle-aged man afraid to lose… leaving Buenavista for Baton Rouge… parents of dead black kids don’t know what to do… Saudi women barred from carpools… El Salvadoran sugarcane harvesters… closeted Egyptian police officers… Filipino nannies tinikling to Lil’ Wayne… trans women fighting the state… Miss Texas 1988… Harlotte O’Scara Hellen Tragedy… snake handler crab trapper… adjunct professor qualitative researcher… world’s most prolific fortune cookie writer… Bible Jim… shirtless guy next to him in briefs and “This man gave me a blowjob” sharpied on his chest

salmon in gasoline

up the bank across the street

pipeline burst on whatcom creek

hyper-empathic hatchimal colleggtor

trained to serve but not hit back

except in tennis lessons

the male coach

flips that

srry

gay hater cake maker cradle labeler

homo-plausible bi-logical

floral arranger

retain it or give it away

intellectual property is three chords

and the person with less power says you're not allowed

your brother

it’ll be the opposite of when I showed up at your house after my wife left me… and you opened the door… and I collapsed in your arms in the hallway… and bc you’re a few inches taller than me… and my knees wouldn’t work… you saw the nail marks on the walls of my subconscious

we’ll play a game… where we introduce ourselves

recall times in our lives with less repetition more repair

describing versions of ourselves adding post-scripts unaware

listing words we never use: farce, fatuous, machination, myopic, subterfuge

sorting beliefs by size date modified proof

discuss satire-less south park

duraflame start

galvanize flake n rust

behave spontaneously n not combust

help hippielandia hostel in flames

learn ancient proto-langs

repeat shit we wanna forget

like, has anyone checked on the family in the nuclear train car yet

we’ll discuss what should change… what should stay the same… believe ourselves capable of restraint… revive the practice of communal processing… where townspeople gather side by side… to watch events from the day reenacted in light

practice… on a page

like in a play

oceans and lands… dna strands… airspace… electromagnetic spectrums… gridded and privatized… but the public square

ACT I

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE GATHER IN HALF-CIRCLE. MISSILE, WEATHER BALLOON, AND RED SUN HANG OVERHEAD

NICO: “I’ve been thinking about how I might convey my progressive morals in a way that sounds wholesome to my family.”

ISSA: “I’m done with that. I spend ten dollars on tampons at the store and my husband gets a bowlful of condoms every time he orders a jaeger shot. Then if I mention the disparity he blames ‘red tide.’ When I needed postnatal care to stop my fourth trimester pants-pissing, my doctor’s visit wasn’t covered. Society isn’t family friendly. I spend forty-minutes on the couch organizing housework and childcare each week, and regardless of what society says, that’s project management.”

JASLENE: “Last year my teacher gave everyone two bathroom passes and if you didn’t use them they were worth extra credit, so I left bloody circles on the chair para mostrarle que esto es lo que sucedería.”

CROWD SILENCES. BOY IN “WANNA LIFT?” SHIRT LEAVES. DARLENE STEPS TO THE MIDDLE.

DARLENE (to vacated space, then to group): “We’ll miss you… Every manifestation of good and evil has part of the answer, but also, immovable people will not be moved. We will show civil inattention by giving him the space he needs.”

MARK: “I’ll never represent my beliefs adequately since I have trouble telling the barber how I want my hair without the assistance of visual aids, but I’m here to talk anyway.”

JAMES: “We're standing on varying levels of culturally constructed oppressive frames and the only way to deconstruct the artifice as it exists is to stand on the ones that are more entrenched and take apart the ones that are less entrenched.”

SOFÍA: “I’m so confused by the fact that I’m not supposed to feel shame, except for all the things I’m supposed to feel shameful about, which aren’t the things I thought were shameful. Am I supposed to know what a ‘gender illusionist’ is? I thought liking men made my nephew gay.”

CURTAINS CLOSE

overheard in audience:

they’re not connecting… just waiting turns and expressing

let’s not underestimate the hard work of avoiding moral outrage

dismayed at the repetition of “but” while conversation disintegrates

hang on

looking up cognac insta chef’s recipe for caramel-drizzled hennessy cupcakes

unwilling to listen generously… while aiming for an ending other than intensifying favoritism is like nailing jelly to a tree

using a chainsaw to cut butter

jumping from flower to flower in a fern gulley type situation

pragmatism is a dangerous alternative to conviction

ACT II

CURTAINS OPEN. CHARACTER ‘YOU’ GAZES OUT OF HOUSE WINDOW ON AN ISLAND, STAGE LEFT. CHARACTER ‘ME’ LOOKS OUT APARTMENT WINDOW IN A CITY, STAGE RIGHT

In unison: I promise me: to fight for-profit prisons, schools, and kidney-dialysis centers. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I think I can give up me: the scholarship I got in college and give it to someone who needs it. But don’t touch the s’mores pie. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I’ve been thinking about me: what you shared with me about China building artificial land around the Spratly Islands. And how prison construction companies look at standardized test data from second grade children of color. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I believe I am owed me: a reply. Not long, but something. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I care about me: how Ryan and Jesse’s mom used to put Carl Budding lunchmeat with mayonnaise and mustard in a blender… set it on ‘mash’ for a game of Duck Hunt… scoop it into Tupperware… and smear it on white bread throughout the week. I would eat that over apples on guacamole. The real globaloney. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I hope me: we find space to show real love to kenyan baboons in garbage dumps and dioxin babies walking like spiders with red septic skin and people in apartments named after species they’ve displaced and women planning the clean-up of their suicides. you: [ [ [ [

CURTAINS CLOSE: INTERMISSION

overheard in lobby:

coming up with a formula for interacting in common space

himalayan crystals from the mystic utilikit dude

maybe we’ll see them agree… or calm down… or point towards partial truth… or connect idealism to privilege

not youth

we know old folks are idealistic

planting seeds without expecting fruits

going to target and payless shoes

ACTS III+

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE HUDDLE AROUND A RADIO, AS IF IN A SNOWSTORM.

RADIO: ... let it be that great strong land of love… where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme… that any man be crushed by one above…

DARLENE: “Starting sentences with ‘I’ is a good place to begin, but feelings of belonging go deeper. Shift responses bring the attention to ourselves. Support responses ask for more. Let’s be more than cannibals with knives and forks.”

MARK: “Food metaphors. We want to think about asking better questions. ‘What place most inspires you?’ instead of ‘Where have you traveled?’ ‘What work are you passionate about?’ instead of ‘What do you do?’”

JASLENE: “What's your weightiest belief? What's your most potent fear?”

RADIO: … clutching the hope I seek… and finding only the same old stupid plan… of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak… it never was America to me…

ISSA: “The desperate search for an ethic, a specter.”

JASON: “I am willing to give up my authority but don't touch my autonomy.”

RADIO: ... say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? and who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

YOU: [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [

EPILOGUE

Before sharing my brother’s response, I want to say I wrote “Thots & Prayers” because women get fewer obituaries than men in newspapers. Because the Baltimore Orioles lost way back when they had no tree canopy in which to land. Because trauma squats in the valley and anxiety raps her knuckles on the hill. Because Taco Bell spent 10 years and $15 mill developing stretchy cheese. Because men look at other men working in daycare centers and think they’re dumb for frittering away perks that should have been theirs from birth. Because my older brother yelled about faggots and Latinas after visiting the site of the Orlando Pulse shooting.

I am not looking to be comforted or assuaged.

White men need to educate each other. It’s not anyone else's job. We need to listen to the cultural conversation, see connections, and act on behalf of people who aren't seen. We need to be friendly in crowded places, and pull each other aside and be bridges.

I hope my family understands how many things will break if we don’t accommodate fragility. I’m not a metaphysician and don’t know about quantum mechanics or particle physics, but I know the phrase “I hope” is a glimmer of light living outside my rage. “I hope” signals my privilege. I hope to understand more about “I hope” in the context of everyday life in coming days.

As a beneficiary of entrenched systems, I work for everyone to have equal voice and access. I work for what’s best in my neighborhood and nation, on this striking and stunning and astoundingly polluted planet. I avoid asteroid-bashing. I avoid the ossification of stalemate. I avoid co-opting languages of the oppressed. I save room for warmth and time for children. I learn about neuro-diversity in the workplace and nutrient density in school lunches, and communicate generously about these issues and other issues, like the shared struggle for justice.

Mantras I’m saying and acting upon.

What’s mine is yours.

We do not need all the parts of the old society to create a new one.

If you feel inspired, please comment. I’d love to hear your weightiest belief, most potent fear, frustrations, considerations, qualifications, corrections, assessments, and agreements. No presh. I get nervous sharing my feelings, and words impact and behave differently for different people. The spaces between known grains of wood make wood strong.

I wasn’t sure if my brother would be a grain or a space. He’s the first person to admit he doesn’t read much and would rather talk on the phone or hash things out in person. Before sharing this, I called him up and said, “I’m about to send you a piece of writing. You don’t have to read the whole thing. You can always ‘Ctl. F’ and look for ‘brother.’”

Here’s what he wrote:

FYI, I don't really like you writing somewhat rude things about me and my house (which I take as jabs towards my wife and kids), etc. I don't do that towards you. I know there was some nice stuff too… I am communicating by e-mail as I know email is your preferred method, but at some point you need to realize I have feelings and opinions too, and don’t share them with everyone.

Right now I’m looking at 40+ people smoking joints outside the subsidized housing across the street. Wish I had that option. I wonder if their chronic drug use is helping out the health care system – I know they're not paying into it? I was up at 4:05 a.m. today to keep working toward losing that 20 lbs. so I'm not a burden on the system in the future. Learned that from Mom and Dad. I guess sometimes I feel ripped off. Need to get back to work now as I need to pay bills.

I’m sorry about the hate stuff that one day, you know I don't feel that way.

On another note, is hydroxycut good stuff?

He attached a document where he continued the conversation.

I promise to… take care of my kids and not cheat on my wife.

I’ve been thinking about… how to lose 20 more lbs. so I’m not dead when my kids are 40.

I feel like I am owed… nothing. I don’t feel I’m owed anything. Everyone chooses how to spend their money.

... and gave me prompts of my own.

In unison: I’ve been busy me: working about 12 hours per day if I count commuting and working on my house. you: [

In unison: I save my money for me: the future. I think I’m responsible for taking care of my own problems instead of hoping someone will help me out if something happens. you: [

In unison: I feel I’m privileged because me: I had a good Mom, Dad, and brothers growing up. I was never given any money, but having someone in your corner is more valuable. I am in your corner if you are in a pinch, and I know Mom and Dad are too. you: [

Working for a great strong land of love,

COLOPHON

Published on tumblr on Thursday, Aug. 10, “Thots & Prayers” is a phone transcript, visual essay, poem, and interactive self-help manual. I edited my brother’s written response for clarity. My mom took the pictures of my brother and me. My friend Jonathan Ursin took the pictures of me kneeling on the amphitheater stage and laying in the grass with rosary beads. I took the rest. Spanish phrases were proofed by Alè Barrientos. Radio broadcast lines are excerpted from Langston Hughes’ “Let America Be America Again.” Endorsement by Seattle performer Nico Pecans (they/them) / Miss Texas 1988 (she/her) is available. Lines from “James” and “Jason” are from interviews with James and Jason. PDF with original formatting shared upon request.

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rashaituckerunit6 · 5 years

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ZINE - La Flame

In all honesty, I first thought I was going to just stick to the theme “CUT-COPY-PASTE” but the more I started to create my zines the more I wanted to be creative and make my zines truly outstanding. In total, I covered three themes for my zines. I covered “CUT-COPY-PASTE”, Layered chaos and Sparton zen. With my first zine that I created, I did not use the theme cut-copy-past. I ended up doing my own illustration and doing a sparton zen themed zine. I wanted the zine to be aggressive but peaceful at the same time, or dark / gritty and show enlightening hope. Because my zines involved around the artist Travis Scott, I thought it would be a good idea to portray his dark and gritty albums ( RODEO / DAYS BEFORE RODEO ) to his new bright up beat albums ( Birds In The Trap / ASTROWORLD ). With this idea in my head I thought it would be cool to illustrate a drawing of him with half of his face being blacked out with white sharp teeth. That would portray his old albums that were dark and gritty. On the other side of the face, It would still show sharp teeth with him smiling but with his face not being blacked out. This would portray his current album ASTROWORLD. He would still have the sharp teeth because In ASTROWORLD it still has slight dark themed meanings in some of the songs. I thought having a pink background would look cool as well and make the face pop out. In the beginning the split Travis Scott face had more detail in the creases of the mouth and chin but I wanted to make it more mundane. I ended up using the level tool and darkened one side while keeping the teeth bright and sharp. I wanted to use this as a front and back cover for the zines. The front would be the dark themed (Travis Scott) and the back would be the light themed (Travis Scott). I am happy about how my front and back cover looks but I think I feel like I could have added something more like a simple text.

The second page that I had created ended up being a mix of layered chaos and CUT-COPY-PAST themed zine. I looked for images where Travis Is performing and going all out in performing. I got about three where he is live and looking intense. I wanted to use three to show his energy and craziness but also show that he is not just some crazy person. I got a pictured of him smiling to the fans as well. I used the magnetic lasso tool, magic wand tool, quick selection tool and move tool. This allowed me to take the images and cut out anything that I didn't want. I overlapped the images of Travis over each other and had the ASTROWORLD concert in the background. Because this page specifically has to do with ASTROWORLD, I tried to make it not look super dark or gritty. Hence why the biggest picture out of all the Travis's is him smiling looking over all the other Travis's. The last thing that I added was a grainy effect. I wanted it to look a little like an advertisement for a magazine ( just a little ). I thought it looked amazing and was not to complicated to create. It took time and patience to make sure I cut out each of the Travis Scott pictures. I have no regrets as to how this page came out for the zine. It was fairly easy compared to the other pages that I had to create.

Moving on to the third page for the zine, It was now time to create A RODEO themed page. In the album rodeo, there is a very significant and recognizable figure in the album. The doll of Travis Scott is heavily shown for the cover of the album. I thought it would be a good idea to now base this page as a sparton zen themed page. I would then draw the doll with the names of the songs in the album around it. I wouldn't draw to much detail nor add colour. Why not add colour? I thought it looked better and would stand out more if it didn't have any colour. I kept that sketchy draft look of the doll by not erasing to much of the outline of the doll. Mainly used the brush tool and changed the hardness and texture of the brush to a more flow look. I added a grainy texture to it all to make it look even more cooler. If I had not added the grain, I feel like it would been to plain. I added the parent advisory explicit content box to make it look like an actual vinyl cover, or cd cover. I love this page because of its simplicity. I am indeed happy with this page. Because it is rodeo and sparton zen themed, I wanted to have the doll staring at you to indeed portray it as creepy but at the same time peaceful. Once again, I was trying to have all my ASTROWORLD themed pages not as dark and grimy as the RODEO themed pages.

The fourth page that I had was pretty fun to make. I was on face time with my friend in my country, who listens to Travis Scott as well. We were talking about cool ideas and interesting things that a photographer could see at a Travis Scott concert. He started to talk about mosh pits and I instantly thought about what others don't see unless they down and dirty in the mosh pits. I decided once again to do a sparton zen theme page which would show aggressiveness but peaceful vibes. A person can indeed get a bloody nose and bruises on their eye in the mosh pit but they could also be enjoying themselves and have the adrenalin so they could possibly not even feel the bruises that they have. All true Travis Scott ragers know that If you go to a Travis Scott conert, there are no bystander's. You best be jumping and moving like there aint no tomorrow. I decided to illustrate a person who is at an ASTROWORLD concert a little bloody and bruised from being in a mosh pit but having a great time. This was very fun for me because I was able to draw a character from my imagination. Because I love drawing characters and in a manga style, I decided why not add a little manga inspired illustration to the page. I ended up with a character who had brown hair and wearing one of his merch t shirts. I got the ear piercing an nose piercing inspiration from myself. When I had initially finished it, I didn't like how the character looked unnatural and unrealistic. I added a grainy effect to it and also made his hair transparent a little bit and flow with the background lights and strobes. It shocked me as to how it looked way better than just him having brown hair looking at the photographer. Because it is sparton zen, I did show that it could be dark and gritty with the blood and bruises but I also wanted to show he is not angry and is actually enjoying himself. He is smiling. The main tools I used to illustrate this page was the brush tool, magic wand tool and quick selection tool. I also played around with the curves to change the darkness of his hair and transparency. I am extremely happy with what It looks like. I didn't expect it too turn out as good as it looks. I originally didn't like that he stood out that much because he is a manga inspired illustration but I think that when people draw non realistic drawings into realistic photos it looks eye catching. I had to fiddle around with the transparency and blending mode to get the proper colours set for his hair skin and t shirt. With the drawing tablet I have at home, it allowed m to draw it better than a mouse. But because it is a very tiny and cheap one, its not easy drawing like how I do on paper. I am currently saving money for one that the college provides or better.

For this page, it has to be by far my favourite out of all of the pages for the zine. I personally like Travis Scotts old albums where his music was dark, grimy and gritty. Because this next page had to be RODEO themed I decided again to pick sparton zen. I also did a little bit of layered chaos for this page. This pages illustration was way harder to draw than the previous page. The previous pages illustration had slight bruises and blood but because this person went to a Travis Scott concert where mainly rodeo and days before rodeo songs where playing, the moshpit was a lot more aggressive with day one OG Travis Scott fans. I had to step out of my cum fort zone and draw a different perspective of a person lying on the floor chin up and thumbs up looking ok. I am terrible at for shortening so it was difficult drawing and SHADING the hand. I find shading hard but I tried best. Another thing is that I am very unused to drawing on a drawing pad compared to a good old pen and paper. The main reason why I ended up drawing on my pad Is because I didn't have enough time to copy and render anything where I could colour it in the computer. I did enjoy drawing the character though. In the page it shows the illustrated character ( wearing Travis Scott RODEO merch t shirt ) lying down on the floor with a bloody nose, swollen eye, bloody lip and dazed but HAPPY. You have other people around him enjoying the the party. This specific page took me a good set of hours to create. In total it took me about 8 hours straight no break to finish. The main tools that I used as the brush tool to draw the character, quick selection and magic wand tool to cut out the images that I would layer on top of each other. I also thought it would look sick as either an album cover, vinyl cover or CD, so once again I added the Parental Advisory image. I used once again a grainy layer over everything to make it even more grimy and dark. I honestly love this page a lot because I am proud as to how I am being aware of the importance of layers. Separating and creating new layers for each and every important thing. This shows that I can step out of my comfort zone and illustrate things I wouldn't usually. So yes I am extremely hay with what I created for this page. Love it!

With the 5th page coming along , I wanted to create something pretty eye catching and tripy to look at. Because this page had to be ASTROWORLD themed, I thought it would be cool to implament a songs meaning. One of the songs of the album is STARGAZING. I thought it would be cool to have a galaxy looking page with the golden Travis Scott head fading towards the person. At the very end I made the Travis Scott Head pretty visible but bright. I also made sure there was a alaxy with sparkling stars and distant plants. I ended up putting the same text tat you get on the back of a t shirt if you get on of his merch T shirts. I decided to put it directly in the middle because It grabs the viewers attention. The eyes might wonder all around the page to see and view everything but in the end the main thing that will immediately grab their attention is the test “ WISH YOU WERE HERE”. I kept the text bright and white. In order to create such A cool page for my zine I had to duplicate the head, make them transparent at a certain limit and make them smaller as they move towards the back ( top of the page ). I left one of the heads not as transparent as the others and changed the blending mode. I also used the quick selection tool, magic wand tool and the magnetic lasso tool. This allowed me to cut out the golden Travis Scott head. The zine theme that I had chosen was layered chaos. Each head was being layered on repeat. I thought that this zine page was unique and outstanding like the others as well. It was simple but eye catching. I honestly do not really have any regrets o

Coming to the last page of the zine, It had to be Rodeo themed. If you look closely you can notice a pattern. Rodeo themes page, astro themed page, rodeo … astro... etc. I decided to make the last page not only rodeo themed but also layerd chaos. I feel like the picture of Travis Screaming or galoping, what ever you want to call it , its a good representation of layers chaos. Truthfully when I finished this page, I thought it was a good way to end it. It shows a bunch of crazy, chaotic Travis Scott raging off into the Texas night. I put the text La Flame there in bright red letters because it is another name fans call him. Its red to implement ( flame/fire ) as well. I didn't want to add to much texts or random objects in it. I decided to put the main Travis Scott horse slightly away from the others to represent leadership. It looks like its Travis leading his loyal fans into the night to rage and party to the end. There is no size or gender that Travis will deny to follow him into the night. Creating, I used the magic wand tool, quick selection tool and move tool. This allowed me to cut out Travis and duplicate him. With the colours that you see that fade into the night, I made sure it all faded smoothly and pretty by messing around with the blending mode. I kept the parental advisory explicit content icon because once again it look kind of like a vinyl or cd cover. Because Travis Scott is from HOUSTEN TEXAS and names his album RODEO I thought it would be pretty smart to implement that into a zine page. In Texas the first thing that comes to my mind is cowboy hats, horses, bulls, cactus etc.

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rashaituckerunit6 · 5 years

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Zine Evaluation

Before I started my zines I was required to look up what a ZINE is, collect a variety of visual zine examples and annotated why did I like it, what methods have been used in the design what it’s about, research into other graphic and illustrative styles, find at least 20 examples and annotate 3 in detail, why did I like it, what methods have been used in the design, what is it about, which style theme was I thinking of using , find visual references and influences online that helped me develop a style and consistent aesthetic and annotate.

Moving on to the third page for the zine, It was now time to create A RODEO themed page. In the album rodeo, there is a very significant and recognisable figure in the album. The doll of Travis Scott is heavily shown for the cover of the album. I thought it would be a good idea to now base this page as a sparton zen themed page. I would then draw the doll with the names of the songs in the album around it. I wouldn't draw to much detail nor add colour. Why not add colour? I thought it looked better and would stand out more if it didn't have any colour. I kept that sketchy draft look of the doll by not erasing to much of the outline of the doll. Mainly used the brush tool and changed the hardness and texture of the brush to a more flow look. I added a grainy texture to it all to make it look even more cooler. If I had not added the grain, I feel like it would been to plain. I added the parent advisory explicit content box to make it look like an actual vinyl cover, or cd cover. I love this page because of its simplicity. I am indeed happy with this page. Because it is rodeo and sparton zen themed, I wanted to have the doll staring at you to indeed portray it as creepy but at the same time peaceful. Once again, I was trying to have all my ASTROWORLD themed pages not as dark and grimy as the RODEO themed pages.

Overall, I think that my zine looks eye catching. It inst a bunch of flashy pictures on the front cover. Its got a simple face in the front which would possibly encourage others to open it and see what its about. I am profoundly happy as to how it came out. I was nervous because I originally created my zines as an A4 document but I was later able to change it. With my zines, it leaves the person not knowing if every single page will look the exact same. For example, If I had a zine about fruits. You could possibly assume that each page would have an image of a fruit. For me its different. The person would flip the page and see Travis Scott but automatically assume that it will be photos of just him page after page. As they flip though the pages they would see that it is Travis Scott inspiration illustrations and graphic designs. So YES, I do think that I have visual consistency. When the person flips to the next page its not something that they should possibly expect. With my zine, It actually ended up better than what I wanted to achieve portray. I am very proud of what I have created.

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